Season of Blood

by Jeri Westerson

  Both jumped at the sudden pounding on the wood.

  Crispin took a breath, tightened his grip on the hilt and pulled it open.

  A monk in a dirty white habit and long black cloak shouldered the doorway. His black cowl was drawn low over his forehead and he was looking down at his feet. From what Crispin could see of it, his face was ashen with dark circles under his eyes. His lips were gray and the fringe of dark hair around his head was plastered flat with sweat.

  ‘C-Crispin … Guest?’ he panted.

  The man staggered forward. Crispin stepped back just in time for the monk to tumble to the floor. It was then he noticed the sticky crimson patch between the wool-covered shoulder blades … and the knife still embedded there.

  The woman screamed.

  Something rolled out of the monk’s tight fist. A crystal, flat on one side and rounded on the other that looked suspiciously like something Crispin would rather avoid. But he tossed the thought aside and fell to his knees by the monk’s stilled body. He touched his neck, confirming his fears.

  ‘God have mercy. I’m afraid … he is dead.’

  His eyes slid toward the dagger and his gut did a little flip. Even with its smear of blood, Crispin easily recognized the jeweled pommel, the worn leather of the hilt. He had had close acquaintance with it too many times to count. There was no mistaking this dagger. It belonged to Simon Wynchecombe.

  He opened his mouth to tell the woman … to tell her … God’s blood! He knew not what to tell her. With a curse on his lips, he turned to say something, anything of comfort.

  But his door lay wide open, and the woman, along with the strange, circular crystal, was gone.

  TWO

  Crispin stared at the open doorway in disbelief. What had just happened? Had that woman – that unknown woman, he realized, having not yet gotten her name – stolen that artifact from the monk? The very dead monk now bleeding copiously all over his floor?

  ‘God’s blood!’ How a beguiling face could confound him! He vowed solemnly to never let such a thing happen again … but with another curse on his lips, he knew full well that it would.

  He rose from his crouching position and glared at the dead man as if it were his fault he had a knife in his back. For all Crispin knew, that might be so.

  A scuffle of steps outside told him he was not alone. With dagger in hand he peered out, expecting the killer but hoping at the very least that the woman had returned. Instead he saw his neighbor, the butcher Roger Lymon. He was slowly approaching Crispin’s door, scrutinizing with his candle held low the suspicious dark drops along the mud. His white fleshy face frowned, from the slender brows down to his round chin, grayed with a day-old beard.

  Standing at the threshold, Roger raised his eyes and caught Crispin’s gaze. ‘Crispin?’ he said. ‘What’s amiss? I heard a scream and then a woman flew by and … well. Me wife bid me investigate.’

  ‘I fear, Roger, that you will regret your decision.’ He gestured down with his knife just as the butcher reached the doorway.

  ‘Blessed Virgin! Crispin!’ He crossed himself and then clutched Crispin’s arm. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘I have done nothing but open my door. Trouble seems to find me.’

  ‘Is he … is he … dead?’

  ‘Very,’ said Crispin. He knelt again and studied the knife hilt. Yes, there was no doubt. He’d seen that dagger many a time. Mostly after Wynchecombe had cuffed Crispin so hard he had fallen to his knees, just at the perfect height to stare at the dagger hilt.

  ‘The sheriffs,’ Roger sputtered. ‘We shall have to call in the sheriffs. I hate the sheriffs.’

  Crispin agreed wholeheartedly. God’s blood, but this was shaping up to be a wretched evening!

  ‘If you could, Roger, go to Newgate and inform the sheriffs’ men. I would be much obliged.’

  ‘Me? Oh, no. I … I should probably stay here. Maybe you should go.’ He stared down at the bloody mess the monk had made. At least the blood did not bother the man.

  ‘I could go. However, the murderer may return to make certain of his handiwork. And where would that leave you?’

  Roger might be a big man hefting carcasses all the working day and slicing and chopping into them in a bloody display, but he was as timid as a mouse. He pressed his stubby fingers to his lips in thought. ‘I’ll go. You stay.’ The man trotted out of the door, the candle sputtering in his hand.

  Crispin watched him go with a mixture of dread and amusement before he turned back to his unwelcome guest. ‘First of all,’ he said, sliding to his knees again, avoiding the crimson puddle, ‘do I know you?’

