A Maiden Weeping Read online

  Noreys glared for a long moment before his shoulders sagged and he moved again to the fire, dragging his feet in their long-toed slippers as he went. Jack noted the repairs in the man’s gown when the hearthlight struck the material; the patches, the stitched seams. So they were in need of funds.

  ‘Yes. It is true. My sons are headstrong and moved on their purpose without telling me. They … they hired a maid to steal it. The shame. Is not our family undergoing enough shame and degradation? And now my son …’ He choked and ran a hand over his face.

  ‘Requiescat in pace,’ said Jack, crossing himself with the quill still stuck between his fingers. ‘So you were unaware that your sons were plotting this theft?’

  ‘Of course I was unaware! I never would have allowed it.’

  ‘And they believed she took the relic.’

  ‘Yes.’ He gnawed on a knuckle and turned his face marginally toward Jack. ‘Did she?’

  ‘No, master. As it happens, Elizabeth le Porter – the maid in question – was murdered most foully.’

  He snapped around, eyes wide. ‘Murdered?’

  ‘Aye. Do you have any idea who might have had cause to murder her?’

  He held up his hands, clearly overwhelmed by this information. ‘Wait. Wait.’ He reached behind him and found the wall. He clutched at a tapestry. Jack saw it sway above him and wrinkle with the force of his grip. ‘You … you are suggesting that someone in this house …’

  ‘Master Noreys, with all that has recently transpired, it is not outside the realm of likelihood. Plausible impossibilities should be preferred to unconvincing possibilities.’

  ‘I don’t care about your plausible impossibilities! You’re insulting my family. Who are you to be dictating to me? Only a clerk.’

  ‘The sheriff’s clerk,’ Jack hurried to add. This was quickly getting out of hand. He rose, taking his time to fold the parchment and cork the ink pot. ‘Master Noreys, it looks to all be in order then. I shall trouble you no more. But there is one thing.’

  Seething, Noreys glared, mouth turned down in a dark frown.

  ‘Why was it so important to obtain this relic?’

  ‘By the Mass!’ Noreys shook his head. ‘It is a valuable relic. It belonged to my family.’

  ‘That is not how the law sees it.’

  ‘Then devil take the law!’ He wiped the spittle from his beard and gestured around the room. ‘You see the state of things, Master Tucker. We are in deep financial straits. Even if we possessed this most precious of relics, we would only turn around and sell it, for we are in sore need of funds.’

  ‘Your business, sir? What’s become of it?’

  ‘Some sour transactions. Too many of them. Too much spending and gambling by my sons … and now …’

  Jack stuffed his scrip with his belongings and shuffled toward the door. ‘I believe that will do, Master Noreys. And God’s blessings on this house.’

  ‘It will take the Almighty’s intervention to save us now.’

  Jack headed for the archway when an older woman, holding a kerchief to her reddened nose, stepped through. ‘Husband,’ she said, casting a wary glance at Jack. ‘I heard raised voices. What is amiss?’

  He strode toward her, taking her hand and patting it. ‘Nothing, my love. Nothing at all.’ He looked passed Jack. ‘My wife, Madam Madlyn.’

  Jack bowed. ‘Forgive this intrusion, madam. I was just leaving.’ He clutched his scrip to his side, walked through the entry, and out the door to the street. He didn’t stop until he reached Poultry. ‘God’s blood,’ he swore. ‘That’s a sorry lot if ever there was one.’ He wondered if his deception was a sin. He supposed it was lying. But as Master Crispin often said, lying for a good cause wipes away the sin. Or so he hoped.

  What have you learned now, Jack my lad? He walked slowly down Poultry and found himself on Mercery again. That they did indeed try to hire the murdered girl to steal the relic. But why hadn’t she? He supposed it was loyalty to her former mistress.

  Hard, slapping footfalls behind him made him turn just in time for a man to grab him. Jack wriggled away and managed to draw his knife and crouch into position to fight.

  ‘Hold, good clerk,’ said the panting man. He was young and wore a russet houppelande. His nose was pinched, his bearded chin sharp. ‘I … I overheard you speaking with my father.’

  Jack’s eyes flitted over the man, taking note of it all. ‘You are Walter Noreys.’

