Season of Blood

by Jeri Westerson

  FOUR

  Crispin awoke early. He was anxious to get to the inn and obtain more answers from the woman. He told himself it was because of the puzzle, not her features or the curve of her figure. Though, in truth, it had been too long without a woman’s comfort.

  Steady, Crispin. She’s a lady. He could no longer play the coy games of courtly love. His current status told him that.

  Jack entered his bedchamber and rattled his clay pots over the fire. Crispin examined the crystal monstrance again, turning it in his calloused fingers as he sat upon his bed. The liquid eased from side to side along the transparent surface. He ran a finger over the line of liquid and felt a tingle in his hand. Hastily he put it down, rubbing his fingers till the tingle subsided. He found himself looking up at Jack, who had stopped what he was doing to stare at Crispin.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ the boy asked.

  ‘Nothing. Is that water ready yet?’

  Jack pressed his chapped lips together and silently poured the hot water into a chipped basin. Bare-chested, Crispin walked to the brass mirror leaning against the wall on the mantel where he kept his meager soap cake and razor. While he carefully shaved, Jack stood behind him, his reflection distorted in the polished metal.

  ‘I know there is something about that relic,’ said Jack and, even though his voice was soft, Crispin nicked himself and cursed. ‘There always is. It means trouble, sir. Get rid of it. Now, before it’s too late.’

  Crispin continued passing the steel blade over the contours of his face, wincing when he nicked himself again. ‘It’s nothing. It is only some sort of blood. But as always, it is worth much. To someone. Keep it hidden while I’m gone.’

  ‘Where are you going? Aren’t I going with you?’

  Crispin cupped his hands and rinsed his face, feeling the stings of the cuts in the warm water. ‘I am going to meet Demoiselle Woodleigh. And you are staying here.’

  ‘Why is it every time we encounter a beautiful client I have to stay here?’

  ‘Tucker, is it your age or your temperament that makes you so insolent?’

  He crossed his arms over his chest. ‘Both, I suspect.’

  Crispin hid his smile in the linen rag he used as a towel. Jack, at eighteen, was becoming ever more of a handful. ‘Nevertheless, you are not going with me. May I suggest you use the time to practice your letters? Your Greek has never been as good as your Latin.’

  ‘Letters,’ he muttered and moved toward the fire. ‘I’m always learning me letters. I thought it would be more fun learning how to read. I didn’t know it would be so much tedious work.’

  ‘We cannot learn without pain.’

  ‘Sarding Aristotle,’ he grumbled.

  ‘Who has more to teach you. But only when you learn your letters.’

  ‘Why would a tavern keeper need Greek?’

  Crispin had just finished pulling up clean braies and tying fresh stockings to them. He stood, chilled without his chemise but staring at Jack. ‘I know your plans for Gilbert’s niece draw on apace, but … have you abandoned your quest to be a Tracker after me?’ He blurted it out. He hadn’t meant to. Jack’s future was his own affair and he had been gladdened that it was better than Crispin’s. But there was a pang of … something … in his heart when he realized Jack might move on without him.

  Jack took down the warmed chemise from its place before the fire and held it up for Crispin. ‘Who said I was abandoning becoming a Tracker?’

  Ducking his head into the chemise to hide his reddening cheeks, Crispin turned away from his apprentice. ‘Well … when you inherit the Boar’s Tusk you will not have time for such … trivialities. Such danger. You will have a family to see to …’

  ‘Master Crispin!’ The boy seemed exasperated. He rubbed at his beard, a new habit he had acquired since it filled out to a handsome feature on his maturing face. Even the freckles of his childhood seemed to have faded in favor of this new hirsute adornment. ‘But Master Gilbert leaving this earth is a long time in the future, sir. And anyway, I want to be a Tracker. It might not be as safe as a tavern keeper but it’s a fair bit more exciting, isn’t it? Isabel can run the tavern while I fulfill my vocation. It’s an honor, sir, finding criminals, righting wrongs. To follow in your footsteps, master, is all I ever wanted, all I’ve trained for. Don’t you want me to?’

