Jeri Westerson - The Demon’s Parchment

“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.

“That man,” murmured Jack when they had escaped to the street. He trotted after Crispin’s hurried steps. “Who was he, Master?”

“Giles de Risley,” Crispin grunted. “A peer of the court. An old friend.”

“Aye, I reckoned that much. But what did he mean about all that talk of a manor in Sheen?”

Crispin whipped around and bore down on Jack. “He was talking about my house, Jack! My ancestral home! The king sold it to him for some godforsaken favor.”

Jack blinked. “M-maybe he was lying-”

“No.” Would that he were. But Crispin knew it in his bones to be true. He couldn’t begrudge Giles, and if it had to be so, a friend within those walls was better than an enemy. Still, with the house lying empty it had almost seemed as if it were waiting for Crispin’s return. The last hope of his old life, the last gleam of redemption. But with his manor gone to Giles, his past was now forfeit.

Despair closed over Crispin like a dense fog, and all he knew was to get back to the Shambles as quickly as possible.

Jack followed but Crispin turned on him. “Go back to our lodgings, Jack. Await the messenger from the sheriff.”

“But Master Crispin, what of that Jew-”

“Go, Jack! I am in no mood.”

The boy knew when to flee and flee he did. Crispin watched him go with only half an eye. He wanted drink and plenty of it. Only this, he knew, could numb the approach of life’s many failures steeling upon him.

After a long walk, he returned to London, back to Gutter Lane and the Boar’s Tusk. He pushed open the door and sat hard in his usual seat. Ned brought him a drinking jug of wine without a word and Crispin set to drinking himself blind.