  ‘Yes. Is what you said true? Is the maid … dead?’

  ‘Aye. No thanks to you.’

  He drew back as if slapped. ‘W-what do you mean by that?’

  ‘Do you not think your knavery had put her in harm’s way? That you might be responsible for her death?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Was it not you who hired her to sin by committing thievery?’

  ‘I … I …’

  Jack waved a hand at him in disgust. ‘What is it you want?’

  He shook his head, having the decency to look contrite. ‘If what you said is true then I have much sin upon my head. But then so does that knave Guest, for he is keeping the relic for himself.’

  ‘He isn’t, you fool. He never had it. And neither did Elizabeth le Porter. It is where it has always been. In the Peverel household.’

  ‘But … that cannot be!’

  Jack turned his back on him. ‘Get you to your own household chapel, Master Noreys. You are in sore need of prayer.’

  He walked away, and the man did not follow. He was surprised she was dead, then? That was one item checked off his list. He wondered if the same could be said for John Noreys. But of course, the dead do not testify. Could he have been up to more mischief than even his brother Walter knew?

  But now to the Peverels, for he had to see this damned relic for himself – He crossed himself and sent a prayer of apology upward. ‘Now Master Crispin’s got me doing it,’ he muttered. Jack had always had the utmost respect for relics, unlike his recalcitrant master. But being in the company of his master and encountering more relics than he had ever heard of did paint it all with a different brush.

  The Peverels were on Trinity and so he made his way, cutting down some narrow lanes, passing Watling till he was on Trinity and looking for the house. After asking a merchant or two, he found the place. Deciding to be himself, he knocked upon the door. When it opened, Sheriff Walcote stood in the passage. Before Jack could say anything, he lunged forward and grabbed Jack. ‘Now I’ve got you, you knave. How would you like to occupy a cell right next to your master? Two murderers.’

  ‘Murder, sir? Never!’

  ‘Someone is strangling the women of London. I think it is two someones.’

  Appalled, Jack pulled back. Walcote squeezed Jack’s arm, but Jack wrenched to the side and pulled free of his grip. He leaped onto the street. Behind him he heard the sheriff call to his men to capture him.

  Jack ran hard and didn’t look back.

  TEN

  Saturday, 17 October

  Crispin watched the shadow pass by the high barred window in his cell for the third time. His hand went to his empty dagger sheath, and he made a sound of disgust. The sheriff had his dagger. Thank God his sword was at home. But he was ready for whatever it might be that lurked at his window; bat, bird, rat …

  He startled slightly at the sudden appearance of a cat’s face popping through the bars.

  He peered closer. ‘How the devil do you get way up here?’

  The cat blinked at him, mewled, and then leapt down. Immediately the black and white cat slid its sinuous body against his shackled leg. ‘Tart,’ he grumbled and bent to pick him up. He looked into its black mask with its white blaze, its large yellow eyes. ‘Just what brings you here, Gyb?’

  The cat purred, and Crispin absently pressed it to his chest and stroked its soft head. ‘You’re not supposed to be breaking into prison, my friend, but out of it. But I’d welcome you if you free this place of rats.’

  The cat suddenly bounded from his ha
nds and dove under the cot. A scramble, and then it emerged again with a twitching brown rat in his jaws. Crispin chuckled. ‘Never have any of my requests been so smartly obeyed.’

  The cat found a place on the hearth and proceeded to disembowel his prey, eating most of the center of the creature and leaving the head, feet, and tail behind. Once done, he sat, carefully licking and grooming its white paws.

  ‘At least someone’s eating their fill.’ He kicked the remnants into the fire, wincing at their smoldering smell, and crouched before the feline. ‘Whatever brought you into my den, puss?’

  It looked up once from its grooming, blinked, and returned to swiping its head with its dampened paw.

  Crispin rose, stretching his back. ‘Well, I don’t suppose I mind a little company. It does get dreadfully dull here.’

  He glanced at his own barren plate on the table. His belly growled from its emptiness. He’d protested when the gaoler wanted to charge him for his meals. He had already paid a mainprise. Surely that should cover it, he had argued.

  And still he starved. He had thought those days were over. Well. For the most part.