  Crispin’s cheeks warmed further. He shrugged on his cote-hardie and began buttoning it. ‘Of course I do. And you are quite accomplished at it. I merely thought …’ He turned to Jack, observed his stoic expression and absorbed it at last. ‘Very well. There is sense to having a reserve career. You know very well that this one doesn’t pay well.’

  ‘Aye, sir. That’s what I was thinking. And I pray that Gilbert and Eleanor have a long and happy life. In the meantime, I have this important work to keep me occupied. When I marry Isabel, I will have an honorable vocation. It won’t pay much but maybe Isabel can take on another job to help. There will be three mouths to feed, after all. And before long … more.’ It was Jack’s turn to blush.

  Such changes. And just as he thought it, Gyb, the black cat with the white blaze and belly, dropped in from the windowsill. He strode across the floor, tail up, past Crispin and Jack and out of the chamber door.

  Crispin looked at Jack and they both smiled. ‘It looks as if someone has no stomach for our arguments,’ said Crispin.

  ‘Aye. That cat has the sense of it.’

  ‘Find something for him, will you, Jack. A saucer of milk, perhaps.’ Crispin secured the belt around his waist, checked his dagger and turned to his apprentice, who was as tall as he and nearly as robust. Still lanky with youth, Jack now cut an intimidating figure. Crispin sometimes could not reconcile that curious boy with the many freckles to this man who now stood before him.

  ‘I am gratified to hear your choice of vocation, Jack. Frankly, I don’t know what I would do without you.’ That made the boy’s cheeks blush deeper. Crispin looked around, somewhat embarrassed. ‘Well, then. You are a man now, Jack. It is up to you whether you feel you need to keep up with your Greek. I shall not force you to do it.’

  Jack looked resigned. ‘But as you always say, sir: A command of languages gives a man command of his life. I’ll be the best-educated tavern keeper in London, I reckon.’ He grinned.

  Crispin smiled back and slapped the boy on the shoulder. ‘That you will be, Jack.’ He left his bedchamber with Jack close behind him. They tromped down the stairs and Crispin grabbed his cloak hanging from its peg by the door. He looked at the sword scabbard hanging from its own peg beside it. He decided to wear it today. It was not often he wore the gift from Henry Bolingbroke, his former charge, but today he felt the need to look like someone worth trusting.

  He began to fasten it around his waist when Jack took it out of his hand and did it for him … as would any good squire worth his salt. The familiar weight of a sword at his side invigorated him. He pulled open the door. ‘Guard the relic, Jack.’

  ‘Yes, master,’ came the proud reply.

  Crispin trotted out into the street, his smile fading as he thought of the tingle in his hand. He rubbed that hand absently against his hip. Hadn’t he encountered the like before? Jack was right. Nothing good ever came from association with relics, at least not for him. It was damnable how they kept turning up at his door.

  ‘Forget what you think you know … Beware of what you find …’ The last words of his old friend Abbot Nicholas kept haunting him. What did they mean? The words always brought a chill rippling up his spine. Such words of caution could not bode well. A dying man’s words …

  He shook it off and raised his face to the sunshine. The air smelled fresh, at least now he’d left the Shambles. His mind lighted on the woman and he steeled himself. He’d be all business. Yes. He’d make his coin from her and that would be that. Simple.

  A shadowy figure trying to hide his face as he ducked into an alley caught his eye and Crispin swiftly changed direction in pursuit. The man started to run
in his queer, loping gait so it was a simple matter to catch up to him. Crispin snagged him by the collar of his ragged coat and yanked him back. ‘Lenny! What devilry are you up to?’

  Lenny shook off Crispin’s hand and pulled his coat to straighten it. ‘I’m not pleased to see you, Master Crispin, and that’s a fact! You done me wrong last we met, you did.’

  ‘I like that! Did you not perjure yourself in a court of law just to get your revenge on me?’ With sudden fury he drew his sword. Lenny cringed back, arms up.

  ‘Jesus mercy!’

  Crispin looked at his raised arm and cursed under his breath. What the hell was he doing? For one, Lenny wasn’t worth washing the blood from the blade. And for another, he certainly wasn’t worth the trouble he’d have with the sheriffs.

  Crispin sheathed the weapon smartly. He said nothing more, turned on his heel and marched up the avenue.

  Footfalls behind him.

