“Yes. No stealing this time. I’m actually giving you permission.”
Jack licked his lips, swathing his tongue several times over his slick mouth. Finally he rose and approached the purse as if it were a wild animal. He opened the flap with only two fingers and reached in.
“Good heavens, boy!” cried Crispin, laughing. “You’re not gutting a fish. Just take it!”
Jack nodded and quickly withdrew a few halpens. He put them in one of the many secret hiding places in his shoulder cape and looked back at Crispin uncertainly.
It was then that Crispin was struck once more by how young the lad was. Jack must have had the devil’s own time surviving as long as he did on his own. The boy was resilient. Clever. He reminded Crispin of…well, long ago.
He watched Jack shrug on his cloak with a feeling of empathy. A man’s life was not easy. And life on the Shambles was harder than most. Was his staying with Crispin only prolonging the inevitable?
Jack looked back at him again and gave him a wary smile. He lifted the latch, yanked on the door ring, and pulled the door open. A misty draft blew in before he slipped out and shut the door behind him.
Alone again, Crispin rose carefully from his cot and swallowed a wave of dizziness. He staggered to the mirror nailed to a timber and stared at his reflection in the small rectangle of polished brass. His left eye looked like two plums pressed together. A gash where Wynchecombe’s ring cut him ran unevenly in a rusted brown line down one cheek while the other sported a mottled blue bruise. He knew he could not go out like this even if he could walk. How was he to ask his questions looking like the loser in a cockfight? He took the rag Jack used to wipe the blood from his face and dunked it in the cold water of the bucket and pressed it to the eye. It was going to be a few days before he was presentable again. By then, he hoped to have more answers he could offer to the sheriff and satisfy himself.
The next morning, Jack had not yet returned. Crispin found he could not simply convalesce, so he busied himself poking the fire and eating the rest of the hen Jack had cooked the night before and left for him. He cracked the bones and sucked out the marrow and tossed the waste into the fire, watching it spit while the bones blackened. He leaned out the back courtyard window into the cold, crisp morning, trying to catch a glimpse of the street between two buildings. When that proved futile, he cast his glance instead across the row of courtyards peeking out from an undulating plain of rooftops. Housewives, plagued by children at their feet, hung laundry. Men sat on stools mending the tools of their livelihoods. And always, cats wandered, stalking the family geese.
He turned back to the room, his good eye scanning until it lighted on the stack of Walcote’s books. He pulled the chair from the table and sat. Dragging the first book toward him, he opened it. The tangy scent of leather blended with the musty aroma of parchment and ink, recalling to Crispin’s mind better days at his own accounting books when he had more than two pence to rub together. Settling down to the business of examining the page, he ran his finger down each column, searching for anything amiss.
For hours he read the entries and tabulations. Only one hand made each entry. He surmised it was that of Nicholas Walcote. No embezzlements, then. No false entries to suggest it, in any event.
He set the book aside and picked up the customs ledger. Many different hands had worked on this book, which dated from two years ago. The entries were full of the minutiae of shipping and exporting; sacks of raw wool and bolts of cloth and the names of ships making for the staple port in France. The Starling headed for Calais with 1,152 sacks for the king’s export tax of eighty pounds in the early spring of 1382. The St. George sailed also to Calais where the taxes were collected for two hundred bolts of dyed cloth. And so it
Jack licked his lips, swathing his tongue several times over his slick mouth. Finally he rose and approached the purse as if it were a wild animal. He opened the flap with only two fingers and reached in.
“Good heavens, boy!” cried Crispin, laughing. “You’re not gutting a fish. Just take it!”
Jack nodded and quickly withdrew a few halpens. He put them in one of the many secret hiding places in his shoulder cape and looked back at Crispin uncertainly.
It was then that Crispin was struck once more by how young the lad was. Jack must have had the devil’s own time surviving as long as he did on his own. The boy was resilient. Clever. He reminded Crispin of…well, long ago.
He watched Jack shrug on his cloak with a feeling of empathy. A man’s life was not easy. And life on the Shambles was harder than most. Was his staying with Crispin only prolonging the inevitable?
Jack looked back at him again and gave him a wary smile. He lifted the latch, yanked on the door ring, and pulled the door open. A misty draft blew in before he slipped out and shut the door behind him.
Alone again, Crispin rose carefully from his cot and swallowed a wave of dizziness. He staggered to the mirror nailed to a timber and stared at his reflection in the small rectangle of polished brass. His left eye looked like two plums pressed together. A gash where Wynchecombe’s ring cut him ran unevenly in a rusted brown line down one cheek while the other sported a mottled blue bruise. He knew he could not go out like this even if he could walk. How was he to ask his questions looking like the loser in a cockfight? He took the rag Jack used to wipe the blood from his face and dunked it in the cold water of the bucket and pressed it to the eye. It was going to be a few days before he was presentable again. By then, he hoped to have more answers he could offer to the sheriff and satisfy himself.
The next morning, Jack had not yet returned. Crispin found he could not simply convalesce, so he busied himself poking the fire and eating the rest of the hen Jack had cooked the night before and left for him. He cracked the bones and sucked out the marrow and tossed the waste into the fire, watching it spit while the bones blackened. He leaned out the back courtyard window into the cold, crisp morning, trying to catch a glimpse of the street between two buildings. When that proved futile, he cast his glance instead across the row of courtyards peeking out from an undulating plain of rooftops. Housewives, plagued by children at their feet, hung laundry. Men sat on stools mending the tools of their livelihoods. And always, cats wandered, stalking the family geese.
He turned back to the room, his good eye scanning until it lighted on the stack of Walcote’s books. He pulled the chair from the table and sat. Dragging the first book toward him, he opened it. The tangy scent of leather blended with the musty aroma of parchment and ink, recalling to Crispin’s mind better days at his own accounting books when he had more than two pence to rub together. Settling down to the business of examining the page, he ran his finger down each column, searching for anything amiss.
For hours he read the entries and tabulations. Only one hand made each entry. He surmised it was that of Nicholas Walcote. No embezzlements, then. No false entries to suggest it, in any event.
He set the book aside and picked up the customs ledger. Many different hands had worked on this book, which dated from two years ago. The entries were full of the minutiae of shipping and exporting; sacks of raw wool and bolts of cloth and the names of ships making for the staple port in France. The Starling headed for Calais with 1,152 sacks for the king’s export tax of eighty pounds in the early spring of 1382. The St. George sailed also to Calais where the taxes were collected for two hundred bolts of dyed cloth. And so it
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