Season of Blood

by Jeri Westerson

  He folded his arms and shivered, realizing suddenly that he had forgotten his cloak. But as he turned to march back down the lane, he noticed a man in the shadows, trying to make himself invisible against a wall. He looked familiar, and when John squinted the memory came into focus as well. He stalked toward the man, who looked as if he was trying to decide in which direction he should dart away.

  But Nigellus was there, too, and they both cornered him.

  ‘You’re Leonard Munch,’ said Nigellus, an accusing finger pointed at him. ‘You lied about Master Crispin when you were a witness at his trial.’

  ‘Oh, I remember you,’ said John.

  Lenny sneered. ‘And I remember you, right enough.’ He spat, nearly at John’s feet. ‘You’re the one that dresses like a lass.’

  John raised his chin. ‘So I am. What are you doing skulking about here?’

  ‘I don’t have to tell the likes of you two, do I? Isn’t any of your business, is it?’

  John snorted in disgust and whirled away from him in a swirl of his skirts.

  ‘Oi! Are you by chance looking for the lady?’

  John stopped and Nigellus nearly ran into him. They both turned and glared at Lenny. His greasy hair was stuck to the side of his face and his disgusting coat was frayed and torn. He postured with false dignity.

  ‘There now,’ he said, pulling on his mantle. ‘Didn’t think I knew, did you? Didn’t think old Lenny knew what was what. Ha! You don’t know aught. For instance, you don’t know that Master Crispin hired me to watch the lady. And I done it. And I seen her.’

  ‘Did you see where she went?’ asked Nigellus anxiously.

  Lenny smiled a toothless grin. ‘Maybe I did and maybe I didn’t.’

  John grabbed him by the shirt and balled it up in his fist. He tried to forget how badly it smelled as he peered into the rustic’s face. ‘Harken, you rascal.’ His voice was low and threatening, just enough so that Lenny alone could hear. ‘I know all about you. And if you think I am going to pay you one farthing for this information that Master Crispin is paying you for, you are very much mistaken. Now you have exactly to the count of three to tell me or I shall throttle you right here on the street. One …’

  ‘Here now!’ He swatted ineffectually at John’s hand. ‘Let me go! Blind me, but you’re stronger than you look.’

  ‘Two …’

  ‘Mercy, Master Rykener! I’ll tell you.’

  John didn’t let go but he slackened his grip.

  ‘She … she went toward Candlewick.’

  ‘And what business had she there?’

  ‘She gone there many a time. I seen her. Went stealing over the rooftops, she did. Skirts and all. Secretly watching Master Wynchecombe’s house.’

  ELEVEN

  ‘So that monk thinks all these men were bewitched by Sybil Whitechurch,’ said Jack as their horses left the abbey well behind them. ‘And him, too, by the sound of it.’

  ‘Yes. She would seem to be a singular creature, this niece.’

  ‘You best steer clear of her, master. You do have a weakness for the ladies, after all.’

  Crispin whipped his head toward his apprentice and caught the tail end of a smile on his lips. He gave him a sharp look in warning but said nothing.

  ‘It still don’t explain why that monk came all that way to you in London.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t.’

  ‘And now we must face Katherine Woodleigh with the information that her niece is … well. A tart.’

  ‘I do hope you do not intend to put it to her in quite that manner.’

  ‘’Course not, master. I have more aplomb than that.’

  ‘I am happy to hear it.’ But Crispin felt compelled to think on that himself. It could very well be that whatever mischief had transpired, Sybil Whitechurch was the instigator. Did she incite Wynchecombe to kill for her? It was a possibility. Women have done so before. Even gone to war. Would Katherine Woodleigh accept that pronouncement? In the end, she might have to. But in the meantime, he very much wanted to talk to Simon Wynchecombe, and hoped he had returned to London by the time Crispin got back.

  The horses, too, seemed anxious to return. Crispin noticed their tread was quicker, their step livelier as they took the road back. He led them on a narrow path that cut through a plain, hoping to shorten their time on the road. Jack stopped his horse to gaze at a strange, long mound.

  ‘I heard of this, sir. It’s called Belas Knap. It’s a fairy barrow.’

  Crispin eyed it, running his gaze along the long, indistinguishable mound. It didn’t look particularly auspicious to him. ‘A fairy barrow? Now, Jack.’

  ‘You may very well mock,’ he said, affronted.

  ‘I might,’ Crispin murmured.

  ‘But the monks told me how folk go missing ’round about here. Say it’s the fairy folk stealing them away.’

  ‘Preposterous. Have you ever seen fairy folk?’

  ‘Just because I haven’t seen it doesn’t mean I can’t believe. Isn’t that what St Augustine says?’

  ‘It was our Lord Jesus who said it, Jack.’

  ‘Well, now. All the more reason to take it to heart.’

  Crispin snorted. ‘You have the better of me.’

  Jack gazed at it for a while before he shivered. ‘Makes me come all over in goose flesh. They say that if you see the fairy folk they lead you to their barrow and there’s a great feast. But you mustn’t eat anything they give you, nor have any drink.’

  Amused, Crispin eyed his nervous apprentice as he scanned the mound. ‘And why is that?’

  ‘It bespells you, is why. You can’t leave after that. And then they make you dance with them, and you dance till you drop dead.’

  ‘Fairy folk don’t seem very sensible.’

  ‘They don’t have to be, now, do they? They’re fairy folk.’ Jack halted his horse and cocked his head, listening.

  ‘What are you doing now?’

  Jack held his hand up for silence and put his other hand behind his ear. ‘Do you hear that?’ Jack whispered.

  Crispin listened but all he could hear was the wind rushing through the trees, the trickle of water somewhere, the snuffling of the horses and the creak of their saddles. ‘I don’t hear anything.’