  Besides their arguing over his surety, Melvyn had been particularly obstinate and delayed bringing him his meals, when he deigned to do so. Little wonder after Crispin had hit him on that first day he was brought in. Melvyn had made a most inappropriate and rude comment that Crispin would not allow. He got in one good hit before the other gaolers took Crispin down. Still, it had been worth it.

  He turned with surprise when the prison door opened again. But it was not Melvyn or any of the sheriff’s men pushing their way through and threatening him but that lawyer again, Nigellus Cobmartin. Crispin greeted him with a nod.

  ‘Master Guest, I trust you are well.’

  ‘As well as one can be in Newgate.’

  The lawyer formed a conciliatory smile on his lips. ‘Forgive me for not returning sooner. I was delayed. Do sit, Master Guest. May I call you Crispin? It is such a worthy name, is it not? The name of a humble saint and martyr.’

  ‘I am no saint, sir, and, hopefully, no martyr. “Crispin” I am. It is my name. You have my leave, Master Nigellus.’

  ‘Good, good.’ He busied himself with his papers, trying to keep them tidy … and failing.

  ‘Has there been any word from Jack?’

  Nigellus frowned. ‘We met just the other day. And though the circumstances were abominable, it might serve you. Two women were found strangled.’

  The horror of it struck home. ‘God’s blood.’

  ‘Yes, though it is a tragedy, it proves you were not the culprit. There appears to be a devil loose in London who likes to strangle young women.’

  ‘Or likes to hire someone to do so.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘What has Jack to say about it?’

  ‘Well, that is the trouble, Master Crispin. Sheriff Walcote likes Jack as the culprit, and the boy is currently in cognito.’

  ‘The damned fool sheriff.’

  Nigellus shook his head. ‘Yes. But I think your apprentice is quite resourceful, and so I would not fear for his whereabouts.’

  ‘I don’t. Jack can care for himself.’

  ‘Someday I should like to hear how you acquired the lad.’

  Crispin offered a lopsided grin, remembering. ‘It’s a long tale, Master Nigellus. And I hope fervently to have the time to tell it.’

  ‘The trial starts today, Master Crispin. Noon.’

  The cold words clutched his heart with equally cold fingers. His breath left him for a heartbeat before it returned.

  ‘Forgive me,’ said Nigellus. ‘That was abrupt.’

  ‘No, for it is the truth. Why so soon? I have known many a trial to take a year or more to be seen at the King’s Bench or Common Pleas.’

  ‘Your Jack seems to think that the sheriffs are most hasty on the matter in order to convict you, for surely with enough time Tucker can solve the crime on his own.’

  Crispin nodded. ‘It never ceases to amaze me the diligence with which the sheriffs fervently labor for my disposal. I shouldn’t be surprised and yet I am. Do you think a bribe would do me any good?’

  ‘If these are the circumstances I should think not.’

  ‘Not that I have the funds. And so we start today. I do not see that we have much more than what we started with.’

  Nigellus laid a hand on Crispin’s arm. It was strange comfort from a man he did not know. ‘We will do what we can. Since I have not heard from Master Jack I must resort to my first tactic, that of delay. The trial will begin, you will begin to speak – and make it lengthy, Master Crispin. Spare no lexicon. And I will put forth new writs that must be addressed. In this, we will gather more time for the witnesses we desire and the story that we want told.’

  Crispin rubbed his jaw and looked down at the cat who was now dedicating himself to rutting his head against Crispin’s calf.

  ‘What have we here?’ said Nigellus. He bent down to pet the cat. ‘Oi, Gyb. You are here for good luck, eh?’

  ‘Good luck would be an interesting change of pace,’ said Crispin.

  ‘But you have good luck, sir. For I am on the case! And I am already forming a tale of these strangled women. Remember, my good Crispin, that I need only inject doubt into the minds of the jury. They must know you to be guilty, not think it. With doubt, there will be room for them to question their own facts. Now, I should like to hear in your own words what you intend to say.’

  ‘Now? Recite my testimony?’

  ‘Yes. Since I cannot speak for you at the trial it is best we rehearse your speech now. Now is better than later.’

  ‘So I see. Well then.’

