Crispin Guest

Introductions

THE JOURNAL ENTRIES BEGIN HERE AND ARE READ IN DESCENDING ORDER.

 Saint Ignatius Day, in the eighth year of King Richard II 

Greetings. I know not why you have come to this journal. Perhaps you wish to discover my "inner workings". A futile effort. I know it is often women who seek to know a man in order to bend them to their will. And so. If that is your desire I pity you. Many women have tried, I assure you. At one time--many years ago now--I was protege to the duke of Lancaster and he found me a suitable wife. But... As you surely must know by now, that is now done with. I am no longer protege, I am no longer betrothed, and I am no longer the catch I once was. Although, I can still turn a pretty head. Yet, what woman of property would have me in my state. A single room above a tinker shop on the stinking Shambles. I have given up the dream of wedded life and it is just as well. I cannot raise sons in these surroundings. What would they inherit? The rats and dung of this London street? No. I am better off alone.

This is a pitiful entry, is it not? It was you who came to me, after all. I can not be responsible if you find it wanting. Besides, I am busy. I have been charged with finding a most unusual relic by an even more unusual client. The wife of a murdered merchant wants me to find a mysterious cloth with the face of Christ, something she calls the Mandyllon. Though I need the coin, I am not so certain she did not engineer the death of her husband. And yet. Something about her compels me, makes me act the fool. And I do not like acting the fool. But there have been so few women in my life in the last few years. She is...intriguing. More of this at a later time.         

Newgate and the Sheriff

St. Aldate's Day, in the eighth year of King Richard II 

Today I am recovering from another audience with that execrable sheriff, Simon Wynchecombe. If he were a man of honor, if he were capable of fulfilling his obligations, there would be little complaint. But he finds his satisfaction in tormenting me. To what end? It is my contention that he must belittle me to raise himself up. For what is he but an alderman, a man of business who must serve the king in this appointment for no fee at all. Surely this irks his business sensibilities. Though I happen to know right well that he "extracts" enough fees from the poor souls who find themselves in Newgate under his tender care that he is well contented.

Newgate. I shudder each time I approach. But approach I must for this is where the sheriff's business is conducted. And yet, I spent a fair amount within those wretched walls myself almost a lifetime ago when I was first captured for treason against Prince Richard, now the king. But we shall not dwell on those circumstances today. It is enough to say that I had my stay at Newgate and that my own vocation as a "private sheriff" makes it necessary to continue to attend the Lord Sheriff on those premises.

My jaw still aches where he struck me. As I said, he finds his pleasure in belittling me, which more often than not means I am his quintain to batter...

Jack is pestering me again. Eleven years old and he no better than a fishwife. He fusses over me until I scowl and set him back at his place. But resilient is young Jack. He simply shrugs me off and continues his harrangue while he serves me my supper. If I wanted a wife I'd... No matter. I will talk of Jack Tucker at a later date.

It is the sheriff that bends my mind today. It goes without the saying that he despises me--a mutual affection--but that he must tolerate me because I am the cleverer. Indeed, he sometimes hires me to solve crimes that baffle him. And yet, even should I earn my sixpence a day, he garners the credit for my hard labor. There is little I can do. By the circumstances of eight years ago, the sheriff is now my better, not I his. I sometimes wonder how I appeared to those below me. Was I as arrogant and brutal as Simon Wynchecombe? Did I belittle and berate? I content myself with the thought that I did not. But Time has a way of softening our memories. I look at Jack, still innocent of heart even after his four years as a beggar and thief on the streets of London, and I wonder if he sees me as I see Wynchecombe. But no. He would not stay in my keeping were that true. Jack is like a wild creature, never quite to be tamed. If he were dissatisfied, even though the only wage he earns is a roof and meager food, he would leave. In truth, he is here so seldom. I shudder to think what mischief he is up to on his own.

