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Authors: Jeri Westerson
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ruse,” said Crispin, eyeing the man’s full beard while rubbing his own clean-shaven jaw.
“Keep your head bowed. I am all but ignored. No one sees me unless they must.”
Crispin digested this even as he unbuttoned his cloak. He handedthe garment to Jacob just as the old man passed his to Crispin. Crispin allowed a wave of discomfort before he spun the cloak over his shoulders and lifted his hood, hiding his face.
“The corridor by the Painted Chamber,” said Jacob before he hastened out of the courtyard. The Painted Chamber? That was in the royal quarters, by the king and Lancaster. Crispin’s heart thrummed in his chest. But he turned to Jack and urged him without words to follow the man. Jack grimaced his distaste but nonetheless followed.
Keeping his head down, Crispin walked like an old man, striding under the gate arch without the porter or any of the pages questioning him.
Glancing back, he snorted. So, the old Jew was right. He wasted no more time and headed down the familiar corridors toward the southern end of the palace. Crispin had managed to slip into the palace on other occasions, but after the latest incident with the king, he doubted his presence would be greeted with much joy.
Iron cressets burned, lighting his way, and there was occasional laughter muffled behind closed doors as he passed apartment after apartment.
He waited in the shadows, his hood heavy over his face.
A scuffled step. Crispin raised his head and saw both figures approaching; the older man and a reluctant Jack Tucker close behind him.
“This way,” hissed Jacob, and Crispin and Jack followed his quick pace.
Crispin had been curious as to what the apartments of a Jew would look like. A certain uneasiness warred within his gut. Would it be odd and foreign like the homes of Saracens in the Holy Land, full of exotic smells and strange furnishings? His heart quickened when the door opened, but as his eyes adjusted to the dark, the fact of a normal room melted away his apprehension to disappointment.
The hearth burned low. Jacob took a poker and urged the flames to life, adding a log. Crispin sneered at the wood in envy. He had no logs for
his
fire. Only peat and the meager sticks Jack bought from the wood sellers or managed to scavenge.
Jacob used a straw to light several candles. As the room glowed, Crispin glanced about. Bright drapery hung on the walls, giving the plaster a cheery appearance. Shadowed alcoves pricked Crispin’s curiosity, where tables with various beakers and bowls stood ready. Except for the numerous bottles and canisters and the odd smells emanating from that direction, the room looked to be as any ordinary physician’s parlor. A door to the left must have led to a bed chamber.
Not bad for a Jew,
mused Crispin grudgingly.
The chamber door opened suddenly.
Crispin’s hand reached for his dagger. A young man, thin and pale, stepped through the opening. At first Crispin thought him to be a page, but the yellow rouelle on his dark, ankle-length gown soon snuffed that notion. He wore a scarlet sash about his waist and from it hung a gold chain with a key, a money pouch, and a small dagger. A thick, gold chain on his chest seemed an attempt to hide the rouelle. The youth glared with narrowed, jewel-green eyes. “
Mon père
.” His voice was harsher than Crispin expected from his slight features. It was almost hoarse. His brown hair hung limply on either side of his cheeks down to the jaw. A dark cap perched on the crown of his head.
Jacob nodded toward the lad. “This is Julian. My son.”
The boy did not acknowledge his father, but continued his mistrustful stare at Crispin.
Jacob frowned. “Is this how I taught you hospitality? How do you treat guests?”
Julian gritted his teeth and shuffled to a table near the high window. He poured four shares of wine into bowls, bringing the first to his father. When he settled his own to his chest, he leaned against the wall and studied Crispin from
“Keep your head bowed. I am all but ignored. No one sees me unless they must.”
Crispin digested this even as he unbuttoned his cloak. He handedthe garment to Jacob just as the old man passed his to Crispin. Crispin allowed a wave of discomfort before he spun the cloak over his shoulders and lifted his hood, hiding his face.
“The corridor by the Painted Chamber,” said Jacob before he hastened out of the courtyard. The Painted Chamber? That was in the royal quarters, by the king and Lancaster. Crispin’s heart thrummed in his chest. But he turned to Jack and urged him without words to follow the man. Jack grimaced his distaste but nonetheless followed.
Keeping his head down, Crispin walked like an old man, striding under the gate arch without the porter or any of the pages questioning him.
Glancing back, he snorted. So, the old Jew was right. He wasted no more time and headed down the familiar corridors toward the southern end of the palace. Crispin had managed to slip into the palace on other occasions, but after the latest incident with the king, he doubted his presence would be greeted with much joy.
Iron cressets burned, lighting his way, and there was occasional laughter muffled behind closed doors as he passed apartment after apartment.
He waited in the shadows, his hood heavy over his face.
A scuffled step. Crispin raised his head and saw both figures approaching; the older man and a reluctant Jack Tucker close behind him.
“This way,” hissed Jacob, and Crispin and Jack followed his quick pace.
Crispin had been curious as to what the apartments of a Jew would look like. A certain uneasiness warred within his gut. Would it be odd and foreign like the homes of Saracens in the Holy Land, full of exotic smells and strange furnishings? His heart quickened when the door opened, but as his eyes adjusted to the dark, the fact of a normal room melted away his apprehension to disappointment.
The hearth burned low. Jacob took a poker and urged the flames to life, adding a log. Crispin sneered at the wood in envy. He had no logs for
his
fire. Only peat and the meager sticks Jack bought from the wood sellers or managed to scavenge.
Jacob used a straw to light several candles. As the room glowed, Crispin glanced about. Bright drapery hung on the walls, giving the plaster a cheery appearance. Shadowed alcoves pricked Crispin’s curiosity, where tables with various beakers and bowls stood ready. Except for the numerous bottles and canisters and the odd smells emanating from that direction, the room looked to be as any ordinary physician’s parlor. A door to the left must have led to a bed chamber.
Not bad for a Jew,
mused Crispin grudgingly.
The chamber door opened suddenly.
Crispin’s hand reached for his dagger. A young man, thin and pale, stepped through the opening. At first Crispin thought him to be a page, but the yellow rouelle on his dark, ankle-length gown soon snuffed that notion. He wore a scarlet sash about his waist and from it hung a gold chain with a key, a money pouch, and a small dagger. A thick, gold chain on his chest seemed an attempt to hide the rouelle. The youth glared with narrowed, jewel-green eyes. “
Mon père
.” His voice was harsher than Crispin expected from his slight features. It was almost hoarse. His brown hair hung limply on either side of his cheeks down to the jaw. A dark cap perched on the crown of his head.
Jacob nodded toward the lad. “This is Julian. My son.”
The boy did not acknowledge his father, but continued his mistrustful stare at Crispin.
Jacob frowned. “Is this how I taught you hospitality? How do you treat guests?”
Julian gritted his teeth and shuffled to a table near the high window. He poured four shares of wine into bowls, bringing the first to his father. When he settled his own to his chest, he leaned against the wall and studied Crispin from
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