  Gently, he grasped the chin and turned the man’s face. The mouth was slack and the chin was scratchy from an uneven shave. Pale blue eyes stared distantly. His brows were dark and thick. Crispin turned the face a bit more but did not recognize the man. Yet he had spoken his name, found his lodgings. He obviously knew of Crispin.

  By the color of the monk’s cassock, he recognized that he was a monk of the Cistercian order, the White Monks. He would have to suggest to the sheriffs’ men that the monk came from the Abbey of St Mary Graces. The Smithfield monastery was the only Cistercian house in London.

  He lifted the man’s hands and examined them, pushing up the sleeves to look at his arms. No, not a fight. The monk was plainly attacked from behind. Why would Wynchecombe do that? There had to be a reasonable explanation. The man was cruel and base but it was difficult to believe that Wynchecombe would go about haphazardly slaying monks.

  The sound of running feet made him cautiously peer around the jamb a second time.

  Jack Tucker’s ginger hair was a bird’s nest of curls and his pale, freckled face was flushed with exertion with matching pink spots on both cheeks. His beard was cropped close to his face, just as red as his hair. He lifted amber eyes to Crispin and smiled broadly. ‘Master! You’re home. Sorry I’m late. I lingered too long with Isabel Langton … until Gilbert chucked me out.’

  Crispin said nothing while sheathing his knife. He merely stepped aside for the boy but when Jack slipped through the doorway he jerked to a halt with a startled yip. ‘God blind me!’ he gasped. Falling back against the door, his eyes took in the knife, blood, and finally Crispin. ‘Master Crispin! You shouldn’t have done it.’

  He cuffed the boy with a huff of impatience. ‘I did no such thing, you knave. He came to me with that ornament in his back and had the poor judgment to die on my floor.’

  ‘’Slud.’ Jack straightened his coat and wiped his nose across his knuckles. ‘He came to you with a knife in his back?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Crispin thoughtfully. Now that the initial shock had worn off he began to feel guilty. The man was a monk, perhaps a priest, and he had been killed most foully. ‘It … it is a wretched thing, Jack. A horrendous murder.’

  ‘Did he tell you who?’

  ‘No. He spoke only my name. And he had with him a strange object. It looked like … it appeared to be some sort of reliquary.’

  Jack stared at Crispin. ‘Blind me. People do like to involve you with them relics, don’t they?’

  ‘Yes, they do,’ he muttered. A dark sensation hovered over him each time he contemplated the numerous times he had been involved so. It never led to anything good.

  ‘Then … where is it?’

  He sighed and leaned against the door beside the boy. ‘Stolen.’

  ‘What? Just now?’

  ‘Yes. There is more to the tale. And I had rather tell you before the sheriffs arrive.’

  ‘Why, sir?’

  ‘I’ll explain.’ But how? He felt like a fool. Letting the girl go. Not even getting her name! ‘There was a woman—’

  ‘There’s always a woman,’ Jack muttered.

  He felt like cuffing the boy again but refrained. ‘She came to me. Wanted to hire me to find her niece. She insisted that … er … a man was following her. Perhaps to do her harm.’

  Jack said nothing. His brows arched wide and he stole win
cing glances at the corpse on the floor.

  ‘She … uh … claimed the man was … was Simon Wynchecombe.’

  ‘’Slud,’ Jack murmured again.

  ‘And then this wretched monk appeared, carrying the reliquary which he let drop. And the next thing I knew, she was gone, as was the relic.’

  ‘So you let a woman steal from you.’

  Crispin grunted. ‘I did not let her. I had other worries on my mind at the moment,’ he said with a gesture toward the corpse. But the damnable thing of it was Jack was right. He had let the woman get the better of him. And that was never good. ‘Though, she did at least pay me for my trouble first,’ he grumbled.

  ‘That will go well when you’re carted off to Newgate, I reckon.’

  No, it wasn’t Crispin’s imagination. The boy was decidedly sharp-tongued of late. It would not do. Just because he was betrothed, the boy felt he was somehow superior to Crispin. ‘I believe I’ve had enough of that mouth of yours, Tucker, and if you know what is good for you—’

  ‘Aye, master. I beg your mercy. It’s just …’ He waved his hand toward the monk. ‘There’s a dead man on our floor,’ he whispered. ‘Again!’