  Crispin glanced over his shoulder at Lenny. He stopped again and turned. ‘Why are you following me?’

  Lenny clutched his coat. Though his old, disgusting coat had been long abandoned it looked as if his new one was on its way to mimicking the old with its stains, patches and strident odor.

  ‘So, we have little to say to one another.’ Lenny squinted up at Crispin before dropping his gaze to his dirty fingernails. He examined them with particular care, even biting a cuticle and spitting out the leavings.

  The gesture was familiar but the man seemed frailer than he used to be. His skin was pocked and threaded with lines. His eyes sat in dark hollows; little wonder with the life he lived on the street. Barely any hair or teeth left. Only God knew the age of the old thief. Lenny was an untrustworthy man. Loathsome in his disdain for any moral code. But he had proved useful in the past …

  Crispin could feel his resolve crumbling and he cursed again. He was a fool. A trusting, rash fool.

  ‘I might be persuaded to give you a fifth chance. It so happens that I might have a job for you. One that could possibly pay, say, a farthing a day.’

  Lenny licked his lips and his fingers rubbed his palms. ‘Eh? A farthing? A day? So you forgive me, then? Not that … er … that I did anything wrong. I just forgot, is all. Got confused. You know how it is when you get to be my age.’

  ‘Our Lord admonishes us to turn the other cheek. Can I do so without you stabbing me in the back?’

  ‘Oh aye, Master Crispin! I’d never do that. I told you you’d need old Lenny, didn’t I? I told you I could be useful.’ He gathered his filthy cloak about him. ‘Although, I’m finding m’self awful busy these days, awful busy. Suppose I should have a moment or two to take you up on this offer – not that I will, mind – but what if I did? What would I have to do?’

  ‘Follow me and I’ll tell you.’

  He drew back and seemed to shrink, folding into his raised shoulder. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To the Unicorn Inn on Watling Street.’

  ‘I’m not going inside. Besides, the innkeeper tossed me out last year, told me never to show me face in there again. He held a butcher’s knife when he said it.’ He rubbed his stubbled and blotchy neck.

  ‘You won’t need to go inside. You only have to follow me there.’

  ‘Is that all? Just follow you there?’

  ‘Well, there is a bit more to it but you won’t have to go in. There is someone I wish for you to follow.’

  ‘Oh aye,’ he said, wringing his hands anxiously. ‘I can do that. Old Lenny is good at that, isn’t he?’

  ‘Precisely why I thought of you. Will you come?’

  Crispin knew the man had already decided. The thief could always use coin and honest coin was better for his soul. Lenny nodded and gestured for Crispin to precede him.

  They walked together, not exactly side by side but close enough for Crispin to look over at the man as he loped along. The scarred skin where Lenny’s left ear had been was partially covered by his gray-brown hair and another tooth was missing from his sneer.

  At times such as these, Crispin marveled at the company he kept.

  The streets were already busy with the traffic of the cold morning. A young girl with a yoke struggled under her burden of buckets of water, sloshing some of it onto the frozen mud at her feet. Two apprentice boys – no more than ten years old – pushed a cart piled high with ceramic pots and jugs tied together precariously with rope. An old man used a stick to gently coax a boney ox with a ring in its wet nose through the streets, while a priest in dark brown robes cursed at him for leading such a bulky animal through the narrow lane.

  The street vendors with meat pies and roasted meat on sticks made Crispin’s belly rumble, but he ignored them as they turned the corner at Watling Street.

  The sunshine glowed on the pale face of the inn, though the courtyard stank from horse droppings. ‘Lenny,’ said Crispin, turning to the man. ‘If you wait across the lane you will see the lady I am looking after. She is the one I would have you follow. And I would like to know if anyone follows her.’

  ‘I get you, Master Crispin. Old Lenny can hide like a shadow, he can. And well you know it.’ Lenny beamed his portcullis smile. ‘Right, then!’ Off he trotted across the lane and, true to form, melded into the shadows.

  He entered the courtyard and pushed open the door to the inn. The innkeeper was a tall man with thinning sandy hair and a prominent nose. He was directing a boy to clean out the ashes in the hearth when he looked up and spied Crispin. His expression darkened.

  ‘Crispin Guest. You are not welcomed here.’