  Crispin launched into his speech, but Nigellus stopped him from time to time to help him clarify this point and blur that one. Crispin began to feel a certain level of confidence in the man that he just might know what he was doing.

  After Crispin seemed to satisfy him, Nigellus looked around. ‘Have you no meat and drink? This is insufferable.’ He moved to the door and called for the gaoler through the grille. ‘Gaoler! Food and ale for this prisoner. He needs his strength for the trial ahead.’

  It took some convincing – and a coin or two – but the gaolers brought Crispin some actual meat, cheese, bread, and a jug of ale.

  Nigellus took the cat from Crispin’s arms and insisted he sit to eat and Crispin did. The meat was cold, but that didn’t matter. The cheese had a skin of mold on it, but he trimmed it off with Nigellus’ knife. He ate and drank heartily of the ale. They had only given him water for all that silver he had surrendered to the sheriff, and the ale tasted good to him.

  ‘Will you be in the courtroom?’ asked Crispin, mouth full.

  ‘Yes. I must observe and be on hand to submit my writs, to keep my eye on the witnesses and jury, and to question witnesses myself. If there is anything amiss with the jury, I can usually spot it and take that as well to the recorder.’

  ‘Is it to be the one judge or several?’

  ‘It is hard to say. You are on the cusp, Crispin. You are an important personage, enough to warrant several judges, while at the same time … of little importance these days, if you understand me.’

  He snorted and tore off a piece from the loaf, stuffing it in his mouth. ‘Yes, I get your drift.’

  ‘In any case, we might do better with the one judge. John Tremayne has always been a fair-minded man. You could do worse.’

  ‘Indeed I could.’

  The bells from the nearby church tolled, and Crispin paused in his eating. He set the scraps down and wiped his hands on the cloth provided. ‘Sext, Master Nigellus. Should we make ready to depart?’

  He nodded, looking toward the door. And it was then they both heard the footfalls. ‘The Guildhall is half a mile from here. I shall be with you the whole way.’

  He gave a half-smile and bowed to the man as the door whined open. Crispin moved forward, and the cat followed. He turned toward the cat as he stood in the doorway. ‘Y
ou are free to go, Gyb. No one’s keeping you here.’

  The cat, with tail raised high, strolled out the door and trotted down the stairs in the opposite direction. Well, there’s one prisoner freed, he thought. Perhaps it’s a good sign.

  Crispin followed the sheriff’s serjeants down the stone stairs with difficulty. The iron shackles weighed heavily on his steps. Nigellus followed close behind him. As he came out into the sunshine of Newgate’s arch, an assembly of people stood out in the street. Strangely silent, they watched as he did his best to keep up while Sheriff Loveney mounted an awaiting horse and trotted ahead. The serjeants surrounded Crispin and marched him down Newgate Market. The people, still silent, turned and walked with them, serving as a noiseless retinue, until one woman called out from the crowd, ‘God’s blessings on you, Crispin Guest!’

  His head snapped sharply in that direction. Another shouted from behind, ‘Me and mine are praying for you!’

  That set the crowd to murmuring with other calls for God’s blessings upon him. The sheriff twisted on his saddle and scowled at the crowd, telling them to disperse, but it only seemed to gather more people as they traveled toward Milk Street and made the turn.

  Crispin lost his breath. ‘God’s blood,’ he murmured. This crowd. They weren’t out for his blood as he suspected they might be. They were here for him! In support. His eyes tracked the people, faces he did not know. Men, and women carrying babes or dragging their children beside them with clasped hands. They offered their silent gazes. It was an entirely different sensation from those crowds from court some twelve years ago. They had jeered him then, truly out for his blood and he had expected to give it. Yet these humble people … where did they all come from? Who were they? Surely he had not touched this many lives in the nine years since he had turned to his present occupation.

  He memorized the worn faces, the cheeks pressed against wimples, the beards, the razor-stubbled chins, the dark and weary eyes. They were the ordinary folk of London. They were the lowly. He had been far above them once, but now he was one of them. And they knew it, too. They had accepted it far earlier than Crispin had done in all his years of foot-dragging. He couldn’t deny it any longer. He was one of them. And if die he must, at least the crowds would be on his side. A generous mercy from on high.