The Demon’s Parchment

2

They laid the boy on the rocky shore. Men with wet stockings knelt beside him. Everyone crossed themselves. Women wept and many went running. Crispin knelt and looked over the boy’s body. “Has someone gone and fetched the sheriff?” he inquired, his voice hoarse.

“Aye,” said a man beside him, shivering. His shoes were soaked through. He was one of the men who had plunged into the freezing Thames to bring forth the body. “My boy went to get him. Was it an accident, you think?”

The body had not been long dead, Crispin decided. No bloating, no nibbling from fish. It was recent. There were bruises on his arms and wrists and a deep bruise around his neck, so deep that whatever had strangled him left a profound indentation. A slice up his abdomen was done neatly with a knife. It was deep. “This was no accident,” said Crispin.

“Shall I call the hue and cry?” asked the man.

Crispin nodded, his gaze never leaving the wide-open eyes of the boy. Eyes that had been blue, their cloudy whites webbed with broken blood vessels. Eyes that would see no more.

The man left their side and began to shout to the nearest shops and houses. He was joined by others. Crispin did not know whether such a move would prove useful. The boy might have been killed last night, the culprit long gone. The cold of the water left the time of death in question. Why he had not sunk to the bottom was also a mystery . . . and a blessing.

Crispin removed his cloak and covered the boy’s nakedness. He shivered. He did not know if from anger or from cold, or which was the greater.

He noticed Jack beside him. Jack was shivering more than he. “God help us,” the lad murmured.

Crispin stood and, for the first time, eyed the crowd surrounding the boy. Some were standing quite near while others were perched up on the embankment, leaning in. His gaze roved over the faces, those in quiet despair and sympathy over the loss of one of God’s innocents, and those with prurient curiosity glowing from their cold-etched faces. Did anyone look particularly guilty, he wondered. Did anyone look overly interested? It was possible that the devil was there among them, watching as his victim was discovered, taking hellish delight in the misery dropped like a stone into their midst. But even Crispin’s sharp eye could not see into men’s hearts. No one within his vision seemed to fit his ideal of such a monster that would kill a child.

The men about Crispin kept their vigil, murmuring prayers quietly beside the stricken boy. Crispin uttered no prayers. He could not. He found it hard to ascribe to a God who would allow mere men to debase such innocence. Who would murder a child? And in such a way? Not out of sudden anger with a blow to the head to teach him better, an accident perhaps. But in a deliberate act of cruelty and barbarism, for surely such steady strangulation, looking into the eyes of the child as he struggled to breathe, was not the act of a man. Not a man who walked the earth among other men. No one who breathed the same air, ate the same food, watched the same stars ebb and flow across the sky.

And the knife cut. What did that mean? With only a cursory glance, Crispin had noticed the hollowness of the boy’s gut. Had his entrails been taken by animals? But no. There was no tearing, no scratches from beasts. If there were no entrails, then they had been deliberately removed from the boy.

Crispin shivered again. If God was not present, then Satan surely was.

Hoofbeats. Then the shout of two men commanding their sergeants.

“Thanks be to God,” Crispin murmured.

Simon Wynchecombe was no longer one of the sheriffs of London, hadn’t been since September. Strangely, Crispin found himself missing the arrogant man. At least he was efficient. But the roles of sheriff were now played by the lanky fishmonger Nicholas Exton and the squat mercer John Froshe, both of whom were dismounting from their horses.

They liked being sheriff no more than had Wynchecombe, but they, too, knew that such a position could only lead to better appointments. Crispin knew Wynchecombe’s sights had been set on the position of Lord Mayor, and these two were no exceptions to the ambitions of a London alderman.

Nicholas Exton was as tall as Wynchecombe, which made him a head taller than Crispin. His face was long and morose with a hooked nose and lazy brown eyes. He wore a gown whose hem reached his ankles and he was fond of poulaines with exaggeratedly long, slender toes that came to a point. He picked carefully over the rocks and crab-walked down the embankment.

John Froshe was short and thickset, with a round belly braced with a low-slung belt. His cotehardie was trimmed with ermine and his red stockings carefully conformed to his fat legs, giving them the look of sausage casings. He, too, wore poulaines of fawnskin, definitely not designed for trotting down to the river’s edge. He stood at the top of the embankment with a curious expression on his jowled face, clearly wondering whether he should bother. But when Exton had reached the spot where Crispin stood he wouldn’t allow himself to be outdone.

Crispin watched as Froshe clumsily made his way down. His servants only belatedly followed, picking him up when he fell, and apologizing when he cuffed them.

“By God, Guest,” said Exton, wrinkling his considerable nose at the proceedings. “Must you always be here before us?”

“I came upon him by chance, just as the others had.” That was the only explanation he would offer. It was the only one the sheriffs needed.

A wheezing cough behind him and Froshe arrived. He brushed unsuccessfully at his velvet cotehardie. “You stupid oafs! I fell at least three times!”

The servants tried to look contrite but Crispin knew them better than that.