Jack is pressing wine on me to soothe my brow. I take it. It is not good wine but it is wine. A weakness. Were I to spend my halpens on ale instead we would not be as indebted to Gilbert and Eleanor, the tavernkeepers at the Boar's Tusk...and my friends. But my wine is my concession to those long ago days. I drink and it helps me forget today in the murky memories of yesteryear.            

The Boar's Tusk

How many  hours has it been? I do not know how long I have been at the Boar's Tusk. Or how many bowls of wine. What does it matter? As long as I have the coin, it is no one's business.

Eleanor is talking to Gilbert again. She looks my way and ticks her head...God's blood! Gilbert is coming over--

Ah. Never mind. Gilbert has a good soul. He sat across from me and made as if to scold me. Instead, he nodded and said very quietly, "While Eleanor watches, I am supposed to admonish you that you have drunken too much. Nod at me as if I were telling you some sage advice." And so I nodded.

Gilbert stayed a while until Eleanor was satisfied and then he rose. "For the sake of the wife," he told me, "do finish up and go back to your home, Crispin."

I nodded as I filled the bowl again. He scowled at me and left the table. I watched him depart for the kitchens. Gilbert is my friend. My friend my friend. So is Eleanor but she is a woman. She doesn't understand like a man can.

The wine is sour in my mouth. Or is it merely my mouth. When I am here I can forget. Yet being here, I am reminded that I am here and cannot leave here even if I do leave.

I read that last sentence again and confounded myself.

I'm drunk. Must be. When nothing makes sense and is at once the most profound philosophy I have ever heard...then I must be drunken.

It is safe here. My haven. If Eleanor ceases to curse me with her scowl. Ha! I shall ignore her--God's blood! There goes the ink. No wait, I have managed to salvage most of it. It comes so dear. The parchment even dearer. Why do I waste the money? The money the money. It all concerns money i do not have nor can earn but what does it matter matter natter patter...

Geoffrey isn't the only one who can rhyme.      

This is a vexxxing task, this murder. Who killed him who killed him and why kill him and where is my money     money     how i hate the sight of it

Jack. Jack's come to fetch me. I like Jack. He's a good boy. Good bouy Jack. He tries to yank me to my feet by I am still writing writing writing helps me think go home and think and sleep go home____________

Jack Tucker

St. Trumwin's Day, in the eighth year of King Richard II 

I reread yestereve's entry and was mortified. I should never take quill to parchment when in my cups. I apologize for that. Still worse is the waste of parchment. When I need to write down my thoughts, my wax slate is more appropriate and more affordable.

I sit by my meager fire in my lodgings where Jack sits on the floor, mending one of my stockings with a broken bone needle. He squints at his work, using a different color thread for the task. He is no tailor but it needs the mending and he has offered to do it on his own.

Often, when he is unaware, I study Young Jack, wondering of his history. He speaks little of it. My guess is that he is eleven or twelve years of age. He himself is not certain. A blunt nose, wide smiling mouth, and pale features sprinkled liberally with freckles. His wild ginger hair hides mischievous brown eyes. He is a handful. He told me he was orphaned when he was eight and took to the streets at that time. A beggar and an accomplished thief, I came across Young Jack several months ago when I was in the Boar's Tusk, preoccupied by a bowl--hmm---by many bowls of wine. I had fallen asleep, in fact, when I felt a tugging at my all but empty purse. I had just opened my eyes when the flash of a knife snipped it cleanly from my belt. I gave no alarm at first, merely contemplating the strangeness of the situation. I could see him from under my arm as I lay with my cheek on the table. It was quite late and few patrons remained. The stealthy cutpurse made his way to yet another drunken stranger and took his purse as well before he slipped out the door.

Naturally I pursued and caught him, returning my purse to where it belonged and returning the purse to the other fellow. Little had I known that this encounter would lead to a murder investigation. But that is no matter. It was later when the sheriff summoned me and I was presented with the murderer: Jack Tucker! Of course he wasn't guilty and I disabused the sheriff of that fact right quick. Released, Tucker's gratitude was more sustaining than I had stomach for and I tried to send him on his way, but to no avail.

