Jeri Westerson - Shadow of the Alchemist

Crispin snorted. “They tested the wind and saw it was an ill one.”

“Aye, Master. A very ill one indeed. There was another. One of the king’s knights who was chief justice. I forgot his name-”

“Sir Robert Tresilian,” Crispin offered.

“Aye, that’s the one. Well, he went into hiding in Westminster. And the former lord mayor is said to remain in London.”

“That fool Brembre,” muttered Crispin. “He surely must believe no harm will come to him, and that London would be loyal to him.”

“You do not think that is so?” said Gilbert, pouring more wine into Crispin’s beaker.

“Surely you must sense it, Gilbert. The feeling in London is one of anger and betrayal. I fear they will not stand with Brembre. He is for the gallows for certain.”

Gilbert winced. Crispin knew he did not like such free talk. Even Crispin scanned the room immediately around them, but men seemed to be concerned in their own tight circles, probably discussing the same issues.

He turned to Jack. “What of Oxford?”

“Just as you feared, sir. Oxford retreated to his lands and is mustering an army.”

* * *

BY MID-DECEMBER, THE WORD had spread throughout London that Oxford would march on the city. The citizens hunkered down. The bitter cold kept most from the streets, but it was also the wait for a siege that made the lanes empty. Henry’s forces left the fields around London and set out for Oxfordshire while London cowered, waiting for news.

Crispin sat for hours by his window, staring through the crack in his shutter until Jack roused him with a touch to his shoulder to admonish him to eat his weak pottage.

At last, when the news came that Lord Henry had stopped Oxford’s army at Radcot Bridge, a collective sigh of relief came from the city. But Crispin knew it was far from over.

The commissioners’ armies returned to camp outside of London, making certain that all of the court knew they were there. The panicked city was in turmoil once more. Food was hoarded. Goods were scarce. Advent was a subdued affair.

Crispin watched by his window and was one of the first to hear the man riding down the Shambles. “The king retreated to the Tower!” he cried, his voice harsh with desperation.

Crispin pushed open the shutter and leaned down. “What’s that, man? What are you saying?”

He yanked on his reins and the horse turned, shaking its head. He looked up at Crispin. His face was sooty and his cloak was torn.

“The king and his retinue, sir. They’ve gone to the Tower and barricaded themselves within.”

Crispin’s fingers curled tightly around the edge of the shutter. “Why? What’s happened?”

“I don’t know, sir. But every able-bodied man must prepare himself. If I were you, I’d head to your parish church for prayer.” He kicked the horse’s flanks and hurried the beast toward Newgate, sending clods of muddy snow behind him.

Crispin pulled back inside, away from the harsh cold, and closed the shutters. He looked at Jack. “It’s begun.”

For days Crispin and Jack waited for news, for any kind of hint at what was happening. Occasionally someone would ride through the streets and call out a snippet here and there. But there was never enough. Nothing to pin any hope to.

Finally, they couldn’t stand it any longer. Crispin and Jack had burned the last of Henry’s wood anyway, and with cloaks wrapped tightly around them, they trudged over the frozen streets to the Boar’s Tusk.

Crispin settled in by the fire, with Jack on his right and an anxious Gilbert on his left. Men gathered in clusters, talking among themselves, peering over their shoulders. For the first time in Crispin’s life, he was on the outside along with every other citizen of London. He knew nothing of what was transpiring. He was not at the right hand of the duke or the old king, ready to take to the battlefield with them. He hated it. He hated not knowing.

The door slammed opened and everyone jumped. A page tore through the entrance with a wild face and fretful eyes. “He’s done it!” he cried. “He’s done it!”

Crispin, along with every man there, rose to his feet. His heart pounded in his chest.

Someone shoved a beaker of ale into the lad’s hand and he gulped it down in one. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and was suddenly swept up by the crowd and settled by the fire.

“What happened, boy?” someone asked.

His eyes searched the room, and when his audience had quieted, he took a deep breath. “The king. He’s come out of the Tower. They’re escorting him back to Westminster.”

“As … as the king?” Crispin finally asked. Every man in the place quieted, waiting to hear.

“Aye,” said the boy. And everyone breathed a sigh-Crispin, too, and was surprised at himself for it. “Henry of Lancaster-that is, Lord Derby-he and his lords went to the king to plead with him to return to good governance. But King Richard wasn’t pleased with them. They showed him letters from the earl of Oxford written to the French king, appealing to him to help Richard against his own people.”

The men growled at that.

The page held up his hand. “Aye, I know. Lord Henry’s lords were angered by that and it was said that the king was chastened by this news. They rebuked him. Said he was deceitful and dishonest.”

A man from the crowd leaned in toward the page. “They said that to him? To the king?”

“Aye, they did. I saw Lord Henry myself. His eyes were angry, but his voice was steady. He was on a white horse and his cloak was made of ermine. He looked like a king himself, did Lord Henry. He warned the king to correct his mistakes and that he was to rule better or else. He warned him that he had an heir of full age.”

The room gasped, and men turned toward one another, murmuring.

“What did the king say to that?” asked an old man by the page’s elbow.

Gilbert poured more ale into the lad’s cup and he drank again, throat rolling. When he set the cup down on his thigh, he leaned toward the crowd again. “He agreed to submit to their demands. He said he agreed to be guided by their wholesome advice.”

The page stopped talking and looked at all their faces. Some men murmured while others fell silent. No one knew what to think.

Until, almost as one, they all turned to Crispin.

He didn’t notice at first until Jack elbowed him. Scouring their anxious expressions, Crispin merely raised a brow at them. “I do not have the ear of the court,” he said quietly.

“But they say you speak to Henry of Lancaster,” said the old man beside the page. “And that he speaks to you. What can you tell us, Master Crispin?”

“I honestly don’t know. These tidings are as new to me as they are to you.”

Some clearly did not believe him, and before it turned to arguments and fights, Jack wisely took Crispin by the arm and pulled him out of the tavern.

They both said nothing as they returned to the Shambles.

They stayed in for the rest of the day, and at nightfall, they huddled beside the small fire, drinking the last of the warmed wine. Their feet, wrapped in extra stockings, were nearly tucked into the coals.

A rap on the door well after Compline made them look at each other. Jack hesitated. “Can’t be a client this late.”

“It might be. But I’ll get it. You … be ready.”

Jack unsheathed his dagger and stood behind the door. Crispin thought of unsheathing his own but decided against it.

When he opened it, he was glad he hadn’t.

Henry, looking tired and worn, hung in the doorway.

“God’s blood, Henry. What are you doing here?”

He staggered in and stood before the fire. In his hand he held a long wrapped bundle. “Have you heard?”