“And so,” said Exton. “What have we here?” He looked past Crispin at the small form under the cloak. His face a mask, he pushed past Crispin and knelt, lifting the edge of the covering. He quickly dropped it back in place and ticked his head. “The Coroner is on his way.” He stood again and turned to Froshe. “What do you make of it?”

“Bless me. It looks to be a dead boy, Nicholas.”

“Indeed.” He wiped his hands on his cloak. “And you, Guest. You are the man with all the answers, I hear tell. One cannot take but a few paces in London without someone mentioning the Tracker. As if you invented the very notion of Justice. Our predecessors spoke of you often but in less than glowing terms. Are we to believe all that is said of you? Shall you be declared a saint next?”

Bristling, Crispin scowled. “Hardly, my lord.”

“Then what, pray, is your assessment? My learned colleague has declared the boy dead. I concur. What do you say?”

“I say he is murdered, my lords. Most foul. It turns my stomach.” He said the latter in hopes of bringing the conversation around to the proper comportment and it seemed to have done the trick.

Froshe waved his hand in front of his face, as if shooing some unpleasant aroma. “The Coroner is on his way.”

“And then we will move the body to Newgate,” said Exton.

Crispin wondered if he were to be included in the “we.”

The Coroner happened to be in London and came forthwith, examining the body and questioning the townsfolk who were present. His clerk took meticulous notes. The Coroner questioned the men at the houses and shops nearby and by then night had fallen. After he was satisfied, he nodded to the sheriffs, whose men surrounded him with flickering cressets on poles and their clouds of breath. The Coroner was no longer interested in the body. This was now the province of the sheriffs to take matters in hand. They would use what they learned from the Coroner to question the locals, but Crispin had his doubts it would yield anything. He wanted to inspect the corpse for himself.

He helped the sheriffs’ men carry the light bundle up the stony embankment to an awaiting cart and laid him upon the straw within. The Fishmonger Exton whipped off Crispin’s cloak and returned it to him. He covered the little corpse with a threadbare blanket.

The driver snapped his reins and the cart jerked forward. The wheels dug two dark lines in the snow, pointing the way back toward London. Silently, he and Jack walked behind the cart. As the dark cloaked the city, the cold crept in with deeper fingers, seizing Crispin in an icy grip that had as much to do with weather as with the coldness of murder.

It was more than half an hour later that the solemn procession neared the duel towers of Newgate. The portcullis creaked upward until the way lay open like a soundless maw, delivering them to the sullen mews below the prison where the boy was to be laid. The sheriffs’ retinue carried the cressets in and mounted them in their sconces, but even that fiery light could scarcely illuminate the dank recesses of stone and shadows. The boy was laid on a table and then the sheriffs’ men left them. There remained only Crispin, Jack, and both sheriffs, though Froshe looked decidedly ill at ease.

Crispin did not wait for permission. He flipped the blanket away. Jack turned his face from the sight of the pale figure. “Bring a light, Jack,” said Crispin quietly, but even as quiet as he was, his voice reverberated in whispering echoes, hissing into icy, darkened corners.

Jack’s shuffling steps added more echoes but soon he brought the light. With a shaking hand, he held it where Crispin needed it.

Crispin closed the boy’s eyes, not wishing for their fishlike stare to consume him any longer. He studied the neck again. A dark ring surrounded the obvious indentation in the flesh. He looked lower. The boy’s pubes were not yet grown with hair. He must be ten or eleven. Delicately, Crispin touched the cut edge of flesh where the skin had been slashed with such brutal accuracy. He pulled the flap of skin aside. No entrails.

“Guest!” The Fishmonger’s tone was harsh and shocked. “By our blessed Mother! What are you doing?”

“Examining the body, Lord Sheriff. This child has been eviscerated.”

“It was fish.”

“No. It is cut cleanly. Look here.”

“No! I shall not. It is an abomination!”

Crispin looked up at him. Froshe stepped back and was having none of it. He looked at Exton as forlornly as Jack had done.

“This murder is an abomination!” said Crispin. “We must examine all the evidence to determine the scope of this fiend’s crime.”

Exton gritted his teeth. He did not bother to look toward Froshe, who seemed bent on warming the stone wall with his back.

As a fishmonger, Exton was used to gutted creatures, but a boy was a different matter, to be sure. He seemed to suck up his courage and leaned over, peering into the cut Crispin indicated. He could not look long before his lips paled and sweat pebbled his brow.

“Heinous. Blasphemy.” He staggered toward the lamps in their niches, away from the little corpse.

“Yes.” Crispin continued scouring the boy, down his legs to his feet. His ankles had been bound. The marks of ropes were still there. He lifted a pale hand and examined the nails. Bitten and broken down to the quick. The cuticles were torn and there was dirt still embedded under the nails. Calluses were clearly evident on the pads of his fingers and palms. The boy himself seemed scrawny, underfed, with the evidence of protruding ribs under stretched skin. Crispin pushed the yielding lips open and saw teeth chipped and uneven.