  Crispin sighed. ‘And that is not the worst of it.’ He knelt and lightly touched the deeply imbedded blade. ‘This – I am certain – belonged to Wynchecombe.’

  Jack scrutinized the weapon for a long time before he let out a low whistle. ‘God’s teeth and bones, master, but I think you are right. What will the sheriffs do, do you think?’

  Crispin clenched his jaw. He grasped the hilt and yanked it out. A spurt of blood followed, sprinkling down upon the already bloody cassock and scapular. Jack squealed and fell back on his bum.

  Crispin thrust the dagger toward the boy. ‘Jack, wrap this in something and conceal it in yon coffer.’

  Jack stilled, staring at the bloody dagger and Crispin’s crimson hand. ‘But … that’s evidence!’

  ‘Against a former Lord Sheriff? I doubt that John Walcote and his equally fawning compeer John Loveney have the bollocks to bring in Wynchecombe. Even with evidence such as this. Take it, Jack. Make haste. I hear horses without.’

  Jack reached out with a reluctant hand and, taking a rag from the pantry shelf, did his best to wrap the dagger tight. He opened the coffer, dropped it in and slammed the lid shut. Looking down at his sticky red hands, he nearly tripped over himself getting to the bucket in the corner to scour his skin.

  The sound of spurred boots clanged up to his threshold and Crispin braced himself. He wiped his blood-sticky hand on the monk’s black cloak and stood just as Sheriff Walcote stepped over the threshold followed by his associate, Sheriff Loveney. Their eyes widened on beholding the dead monk. Roger slid through the door after them with a twisted mouth.

  ‘By God’s Holy Name,’ gasped Walcote. ‘Master Guest, what is here?’

  ‘A dead monk, my Lord Sheriff.’

  Walcote raised his thin brows. ‘I can well see that for myself. But why is he here in your lodgings?’

  ‘Yes,’ Loveney interjected. The slight, dark-bearded sheriff stood further back than the clean-shaven Walcote who hovered curiously over the body.

  ‘Master Guest, this habit of yours, encountering dead men … well! Something must be done.’

  Crispin nodded. ‘Yes, Lord Sheriff, but what?’

  Loveney moved closer and peered from behind Walcote’s shoulder. ‘What do you make of it, Master Guest?’

  ‘A murder, my lords.’

  Both sheriffs clucked their tongues.

  Loveney tended to defer to Walcote as Walcote had a temper. Crispin kept himself alert around him. The man was not above using the same tactics as Wynchecombe and Crispin bore the bruises to prove it.

  ‘So what is he doing here?’ murmured Walcote. He shook his russet-haired head and continued to study the corpse. ‘There is blood on his cloak.’

  Loveney remained slightly behind his companion and swallowed hard. He looked pale. ‘Indeed. What mayhem occurred?’

  ‘Stabbed in the back,’ said Crispin.

  Loveney whirled on him. ‘And how do you know that, Master Guest?’

  Crispin pressed his hands behind his back and turned from the body. He looked at Jack, who wore a terrified expression. ‘I am familiar with such wounds from many a battle, my lords. From the look of the tear in the cloak and the blood spattered about it, I must assume the blade landed just above the shoulder blades.’

  Walcote studied the monk’s back. ‘I suppose an examination will tell us for certain.’ He turned away from the corpse, gesturing toward Roger. ‘This man claimed that he heard a woman scream. Where is she?’

  ‘That was no woman,’ said Crispin, making his silent apologies to Jack. ‘That was my servant.’

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jack lurch forward in protest but the boy had the sense to keep silent. ‘Er … aye. That was me.’

  Walcote trained a calculated glare on Roger. ‘You said it was a woman.’

  Roger looked from Crispin to Jack. ‘Well … I … what I heard was …’ Crispin caught his eye and Roger screwed his face in concentration. ‘I suppose … it could have been young Jack here. My shop is two houses down, after all.’

  Walcote appeared to know he was being lied to but what could he say? His gloved hand massaged his smooth chin. ‘And so, a White Monk is dead on your floor. Can you offer any explanation, Guest?’

