archbishop of York; Nicholas, abbot of Waltham; William de Courtenay, the archbishop of Canterbury—” He paused and studied Crispin’s face. Crispin continued to sip at his wine. “Richard, Lord Scrope; Thomas of Woodstock, the duke of Gloucester; Thomas Arundel, bishop of Ely; Richard, earl of Arundel; Edmund Langely, duke of York; John Lord Cobham; and Sir John Devereux. Have I missed anyone, Brother John?”
“William of Wykeham, bishop of Winchester; Thomas Brantingham, bishop of Exeter; and John Gilbert, bishop of Hereford,” he said from the back of the room.
“Oh yes, yes. A horde of bishops. An uneven chessboard. But the king must be made to see.”
“Will he?”
Nicholas shook his head. “It is difficult to say. It is no coincidence that this move was made while Lancaster is out of the country.”
No, Crispin didn’t think it was either. “What’s to be done?”
“For you, nothing. In fact, I advise staying out of Westminster altogether. But I doubt you will take that advice.”
“But what would I do without your council?” Crispin smiled at the old man’s frown but soon enough he was frowning himself. “Do you also know about … have you heard anything about the convening of a trial for cowardice and desertion?”
Abbot Nicholas rubbed tiredly at his eyes. “It is no secret that the Earl Marshal’s court is condemning a knight for cowardice.”
Crispin took a deep breath. “Sir Thomas Saunfayl.”
“Yes.” The abbot raised his yellowed eyes. The blue of his irises was pale, like thin ice. “And Geoffrey Chaucer has been charged with defending him. But it is said there is little expectation of a positive outcome. Trial by combat is his only hope. You knew him, I take it?”
“Yes. I thought I did.”
“If he is a coward then is he not best left to God’s mercy?”
If a man could not take his rightful place on the battlefield then he was a detriment to those around him. A man who could not defend his lands let alone the king’s was a liability the realm could ill afford. Crispin bowed to the sense of it, but he could not separate the man he had known from this new disgrace. Even so, he had made a vow to Thomas, and he would see it through.
“I don’t have an answer to that,” he said after a long pause. “I leave such discussions to theologians. Like yourself.”
Nicholas nodded and seemed to sink into the furs on his chair. The greyhound lying before the hearth raised its head, tail thumping, before he lowered it again and blew a huff of breath along the stone tiles.
Brother John was suddenly at Crispin’s side. “My Lord Abbot is weary, Master Crispin. Perhaps we should leave him to his rest.”
Nicholas was already dozing. Crispin rose and handed the younger monk his goblet. “Thank you, Brother,” he said quietly. “I forget that Abbot Nicholas is an old man. We have had so many robust arguments.”
“Yes, I know. But of late, he has slowed down considerably. It is the way of things. The old must make way for the new.”
“I would not be so quick to dismiss the old, Brother John. I have known Abbot Nicholas to be full of surprises.” He walked with the monk to the door, bowed to him, and saw his way out through the cloister.
When he passed through the south transept and out onto the street at last, Crispin’s thoughts were a jumble. But one thing was certain. Knights and politics aside, he had a murderer to apprehend, and he could not do it in Westminster. He had to return to London Bridge.
10
IT WAS WELL PAST None by the time Crispin reached the bridge. Where had the day gone? Between traveling to Westminster and back to the bridge, he had walked across London more times than he could count. He paid his toll again and passed through the bridge’s gate, then made his way down the avenue. A brisk wind from off the Thames whipped his hood about his face but the tight position of the buildings afforded some shelter from the river’s wind and spray.
“William of Wykeham, bishop of Winchester; Thomas Brantingham, bishop of Exeter; and John Gilbert, bishop of Hereford,” he said from the back of the room.
“Oh yes, yes. A horde of bishops. An uneven chessboard. But the king must be made to see.”
“Will he?”
Nicholas shook his head. “It is difficult to say. It is no coincidence that this move was made while Lancaster is out of the country.”
No, Crispin didn’t think it was either. “What’s to be done?”
“For you, nothing. In fact, I advise staying out of Westminster altogether. But I doubt you will take that advice.”
“But what would I do without your council?” Crispin smiled at the old man’s frown but soon enough he was frowning himself. “Do you also know about … have you heard anything about the convening of a trial for cowardice and desertion?”
Abbot Nicholas rubbed tiredly at his eyes. “It is no secret that the Earl Marshal’s court is condemning a knight for cowardice.”
Crispin took a deep breath. “Sir Thomas Saunfayl.”
“Yes.” The abbot raised his yellowed eyes. The blue of his irises was pale, like thin ice. “And Geoffrey Chaucer has been charged with defending him. But it is said there is little expectation of a positive outcome. Trial by combat is his only hope. You knew him, I take it?”
“Yes. I thought I did.”
“If he is a coward then is he not best left to God’s mercy?”
If a man could not take his rightful place on the battlefield then he was a detriment to those around him. A man who could not defend his lands let alone the king’s was a liability the realm could ill afford. Crispin bowed to the sense of it, but he could not separate the man he had known from this new disgrace. Even so, he had made a vow to Thomas, and he would see it through.
“I don’t have an answer to that,” he said after a long pause. “I leave such discussions to theologians. Like yourself.”
Nicholas nodded and seemed to sink into the furs on his chair. The greyhound lying before the hearth raised its head, tail thumping, before he lowered it again and blew a huff of breath along the stone tiles.
Brother John was suddenly at Crispin’s side. “My Lord Abbot is weary, Master Crispin. Perhaps we should leave him to his rest.”
Nicholas was already dozing. Crispin rose and handed the younger monk his goblet. “Thank you, Brother,” he said quietly. “I forget that Abbot Nicholas is an old man. We have had so many robust arguments.”
“Yes, I know. But of late, he has slowed down considerably. It is the way of things. The old must make way for the new.”
“I would not be so quick to dismiss the old, Brother John. I have known Abbot Nicholas to be full of surprises.” He walked with the monk to the door, bowed to him, and saw his way out through the cloister.
When he passed through the south transept and out onto the street at last, Crispin’s thoughts were a jumble. But one thing was certain. Knights and politics aside, he had a murderer to apprehend, and he could not do it in Westminster. He had to return to London Bridge.
10
IT WAS WELL PAST None by the time Crispin reached the bridge. Where had the day gone? Between traveling to Westminster and back to the bridge, he had walked across London more times than he could count. He paid his toll again and passed through the bridge’s gate, then made his way down the avenue. A brisk wind from off the Thames whipped his hood about his face but the tight position of the buildings afforded some shelter from the river’s wind and spray.
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