Turning the boy over, he gasped at the bruises on his buttocks and hips. His suspicions provoked, he examined more carefully, ignoring the outraged cries of the sheriff.

“Sodomized,” he said quietly. He vowed silently in that moment to find this murderer, this slayer of the innocent, and utterly destroy him.

“God in heaven!” cried Exton. The lamplight grew even shakier until Jack could stand it no more.

“Let us leave this place, Master Crispin! Please!”

He took the light from the boy and replaced it in its sconce. Standing silently in thought, he finally raised his face to Exton. “He was strangled with something. Not with hands. There are no finger bruises to his throat. I believe the cut to his belly was done after death, else the stroke would not have been so clean. It is too precise. As for the absence of the entrails . . .” He shrugged. “I am at a loss. If he were dead, what would be the use of it? His hands show hard work. Hence he was a servant or a child of the streets. A shopkeeper’s child might not have such old calluses. And lastly, his being sodomized. We are therefore looking for a man.”

“No,” said Exton. He stood against the stone wall. The malicious play of torchlight hid his eyes in shadow.

“No?” asked Crispin, perplexed. “We are not looking for a man?”

“These things you have said. I do not believe them. I do not believe the boy was . . . was . . . sodomized. Nor that his bowels were removed. These can all be explained. The river. A jagged root or a piece of wreckage could have torn him and fish did the rest.”

“Lord Sheriff!”

“Perhaps he was caught in a net while fishing and strangled.”

“Naked? In winter?” He strode up to the man and tried to catch his eye. “Master Nicholas. You know what I am saying is the truth.”

“I have heard of all your tales from Sheriffs John More and Simon Wynchecombe, Guest. You fabricate these wild stories to make yourself important in the eyes of your fellows. I don’t begrudge you that. But I will not have it in my parish! Maybe Wynchecombe bore it but not I—”

“Nor I!” said Froshe weakly from the back of the room.

Exton nodded toward him. “I declare that this boy died in some sort of accident—”

“God’s blood!” Crispin swore. “What ails you? You can plainly see the evidence for yourselves!”

“Leave it be, Master Guest! This was a beggar at best. What does it matter?”

“What does it matter?” He could not help a darting glance at Jack, who cowered in the shadows. He drew his shoulders back. “A citizen of London was raped and murdered, my lord. That is reason enough to concern you.”

Exton hissed a curse and spun away, shuffling toward a dim corner before pivoting and returning to the spot he started. “You show an appalling lack of respect for this office, Master Guest.” He sighed and Crispin heard the tremble in it. Finally, Exton approached Froshe who looked at him with pleading eyes. He bent his head toward him and they whispered furtively for a moment. By the expressions on their faces it did not look as if they had come to an agreement, but Exton turned to him anyway, despite Froshe’s vigorous head-shaking. One of Exton’s eyes twitched. “This . . . is not the first,” he said.

Crispin felt his stomach flip. “God’s blood,” he whispered.

Exton looked ill. The bulbous knot on his throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I rue the day I was elected to this post. I thought”—he shook his head—“I never dreamed we’d . . .” He glanced at Froshe who was all but cowering in the corner and licked his lips. “What a pair of fools are we, eh, John?” Froshe did not raise his eyes. His fat cheeks were colored a ruddy blush. The shadows seemed to want to swallow him, but there was too much of him to do so. Crispin said nothing. He merely watched as Exton’s face wrestled with something he would not voice. Finally, after an interval, he said, “Let us to the sheriff’s chamber where we may talk. There is wine,” he added. As if he needed to.

Crispin and Jack followed the men out of the mews and up the familiar winding staircase to the sheriff’s chamber. The clerk, who usually sat outside at his desk and who often eyed Crispin with disdain, was absent.

A servant arose from an alcove and scurried to stir the coals in the hearth and added wood until it burned well. Exton slowly lowered into the chair behind the desk and Froshe wandered toward the shuttered window. Crispin stood by the chair opposite the desk and waited. The servant finished his chore and hurried out, closing the door. When Exton looked up and saw Crispin standing before him, he seemed surprised. He waved him into the chair as Jack took his place behind him.

“Your servant may pour wine,” he said with a grand gesture.

Jack did not need Crispin’s urging. He rushed to the sideboard and poured two goblets, bringing the first two to each sheriff with a sloppy bow. He returned to the sideboard and poured another for his master.

Crispin lifted the goblet to his lips in relief, knowing that soon the wine would take the sharp edge from the proceedings.

Exton drank as if he had not drunk in ages. He stared into the fire and hugged his empty goblet to his chest. “Unholy business, this.”

For the first time, Crispin felt a splinter of empathy for these men. “You say there were others. How many?”

“Three more. All boys.”

“The same manner?”

“Yes. To almost every detail.”

“Since when?”

“Since Michaelmas. Just as we had taken office.” He said the last bitterly, as if it had been the fault of those electing them. As if they had all colluded with one another.

Two months. Crispin took in a long breath. “Have you any clues? Any suspects?”

