Jacob gathered his cloak and gown around him and sat gingerly on the bench.
It wasn’t long before a plump matron came to their table with a sweating jug in one hand and two clay bowls in the other. “Crispin,” she said with a wide smile.
“Eleanor.” Seeing her warm and friendly face touched off a spark of warmth within him. She and her husband, Gilbert, owned the Boar’s Tusk. They were the first to befriend him since he came to the Shambles some seven years ago.
“Will you share wine with me, Master Jacob?” said Crispin to the wary man.
Jacob shook his head and squinted at Eleanor’s expression. “I mean no offense to this good woman here, or to her establishment. But I may not partake of anything. . here.”
Crispin’s eyes flicked to that yellow rouelle on the man’s breast once more before settling on his lined and drawn face.
Flushed, Eleanor merely poured a bowl for Crispin and left the jug before she scooted away. Crispin surveyed the room of uneven wooden tables with their hard-worn benches and stools, scouting for familiar faces or eavesdroppers. Some tables were lit with candles, their greasy odor lifting and blending with the smells of toasting logs, roasted meats, and sweaty woolens. There were few patrons this afternoon. It was too cold to venture forth other than to earn one’s daily wage. Yet Crispin usually found himself in his favorite tavern each day. Little wonder his funds were low when he insisted on his wine.
He took up the bowl, silently saluted his companion, and drank. The wine was slightly bitter, but it didn’t matter. It warmed him and dulled the ache in his heart when he considered his empty money pouch and the depths he had to plumb to fill it.
Jacob hunkered in his robes and surveyed the other patrons with a wince of disdain. “We are quite alone, Master Jacob,” said Crispin between quaffs. He poured more into the bowl and set both jug and cup on the table, turning the cup slowly with his fingertips. “What is it you wish to tell me?”
Jacob canted closer to the table and placed both arms on its surface. He clasped his long, pale fingers together. “Maître Guest, I have heard many rumors as concerns you.”
“Could any of them possibly be true?” He smirked and drank another dose.
“I come from afar, Maître. But even I have heard of the Tracker. . a man who was once a traitor.”
Seven years had passed yet still he hated the term. He gripped the bowl. “Traitor I was, sir, though I do not boast in it. I am alive. I do not boast in that either, for that circumstance can surely change with the season.”
The man eased back. His eyes darted about the room, wary.
Crispin’s gaze fell again to the yellow patch on the man’s chest and could not help the welling of mistrust in his breast. “May I ask?”
Jacob sat very still. Robes gathered protectively about him, he seemed more chrysalis than man.
Crispin did not mince words. “Why is a Jewish physician called to England’s court?”
The man smiled cautiously. His gaze rested steadily on Crispin’s. “Why indeed? To a place where Jews are unwelcome? In fact, so unwelcome that your king made it illegal for Jews to reside here generations ago.”
“Yes.” An unnamed discomfort flushed Crispin’s body. The Jews of England were exiled well before his time and he had been spared congress with them. It was said they had lived in Camden, but if they had, there was little trace there now. What remained was the old Domus Conversorum on Chancery Lane, the place where the converted Jews lived under the grace of old King Henry of Winchester, the father of Edward Longshanks, who expelled them at last. Jews were outlawed from entering England and it was a just law, although there was the occasional new inhabitant to the Domus, those traveling Jews who had come to their senses.
Crispin had been to the Holy Land, seen Saracens and Jews, and their ways were too foreign, too disturbing to his Christian sensibilities. To be sitting with a Jew now in his favorite tavern made him itch to leave. Even so, the man’s demeanor was respectful and cautious. He seemed to know well how he stood and was almost amused by it. “And so,” Crispin pursued. “Why are you here? At court, no less?”
“My specialty was desired. If I may be bold,” he said, his white hand pressed to his breast and his head bowed. “My services are well known far from France. Your king has permitted me passage here to serve the queen.”
“Eh? I was not aware that our queen was ill.”
The man merely blinked. His rosy lips pressed closed and would divulge no more.
Crispin poured more wine, took up his bowl, and drank it down. The warm buzz he sought had settled pleasantly into his head. “And so, our King Richard allows a Jew to live in his palace.” And not me was the unspoken thought. He chuckled to himself. “I’ve no doubt that your services are more valuable,” he muttered. He put the bowl aside and squared with Jacob. “Then tell me. What would you hire me to do?”
“Your fee is sixpence a day?”
“Plus expenses, if I must travel.”
“Of course, of course.” Jacob stroked his beard and stared into Crispin’s wine bowl. The light flickered on its ruby surface. “Your discretion-”
“Have done with this,” Crispin growled. “You say you know me and my reputation. Then get on with it.”
The man nodded deferentially, a skill learned, no doubt, from the lessons of subservience. “Very well. Valuable parchments have been stolen from my apartments. They must be returned.”
“Valuable in what way? Deeds?”
“If only they were so mundane. But they are important, nonetheless. Can you help me?”
“Recover lost parchments? For sixpence a day, I will see what I can do. But it might help to know what they are.”
“Oh. .” He waved his hand and quickly hid it again under the table. “Texts. In Hebrew. You would not find them significant.”
“But clearly someone did. And you called it ‘dangerous,’ if I recall.” Jacob said nothing. He merely blinked, his papery lids folding over hazel eyes. “Some scholar who wished to examine them?” Crispin offered to the silence.
“Perhaps.” Jacob tugged on his beard again before he seemed to realize the habit and lowered his hand to his lap.
Crispin sighed. Lost parchments seemed more trouble than they were worth, especially for a Jew. But coin was coin. “I shall have to see your apartments. And to do that, well, it will be difficult. I must raise my fee and charge one shilling a day for my trouble.”
The man seemed startled. “Why must you see my apartments?”
“To examine the place from which they were stolen. From this I might garner valuable information.” He studied the quiet man and his stooped posture. “Out of curiosity, why have you not gone to either of the sheriffs with this theft? Or complained to the king, since you have his ear?”
“No. I have come to you.”
“That you have. But it does not explain-”
Jacob rose abruptly. “Come to the palace gate, and I will meet you there at nightfall.”
Crispin rose more slowly. The meeting was apparently over. “Very well. There is the warrant of my fee. .”
Jacob’s eyes widened and he wrestled with his robe for a moment before producing a small leather pouch. He placed it on the table between them. “There is four shillings’ worth of silver there. Till nightfall, Maître Guest.”
Crispin took up the pouch and clenched it in his fist. “Master Jacob,” he said with a curt nod of his head.
He watched the man hurriedly leave and looked again at the small pouch. He pulled out one coin and left it on the table for Eleanor. At least he had been able to pay his way today.
Upon returning to his lodgings, Crispin explained it to Jack, who had been glad to hear that Crispin was hired but was not as pleased to hear that the man was a Jew.
“You’re taking money from a Jew? Ain’t they the ones who crucified our Lord?”