  ‘None whatsoever, my lord. The man sought me out, spoke my name as surely he has heard of me, but that was as far as it went.’

  ‘The coroner will arrive anon,’ said Loveney. He inclined his head toward Walcote and they both made for the door.

  ‘My lords,’ said Crispin. They stopped and glanced back at him. ‘Er … is that all? You will leave this now for the coroner?’

  ‘There is little left for us, Master Guest. Wait for him and do not move the body.’

  As if he needed reminding. Crispin bowed stiffly. ‘As you wish.’

  Walcote withdrew with a flourish of his cloak and Loveney sidled after him.

  Crispin waited until he heard them mount and ride away before heading for the door himself.

  ‘Wait!’ cried Roger.

  He paused.

  The butcher stared at the body nervously. ‘Where are you going?’

  Jack joined Crispin on the threshold; a look of relief brightened his face when Crispin made no move to object.

  ‘I’m going to investigate this murder, Master Lymon.’

  ‘But … the sheriffs told you—’

  ‘I’m certain you can give adequate testimony to the coroner when he arrives, Roger. At any rate, the coroner knows where he can find me should he need me.’

  ‘But that isn’t fair, Master Guest. I’m just a neighbor. I don’t know nothing about any of this.’

  He waved and left Roger still sputtering behind him as he and Jack set out along the Shambles. ‘Where are we going, master?’ asked Jack once they had left their friend behind.

  ‘Smithfield,’ he answered.

  Jack said nothing as he followed Crispin through the silent streets. At least the boy had learned to keep quiet near curfew. But Jack couldn’t seem to stand their hushed progress any longer. ‘Master Crispin!’ he hissed. ‘What’s in Smithfield?’

  ‘A Cistercian monastery. It must be the place our dead monk came from.’

  They headed the long way to London’s northern wall, to Postern gate, and managed to bribe the guard to allow them through. They cut across the dark, grassy expanse of Tower Hill, skirting the ghostly apparitions of sleepy sheep. The moonrise brightened the dim field and lit their treacherous path to Hog Lane. St Mary Graces stood humbly between Hog Lane and East Smithfield.

  ‘Master,’ whispered Jack when they’d reached the gate and the bell rope. ‘Isn’t it too late to call out them monks – I mean those monks? It’s after Compline.’

  ‘I realize that, Jack,’ he replied quietly. ‘But there is always a porter at the gate. Th
eir abbot will not wish to speak with me now. He will be under the Great Silence, but we have little choice.’

  ‘Can’t it wait till morning?’ Jack asked hopefully.

  ‘Very well. Shall we return and catch some sleep while that monk rots on our floor?’

  Jack shivered. ‘I’ll pull the rope, shall I?’

  Jack pulled more vigorously than was necessary and the bell seemed to peal far louder in the still of the evening.

  A nearby dog howled his displeasure.

  Crispin knew it would take a while and his dark thoughts took him back to the woman. Who was she? What part had she to play in this? And how the devil was he to find her! A hot flush crept up his neck, thinking of how she had stolen from him. Why had she done it? For protection? Simon Wynchecombe’s dagger was no illusion. It was very real and very perplexing. Why would Simon kill a monk? Surely he had a good reason. But a stab in the back? Even Wynchecombe had more honor than that! Yes, it was inevitable. Once he discovered what he needed to about this cleric, he would have to track down Wynchecombe.

  Even with the moonrise, the shadows deepened. With a sigh, he knew his questioning of the former sheriff would have to wait till morning.

  After what seemed like hours, a scuffling step echoed from the passage. A young monk appeared. His white cassock was covered by a black scapular. His black cowl framed his gaunt face and large eyes. He gave the appearance of a disgruntled magpie.

  ‘It is late,’ he whispered impatiently.

  ‘But it is urgent,’ Crispin replied. ‘I must speak with your abbot.’

  ‘He is abed. All are abed. And I have broken my vow by speaking to you.’

  ‘God will forgive you, brother. But the matter, as I said, is urgent.’

  The monk shook his head. He murmured a blessing in the air and turned away, retreating. Realizing he was to be left at the porch without entrance, Crispin raised his voice. ‘There is a dead Cistercian monk upon my floor.’

  The monk turned sharply. ‘What?’

  ‘Take me to your abbot, and I will explain.’