The sheriff slowly shook his head. “I have never”—he inhaled a trembling breath—“I fear it is the Tempter himself in our midst.” He crossed himself. His voice cracked. “Such desecration. Such insidious acts. Master Guest”—he shook his head—“I cannot stomach it. It is sin that rends this place. Such dreadful sin. We’ve not enough priests to purge the city of it.”

“Purge the city,” echoed Froshe, cradling his goblet. He had not drunk any of it.

“Sin it is. Grave sin,” agreed Crispin. “But a man did this.”

“Enough. What can one man do against this? These are strange times. I fear another plague is coming. And rightly so.”

Crispin never thought he would think it, but the sheriff’s defeated tone disturbed him. It was plain these men preferred the status quo and these murders did not fit well into the carefully delineated view these merchants held of the world within London’s walls.

“Hire me,” said Crispin.

Exton raised his eyes and glared. “What?”

“Hire me. I will catch this murderer.”

A harsh bark of a laugh erupted from the sheriff’s lips. “We were warned of you and your tricks, were we not, John? Look how Master Guest would manipulate us. Wynchecombe warned us—”

“Oh be still, Nicholas!” Froshe spread his hand over his face and rubbed, rubbing the sin away. “What choice have we got?”

Exton shot to his feet. “Fool! Can’t you keep your mouth shut? Or at least your cowardice to yourself.”

But color had returned to Froshe’s face and he tossed his goblet aside and reached for his sword, though he did not draw it. “Churl! Do you dare call me a coward!”

“My lords.” Crispin rose slowly to his feet. If this was the way of it, then he might well manipulate these two jackals. “Please, do not fight amongst yourselves. I have offered you my solution.” He leaned on the table and looked Exton in the eye. “Hire me.”

“The devil take you.”

“He may very well. But not before I have brought this particular devil to justice.”

The man hedged. He slid a sly gaze toward Froshe who glared daggers at him. “Suppose,” he muttered, slowly. “Suppose we were to hire you. No one must know, of course.”

“It will be more difficult making inquiries.”

“I see. And so you back away.”

“I said nothing of the kind, Lord Sheriff. It is only more of a challenge. And there is one thing you must learn about me, my lords. I have never balked at a challenge.”

Exton twisted the stem of his goblet in his thin fingers. He chewed in his thick lips and looked toward Froshe. “Well?”

“I fear we are signing a pact with the devil.” But in the end Froshe reluctantly bobbed his head.

“It is as you wish, Lord Sheriff. May I be privy to the Coroner rolls?”

Exton nodded and finally set his goblet aside. “We shall send copies to you at your lodgings on the morrow.”

The silence pressed between them again and Crispin, too, set his empty goblet down. “I will take my leave, my lords. Unless you have more to tell me.”

“If there were more, I would tell you, Guest,” said Exton with a sneer. He did not look at Crispin but into the hearth flames. “Report back to us as soon as you discover something. The king has not yet heard tidings of these deaths. But when he does, even though they be beggars, he shall make our lives miserable. And if our lives are made miserable—”

“So, too, is mine made.” Crispin bowed. He swept out of the room with Jack scurrying behind him.

The night was cold, but it kept its cold to itself without the winds from earlier. They trudged quietly in the dirty and hoof-trodden snow back down Newgate Market to the Shambles. Once they entered their lodgings, Jack quickly laid a fire from the smoldering ashes and lit the candle on the table as well. Crispin understood the sentiment. As much light as possible to chase away the nightmares.

Crispin dropped his weary body onto his chair and Jack knelt, pulled off Crispin’s boots, and laid them beside the hearth to dry. “Master,” he said softly. “We have forgotten to meet with that Jew.”

“Yes.” It seemed so unimportant now, yet he did have the man’s silver in his pocket. “It makes little matter.”

“Begging your pardon, sir. But the rent is due and the sheriff didn’t give you aught—”

“Damn.” Yes, he would still have to meet this Jew if he were to pay his rent, for to ask the sheriffs for funds now would earn him little but aggravation. They seemed no more generous with the king’s coffer as was Wynchecombe.

“I will think about it on the morrow, Jack. For now, have we any food?”

Jack did his best to cobble a meal from their meager pantry and once they had cleaned away the leavings and settled into bed, Crispin on his pallet and Jack in his straw in the corner, Crispin fell into a fitful sleep.

When morning came, it brought not only the sun’s brightness through the stagnant cloud cover, but a renewal of his strength to face whatever lay ahead. Fortified with gruel and small beer, Crispin and Jack set out again toward Westminster and reached it by mid-morning.

Leading the way, Crispin edged down the embankment and studied the shore that had been so difficult to see last night. He saw nothing helpful. Only the thought that the body, if newly killed, had not sunk to the bottom of the river as might be expected. He could have been pushed along the shore by the current, or the lithe boy could very well have been dumped nearby. What could be nigh that would lend itself to secret doings with young boys?

He raised his eyes from the rocky shoreline, up past the dark-timbered houses and shops. King Richard’s palace rose above him, its spires and high walls the very testament to secrets. But was this the origin of such heinous crimes?