  ‘As much as Lenny,’ he muttered. ‘Peace, Master Hakeforde. I have no intention of starting a melee again.’

  ‘I never did get just compensation for my broken jugs and chairs.’ He pointed a crooked finger at him. ‘And if you think you will leave these premises without paying out, you’re either dim or mad. Will,’ he said to the boy, ‘fetch my butcher knife.’

  ‘Now hold, Master Hakeforde … and you, too, Will.’ The boy stopped in mid-stride. He had a smug look about him and an unpleasant glint in his eye that said he wouldn’t mind a show of blood. ‘I little recall the event in question’ – and he reddened still further reckoning the reason – ‘but I have every expectation of compensating you for your loss. It’s just, at the moment, I … well … I—’

  ‘I will pay Master Guest’s debt.’

  They all turned. Katherine Woodleigh stood on the last step of the staircase. Her smile as she looked at Crispin made his gut flutter.

  The innkeeper bowed. ‘My lady. So generous. But you do not know this knave. He’s a drunkard and gets into common brawls. He did so only a month ago and tore up my place. This is no alehouse, Guest,’ he sneered at Crispin.

  His words caused a hot surge of blood to heat Crispin’s cheeks. Though he wished to defend himself, he couldn’t muster the strength to dispute the man’s accusations.

  ‘I will pay nonetheless,’ said the lady, and handed the innkeeper several coins. ‘I hope this will suffice.’

  Hakeforde weighed it in his hand. ‘More than enough,’ he said. Bowing, he glared daggers at Crispin and made no move to leave. She waved him off and the innkeeper sullenly shuffled away, bowing backward out of the door.

  ‘That was … very gracious of you,’ said Crispin to the floor. ‘Too gracious. You shouldn’t have done that.’

  ‘I did not wish to complicate matters. He was best dispatched quickly.’

  ‘I do not need you to pay my debts.’

  ‘Clearly you do.’

  Clenching his fists, Crispin continued to stare at the floor. This is not how it should be! Being the Tracker meant that he decided what clients he chose. He made the decisions. Not some lord or lady throwing around their purses. He scowled and raised his chin. ‘I will repay you every coin.’

  ‘That is not necessary. But if you insist …’

  ‘I do!’

  They were both silent until Will returned with a broom and began sweeping in the far corner of t
he hall.

  ‘I would speak with you, my lady.’ Will eyed him with an unpleasant grin. ‘But perhaps not here.’

  ‘If that is your will.’

  He motioned her toward the door and they stepped out into the sunshine. Her floral scent of gilly flower touched Crispin’s nose and made him forget the last few moments. He couldn’t help but sigh at the remembrance of such genteel perfumes in the halls of Westminster.

  Mentally, he shook his head and looked at her again. ‘You are again without a lady’s maid. Perhaps you should call her forth.’

  ‘That will not be necessary. I trust you to be my escort.’

  ‘But …’ He could not make himself say aloud how entirely unsuitable he was for such an honor. A female courtier, even one not allowed to court, should not be alone with him. ‘My lady …’

  ‘There are more important things to discuss, Master Guest. We cannot worry over decorum at such a time.’

  ‘If you insist. Shall we go to an alehouse?’

  ‘Of course. There is one next door.’

  ‘I prefer another,’ he said. ‘If you will indulge me?’

  She quirked a brow but allowed him to lead the way back toward the Shambles. They turned at Gutter Lane and, under the sign of the curled tusk, they entered Crispin’s favorite haunt. Before he shut the door, Crispin looked behind on the street and spied a familiar form in the shadows outside.

  Even with the shutters open, the place felt close and smoky. He glanced at the woman but she didn’t seem to care. Questions about her and her family buzzed through his mind.

  Few patrons were in the Boar’s Tusk at this early hour, but Crispin knew the faces if not the names of the men who sat alone at their tables, a beaker of ale clutched in their hands and their sour, yellowed eyes staring into nothing.

  He motioned her to a bench while he slid onto a stool, his back to the wall with a view of the door, just as he preferred it.

  ‘Demoiselle.’

  ‘This place is special to you. You trust it.’

  The worn table caught his attention and he rubbed his palms across it. ‘An interesting observation. It is true.’