I have been saddled with him ever since.

And yet. Was ever a man more blessed to have such a loyal servant? For I cannot pay Jack for his service. I share my food and my lodgings, for that is all I can provide. I suppose it is better than the gutter. But what future could there be for Jack when his master has no future of his own?      

London

London. Civitas Londinum. My home. A sprawling city with a bustling population. Shall I describe my immediate environs? We must begin with St. Paul’s. It sits upon a hill, rising above the city. Its steeple pierces the sky like a finger pointed towards God, sharp and slim and rigid. Her bells resonate and cut the days into small portions: First it is Prime and then Terce and then Sext until Vespers soothes the day toward the horizon and settles it into the cloak of evening. Within its stone nave, scribes seek business with merchants and officials. Law clerks and serving men alike pace the tiled floors, seeking employment. I, too, wore away the tiles in search of coin many years ago before I found the vocation that suited me best.

That is the commerce of St. Paul’s, and would Jesus not weep to see it. But a church is a public place, like a tavern, and if men must meet, then what greater roof has he than the arches of God?

To the north crossing at an angle from east to west is Paternoster Row, were the cluster of shops of paternosterers congregates in St. Paul’s shadow. But I rarely wile away my time there amongst the beaders. It is further north, and the corner of Paternoster and Cheapside that I traverse with frequency. For up the road is the turn to Gutter Lane, my second home and the place where the Boar’s Tusk can be found. Pissing alleys tear off this main road and the vulgar men of London find their way to the Boar’s Tusk or worse in this part of the parish. When I stagger home at nightfall before the Watch can delay and fine me, I journey west up Cheapside where it becomes the Shambles.

The butcher stalls reek the streets with the smells of butchering, but a man can grow accustomed to anything as long as he has a roof over his head. My roof lies somewhere in the middle of the row, in a room above a tinker shop wedged between a butcher and a poulterer. The lane narrows at the tinker shop and curves away from view as he heads farther west. The houses and stalls lean against one another, as if sharing a secret amongst old gossips. Their second and third floors are jettied out over the streets, leaving the muddy lane often in shadow. My lodgings have a private entrance with a stairwell that slants upward in the shadow of the buildings on either side. It was one of the reasons I chose this location. The other was my purse. It was all I could afford. But my landlord—the tinker Martin Kemp—is a kindly man, if not a bit uxorious of his pig-faced wife Alice. It is bearable.

Should I travel west on the Shambles I encounter Newgate Market with its many stalls and burgesses before the avenue opens wide for Newgate itself, tall, proud, frightening. Its heavy oak gates banded with iron and crenellated towers giving no quarter. I was imprisoned there myself. I do not care for its walls, but I must do business within with the sheriff.

Mmm. I wish to forget Newgate for a time and picture the better scenery of London. The Thames, glittering in the sun, boasts of sleek skiffs and pointed sails skimming through its waters. It cuts the city in half. The northern shores are bright with commerce and churches and cathedrals, but in Southwark—the southern banks—Cock Lane and the stews of London can be found where a man can slack a thirst of another kind. He can traverse across London Bridge if he keeps to daylight hours, for the Bridge is a city within a city with its gates and shops. If a man does not wish to pay the toll, he might offer a halpen to a ferryman to get him across. And in the dead of night, there are such ferrymen who risk fines to take men across while others sleep.

There have been occasions where I have made use of these men as well.

There is much about the city to disparage, but London is alive as no other city in England, and I have been to many. I would not trade London for the richest empires nor others who claim their streets are lined with gold. It is not gold London is lined with, but it serves a place in my heart that cannot be measured on a scale. I am London raised, and I have no doubt, that in London I shall someday die. But as long as I draw breath, I shall do my utmost to keep her safe and sound. If not the jewel of England, it is at least her crown.