“What are we looking for, Master?” asked Jack, shivering in his cloak.

“I don’t know.” And the damnable thing of it was, he didn’t. The boy himself was the greatest clue, and three others like him. Not just a death, but something more. Raped, yes. But the slice to his belly intrigued and horrified him the most. What was the meaning behind this evisceration?

“Do you recall, Jack, which houses the Coroner visited?”

“I . . . I think so, Master.”

“Then we will ask our own questions. I do not wish to wait to read the Coroner’s notes.” Crispin allowed Jack to lead the way and the boy pointed to the first shop, a goldsmith. He peered through the open shutter, through the diamond panes of a glass window, and saw a man bent over a table close to his sputtering candle. Crispin knocked upon the door and the man looked up. He watched him approach through the wavy panes and the door was pulled opened.

Squinting, the man pulled his gold-embroidered gown close over his chest. “Good master,” he said to Crispin with a bow. Crispin returned the courtesy.

“I have come to inquire about the boy yesterday. The one pulled from the Thames.”

The man’s brows rose. “The Coroner already inquired of me and I gave my testimony.”

“Yes. But I am here to dig deeper.”

As expected, the man looked Crispin up and down, no doubt noting the frayed hem of his cotehardie and the patches on his breast. Crispin endured it with a clenched jaw.

“And who are you?”

“I am Crispin Guest—”

“God in heaven!” the man gasped. He grabbed the door and tried to shut it but Crispin was quicker and blocked it with his hands.

“Clearly my infamy precedes me,” he said with a sneer. He shoved the door hard and the man fell back.

“Please!” cried the goldsmith, stumbling to his feet. He searched wildly in his shop for a means of escape. “I run an honest business. I wish no congress with you, Guest.”

“We’re not posting banns, man. This is a murder inquiry. Get a hold of yourself.”

“You . . . here . . . near the palace . . . ?”

“Yes, the palace. I am here on the king’s business. Surely you have heard of the Tracker? I am he.”

“The Tracker?” He blinked and Crispin could see his mind whirring behind his fluttering lids. Crispin gestured to the chair. Gingerly, the man sat. “I . . . have heard of the Tracker.”

“Then you know what deeds I have done. I am here to ask about the dead boy.”

He looked from Crispin to Jack. “Yes. Yes. But I already told the Coroner—”

“Did you know the boy?”

“No. He did not sound familiar.”

“Did you hear anything, see anything?”

“Nothing. Only the hue and cry last night.”

“Have you heard a rumor regarding this boy or . . . others?”

“Others?”

Crispin looked quickly at Jack. “Other . . . mayhem,” he corrected.

The man shook his head. “No. As I said. But there are many alleys, many shadowed lanes, even near the palace. Such things might occur there.”

“Indeed.” Crispin rocked on his heels, studying the shop. “You are a goldsmith?”

“Yes, sir. My name is Matthew Middleton. I have been a goldsmith on these premises for nigh on twenty years.”

“Then you have seen much. Have you ever seen such a murder?”

“The death of a child?” He toyed with his beard. “Alas. Too many, I fear.” He glanced at Jack. “A city is a harsh place, at times. Death takes his own by way of sickness and poverty. Surely you have seen with your own eyes the plenteous beggar boys in the streets. There is not enough charity to protect them all. They do not last long. The Thames has claimed its share, I’ll be bound.”

Crispin felt Jack’s presence most keenly. “And lately?”

“I have heard of none of late. But I do my duty and give to the queen’s charities. I give my share in the alms basket.”

“I do not impugn your generosity, Master Middleton. I merely inquire.” He walked slowly around the shop. Neat. Good order. Rich, of course. A trader in gold did not starve nor would his children or servants. He looked last at the man himself. “Have you perchance heard of an errant apprentice or servant? Someone who has gone missing?”

“No. Nothing.”

“If something should occur to you, I can be found on the Shambles in London.”

The man rose and bowed. “If something does, I shall so do, Master Guest.”

Crispin nodded and with a tilt of his head at Jack, they departed.

Looking out to the broad street he sighed a cloud of cold into the day. The smell of the Thames was strong here, but at least they were upwind of the privies. “Jack, I fear that questioning these shopkeepers will not yield anything of substance.”

“Are we to ask anyway?”

“Of course.”

But as Crispin suspected, the others they questioned did not know the boy nor had they heard anything untoward in the evening. The murder did not happen on the street, but in a private place where screams would not be heard.

Jack had not spoken all day unless addressed directly, and even then his replies were grunted and sullen. Crispin understood. He had never asked Jack how he had managed to survive for his many years on the streets as an orphan. He had not felt it his place to ask. He knew Jack was a clever thief, but cleverness could only take a boy so far.

“Jack,” he said kindly. “When you were . . . before we met . . . you must have known many such boys on the streets.”

Jack raised his head, squinting from the cold. Those amber eyes looked Crispin over. So clever, those eyes.

The boy pushed his palm over his reddened nose and sniffed. “Aye, Master,” he said slowly. “You know well what I was. A beggar and a thief.” He crossed himself. “I am not proud of that,” he said mulishly, as if by rote. “But it kept me alive for four years since me mum died. A sister run off, a father I never knew. What did you expect?” The last was harsher than Crispin anticipated, and it seemed more than Jack wanted to convey. He gusted a sigh through his freckled nose and stood, feet planted, waiting for Crispin’s backlash.

But he did not strike out at the boy. Instead, he ran a thoughtful finger over his own lips. “Surely you were old enough to get work on your own. Why did you not stay with your master?”

“I didn’t have no master. Me mother worked as a scullion for a merchant. I kept the fires. When she died they threw me out. Didn’t want no part of me.”

“Could you find no similar work?”

“No. I was too angry for it. Those sarding masters. Flung me out like the dregs of a pissing pot.”

“And so you found yourself on the street. Can you tell me what a typical day was like?”

“Why?”

Jack had never looked so angry and Crispin furrowed his brow at him. “Why do you think, boy? Do you think I wish to know out of prurient curiosity? Do you forget who you are speaking to? Do you not recall that I spent many a day on the streets myself, begging for my meals?”

Jack’s toughened expression softened. He kicked at a dirty lump of snow, wetting the toe of his patched boot. “I . . . I reckon so.” His glance darted away from Crispin again, hiding his many secrets. “You . . . you want to know what a day was like?”

“Yes. It will help, perhaps, to follow in the footsteps of the dead child. I know what my days were like. But it must have been quite different from that of an eight-year-old boy.”

Jack gnawed uncertainly on a finger until Crispin dropped his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Let us to an alehouse, Jack. We will warm ourselves and share wine. Maybe some bread will help you decide whether to speak or no.”

Jack allowed himself to be steered toward a nearby tavern. When Crispin opened the door, the noise spilled out with a cascade of raucous laughter. The sharp tang of a reed and a drum bleated out a tune that some were singing to. It looked to be a better kept place than the Boar’s Tusk, but, to be fair, this tavern was in the shadow of Westminster Palace and the clientele were apt to be wealthier than the patrons of the Gutter Lane’s alehouse.

Crispin guided Jack to two stools by the hearth and waved to the alewife.

“Aye, good masters,” she said to them.

“Good wife, please bring a jug of wine.” Crispin handed her the coins. “And a loaf of bread, if it is not too dear.”

She examined the silver and nodded. “A loaf and wine,” she said, and left them. Alone again, they measured their surroundings. Jack said nothing, staring at the men nearby in their fine fur-trimmed gowns and long-sleeved houppelandes. From under low lids, Crispin observed Jack’s nervous movements.

At last, the woman returned, placing the round, day-old loaf on the hearth beside them, poured the wine into the bowl, and left the jug at Crispin’s feet.

He handed the bowl first to Jack, who looked up with surprise. “Go on, boy. Take it.”

With dirty fingers, Jack took the bowl and lifted it to his lips. He took a long quaff and, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, handed the bowl back. Crispin drank what was left and reached down to the jug to refill it. “Have some bread, Jack,” he said, nodding to the loaf and taking his own quaff.

Jack tore a hunk from the bread and raised it to his lips. He chewed openmouthed, staring at the floor.

“Do you wish to tell me?” asked Crispin after the boy had eaten a bit and drank another bowl.

“In truth, Master, no. But . . . because you are my master, and a good and kind one, it is fitting to help you. And so I will tell you what I know.” He clutched the hunk of bread in his hand, fingers curling protectively around it. “Before I met you, life was hard. If I was lucky enough, I found a place to spend the night. Sometimes it was a stable or sometimes a sheltered doorway. I even spent the night in privies.”

Crispin nodded into the bowl Jack passed to him. “Yes, as did I.”

The lad looked up at him in wide-eyed awe before he nodded. “Aye. Winter was the worst, but they wouldn’t keep that strict an eye on things in winter when it was cold. Keeping themselves inside all safe and tight, mostly.”

Crispin nodded again, remembering.

“In the morning,” Jack continued, “me first order of business was to find food. Church steps were crowded with men who’d just as soon slit your throat as let you beg alongside them. So I found the best place was outside alehouses. Men leaving the taverns with scraps of bread and cheese and their own bellies full would see fit to toss the rest to me. When I got good at it, I could cut a purse or two when crowds of men went in or out, but that meant I was done at that doorstep for the day. Many a lad got himself carted off to Newgate ’cause he stayed put, got greedylike, and wouldn’t move on. They were the cod-pated ones. Wouldn’t listen to nobody.” Jack tore a piece from the hunk of bread in his hand and chewed it thoughtfully. The more he talked the more relaxed he seemed to be.

“There were lots of boys,” he went on. “Some were apprentices caught stealing and tossed out by their masters. They were the worst, as they thought they was better than the rest of us and wouldn’t listen to reason.”

“Did you help one another?”

Jack shook his head unapologetically. “I ain’t no saint, Master. If’n I was to stay alive, it weren’t no charity I could be giving. I had to look out for m’self.”

Crispin nodded. He, too, had tried to band with the others. In numbers there was safety and strategy, but they had not trusted his palace accent nor his unfamiliar ideas.

“And so?” Crispin urged.

“Well, some boys were worse than others. They became more animals than men. I’d see them sniffing along the shore near the fishing boats and they’d eat the leavings. Fins and tails. They’d eat them raw like a dog. I can’t say that I blame them. Hunger is a powerful sin.”

“Yes,” murmured Crispin, taking a delicate bite of his bread, but leaving the majority for Jack.

“I . . .” Jack lowered the piece of bread to his thigh. “I was hungry enough . . . to do the same at times. The hunger can gnaw such a hole inside of you.” His voice broke and he took a bite, taking a long time to chew. Crispin looked away to give him a moment. “I—There were times, Master Crispin,” he whispered, “when I would have eaten anything.”

Crispin grunted his affirmation.

“There were times,” he said in that same low, pitiful voice, “that I did.”

He touched Jack’s sleeve.

The boy swallowed. “There were other boys . . .” He shook his head and blinked his eyes. His voice trembled, whispering. “There were other boys . . . they couldn’t find no way. They couldn’t steal enough to keep them fed. Everyone knew them. They’d let men . . . lie with them. There were secret stews of them. In Southwark.”

Crispin clenched his jaw. Men who would pay panderers for the use of boys. Yes, the Bankside on the opposite shore of the Thames housed all manner of filth and degradation. He knotted the hem of his cloak. He wanted to ask, but did not have the heart for it. Who was he to judge a man? If Jack had sinned, then he had done it as a necessity. Crispin reckoned the boy had paid many times in penance—more than the beads of a rosary—if he had to stoop to such evil to keep alive under the shadow of London’s cathedrals.

“Then it is possible,” said Crispin tightly once Jack had fallen silent, “that this boy could have come from those stews?”

Jack’s pale humiliation gave way to thoughtfulness. He clamped his jaw as he ruminated and eventually shook his head. “No, Master. I do not believe that boy came from the stews.”

“And why not?”

“Th-the boys who were tied up, as this one was, they were also beaten. Not to punish. But for sport. That boy at Newgate. He wasn’t beaten.”

Crispin recalled the pale, dead flesh of the corpse in the bowels of Newgate. The boy had bruises around his neck and on his hips, but nowhere else, neither old scars nor new. “Have you . . . ever heard of the rest? The cutting? The strangulation?”

Jack shook his head. “No, Master. Sometimes a boy was lashed so badly he was no good for the house no more and was left in the streets to die. But I ain’t heard of aught like we saw.”

Crispin handed Jack a full wine bowl. “Thank you, Jack. I—It was surely difficult to tell me.”

“No one should die like that,” he said softly, almost dreamily. “That ain’t no way to die. That ain’t no way to live.”

“Indeed not. I will find this killer, Jack.”

“I know you will, sir. And I’ll be right there beside you.”

The color had come back to the boy’s freckled cheeks. Crispin was glad to see it.

He was about to offer Jack a word of encouragement when a shadow lanced over the boy’s face. Jack looked up and Crispin turned.

“Bless my wretched soul, but if it isn’t Crispin Guest.”

Crispin stiffened. These encounters were few, but when he did come upon an acquaintance from his past, he did not usually bear it well. He rose to hide his discomfiture and because the man was a lord and it would not do to sit in his presence, even though once upon a time he was perfectly within his rights to do so.

“Giles,” he said with a rigid bow.

“My Lord de Risley,” the man corrected with a smirk. “At least in front of these—” and he motioned to the room. Giles smiled warily. His beard followed the curve of his jaw in a thin, tight line as did his neatly coiffed mustache.

Crispin’s cheeks burned. “Of course . . . my lord.” And he bowed again. Jack scrambled to his feet and looked from Giles to Crispin worriedly.

“Crispin,” he said, ignoring Jack. Giles looked Crispin up and down not seeming to notice Crispin fisting his hands close to his sides. “It has been many a day since I’ve seen you last,” said Giles. “When I heard the news of your arrest all those years ago, it tore at my heart.”

Crispin nodded. What could he say?

“But I am glad to see that you live.” He offered a warmer smile. “How fare you? Are you well?” Without waiting for an answer, he sidled closer, looking around at the crowded tavern. “But Crispin. So close to court? Is that wise? The king . . .” The smile was back. “But of course, you were always a bit wild, weren’t you? Never one to hide. To take the easy path. Was it not so in our jousting days? You were the one who always took risks, always getting hurt—”

“Always besting you.” It was Crispin’s turn to smirk.

Giles’s expression tightened before he released a laugh. “I suppose you did win most of our contests. But not the fair Margaret.”

It was Crispin’s turn to lose his smile. Did Giles have to remind him of those days? Margaret had been Crispin’s lover and she had left his bed for Giles’s. It wasn’t Giles’s fault, of course. She was fickle. And Giles flaunted his wealth, giving expensive gifts. Margaret was a fool for it. But it had stung, nonetheless.

Giles moved toward Jack’s seat and took it, paying little attention to Jack struggling to get out of his way. The man sat wide-legged on the stool and warmed his hands at the hearth. “Sit with me, Crispin. God’s eyes but I am glad to see you. May we share wine?” Giles leaned forward and rested his arms on his thighs. He took up the empty bowl and waited. Crispin shot a glance at Jack and the boy quickly filled it. “When was the last time we met? Do you recall?”

“Nine years ago,” he said, sitting. “A tourney at Aquitaine, I believe. I unhorsed you and we fought on foot.”

Giles smiled and drank. “Yes. I think it was a draw.”

It wasn’t, but Crispin let it lie.

“Yes,” Giles went on. “What a bitter opponent you were. You had an unusual style. Learned at the knee of some Frenchman.”

“My Lord of Gaunt taught me, my lord. All that I learned of warfare and swordsmanship came from the duke personally.”

“Well, we all know Lancaster has devious ways.”

Crispin scoured the room quickly. No one had caught their intimate conversation. If they had, many more would have come to the aid of the duke of Lancaster’s honor. As it was, Crispin was hard-pressed to defend it himself these days.

He had bested Giles in all their endeavors, save the one with Margaret, but it was mostly on the lists, where cleverness often won the day over brute strength. If de Risley had ever bothered to learn that lesson, he could have won over Crispin in their many tournaments or even on the battlefield. More often than not, Crispin had captured several knights to ransom, where as Giles de Risley had killed his prey, thus leaving him with nothing to earn. Too impatient was Sir Giles, looking for the easy way rather than the better part.

He drank more of Crispin’s wine and studied him. “The lists are not as merry since you left them, Crispin,” said Giles, mirroring Crispin’s own thoughts. “I enjoyed riding against you.”

“I, too, miss them, Giles.”

“Alas,” he said. “A pity the king did not see fit to restore your knighthood.”

“Ah, but he did.”

Giles sat back with surprise. “When was this?”

“When I saved the king’s life from an assassin. Surely you must have heard—”

“It seems I did hear something of the kind,” he said, cheered. “But then, something must have gone wrong.” He looked him up and down again.

“Indeed. The king’s offer balanced on a task I could not perform.”

“Oh? And what was this chivalrous deed he implored of you?”

Crispin straightened his shoulders. “I was to beg for it.”

Giles burst into peals of laughter. “And that—” he said between gasps, “you certainly would not do!” He slapped his thighs. “Crispin! You have always made me smile. Such youthful vigor! But I am certain that your refusal of the king was warranted. You must be doing well, then. A comfortable existence here in London? Am I right?”

Crispin endured the man’s laughter silently.

Giles prodded with his elbow. “Tell me, Crispin, for truly I wish to know. Tell me where it is you live.”

“I do live in London.”

“Yes, yes. But where?”

“I live . . . on the Shambles. I thought everyone knew that.”

Giles’s laughter stopped abruptly. “Oh. You aren’t jesting? Oh, Crispin.” He lowered his face and shook his head. “I thought—Ah, I see. Tell me. Is there something I can do, something I can say?”

“No. Thank you. I have learned to earn my keep here. And I am”—he tested the word in his head before he said—“content.”

Giles offered a weakened smile. “You were always so stoic, Crispin. When I married Margaret, well . . .” He drank from the bowl. “I thought you would hate me after that.”

“No, Giles. I did not hate you. I suppose it was for the best. After . . . everything.”

“Yes.” He leaned over his thighs and turned the now empty bowl in his hands. “After Margaret died all those years ago—”

“I was sorry to hear of it.”

“Ah, so you did hear? Well. The child died as well. That was a sorrowful time. And do you know, the one man I wanted to talk to, to gain some comfort from, was you? But, of course, that was impossible then. Now you seem to move about more freely.” He grinned. “I am glad of it. We were often rivals but it was never personal. I’d like to think we were friends.”

“We were.” Crispin looked away into the fire.

“Yes. Well. After Margaret died, I decided to move on.”

“Have you remarried, then?” Crispin did not realize how starved he was for court news. It never seemed to matter before.

Giles looked embarrassed. “No, not remarried. But . . .” He turned the bowl in his hands. “In fact, I suppose you should know that I have recently acquired . . . that I have purchased—Dammit, Crispin. I do not know if these are good tidings or not.”

“Tell me, then.”

“A manor house along the river in Sheen, not far from his Majesty’s lodgings. I have only moved into them a few months ago—”

Crispin froze, a cold feeling slipping around his heart.

“I am taking good care of them. After Margaret, the house seemed too empty. A change of scenery. And when his Majesty offered it, I—” He looked at Crispin’s face and abruptly rose, his own expression stricken. “Maybe this isn’t the time. I’d best take my leave. God keep you, Crispin. I’m certain we will meet again.”

He set down the empty bowl, but in his haste to depart, his foot caught it and kicked it toward the hearth where it clinked against the clay jug and cracked it, spilling its wine like blood.