  ‘Music. Muffled music … in the barrow!’

  Crispin turned his ear toward the mound. He heard nothing. Or did he? Was that the wind rattling through the tree branches or was it the faint sound of a shawm and tabor?

  He shook himself and lifted his head. ‘Curse you, knave. You’ve nearly got me believing it. Come, Jack.’

  ‘Gladly, sir.’

  It must have been the lay of the countryside, the barrow, the surrounding woods, for Crispin could swear he heard another set of hoofs. Fairy folk? The Unseelie Court on their rounds? Must be the echo of our own horses, he mused. A better explanation. He turned on the saddle, bracing a hand on the horse’s rump and looked behind, expecting the sight of a man on horseback. No one back there. He shrugged and returned forward.

  But after more miles, he still heard it. Now Jack’s got me thinking of fairy folk! But he was a practical man and fairy folk didn’t play well in his imagination. Someone following them did.

  ‘Jack,’ he said casually. ‘Tell me, with your ears peeled, do you hear another’s tread?’

  ‘Eh?’ Cocking his head like a dog, Jack listened, pushing his hood away from one ear even as he looked behind. ‘I don’t see no one.’

  ‘Neither do I, but I do hear them.’

  ‘Aye. I do, too, now. Shall I nip back and investigate, sir?’

  ‘Yes. But be stealthy about it. Go the long way around, through those woods.’

  Jack kicked his heels into the flank of his beast and trotted up the rise to the clump of trees along the ridge. Crispin urged his mount slowly forward, not wishing to forewarn anyone who might be following.

  If they were behind, he reckoned they must be skirting the woods to his left. He kept half an eye on its shadows but
couldn’t see anything.

  His horse moved on and meandered along the main road. But after almost an hour, there was no sign of Jack, nor of the owner of the mysterious hoof falls. As afternoon stole over him and he neared the inn, he worried that Jack still made no appearance. Had their shadow attacked his apprentice? He looked back, saw no one and grunted. Deciding, he turned his horse. ‘Where is that rogue?’ he muttered, kicking the beast’s flanks. Back over the road, over a rise and toward a copse. He kept his ears sharp but the shadows were lengthening, making discerning the wood for the trees difficult.

  His head jerked sharply to the right and he drew his sword at the same time a horse cleared the brush with a breaking of branches. Jack pulled his beast to a skidding stop and looked up, surprised at the drawn sword. ‘It’s only me,’ he said, amused.

  Not as amused, Crispin snapped the sword back in its scabbard. ‘Where the hell were you?’

  ‘Stalking someone, master. But he’s a stealthy bastard and he got away from me.’

  ‘Did you see him?’

  ‘Naw. Just the tail end of a horse disappearing into the wood. Highwayman, I’m thinking.’

  ‘Likely.’ He peered back the way they had come, eyes narrowing. ‘Well, we are close to the inn. Let us to it. I’m starving.’

  They clambered down the rise to the main road again and presently came upon the inn. When they had eaten and returned to their room, they doused the light. Stealthily, Crispin opened the shutter a crack and looked out. No one had come to the inn after them and, if they continued to follow, smoke from a campfire might be visible over the treetops. But there was nothing. Either they did not light a fire or their mysterious horseman had been a highwayman as Jack said. Still, there was the other possibility that it had all been innocent. A traveler who had not wanted to encounter them.

  He let it go, closed the shutter and hunkered down in the curtained bed to sleep.

  In the morning, after a quick repast, they were both anxious to get back on the road. The wind whipped up, tossing the still-empty tree branches like clattering bones. They wrapped their cloaks about their shoulders and closed their hoods over chilled faces, speaking very little. Crispin could hear no more hoof beats behind them, either because the wind was so loud or no one was tailing them.

  Another day passed, until late afternoon on the third day saw them approaching the gates of London.

  ‘Oh, it’s good to be home at last, master.’

  Crispin nodded. His horse plodded down Holborn. Newgate was in sight. They’d drop off the horses and report to the sheriffs. What would the sheriffs think of their less-than-helpful journey? Well, best get it out of the way.

  They road in under the portcullis arch and dismounted. One of the pages took the reins. Jack lumbered away from the horse, rubbing his backside, and offered Crispin a sheepish grin. ‘It takes getting used to,’ he said.

  Once the horses were led away, another boy took Crispin and Jack to the sheriffs’ tower room where the sheriffs’ clerk announced them.

  John Walcote was writing at the desk and John Loveney was looking over his shoulder. Loveney studied Crispin with narrowed eyes but Walcote didn’t bother raising his face from the page. ‘What is it, Guest? What have you learned about that damned dead monk?’

  Such a difference from their excited anticipation from a sennight ago, Crispin mused. They couldn’t wait for him to leave and do the work for them then.

  ‘My lords,’ he said, bowing. Only Loveney watched him curiously. ‘What I have learned … is precious little.’

  ‘That’s not like you, Guest,’ said Walcote, quill scratching carefully over his parchment.

  ‘Lord Sheriff, I wish I could offer you more. But there was little evidence for me to go on. Except …’ He glanced at Jack and made the decision. ‘My lord, it has come to my attention, that perhaps a former sheriff has something to do with … these occurrences.’

  The quill stopped and Walcote slowly looked up. ‘What?’

  Jack took a discreet step back toward the door. Maybe that was a good idea.

  Crispin cleared his throat nervously and scuffed the floor with his boot. ‘A former sheriff of this office is likely involved in some way. It is not known quite yet how involved he was.’

  Walcote rested his arms on the table and Loveney leaned forward. ‘Guest, what the hell are you playing at? What nonsense is this? What former sheriff?’

  Taking a breath, Crispin steadied himself. ‘Simon Wynchecombe, my lords.’

  ‘Simon Wynchecombe?’ Walcote leapt from his chair and scrambled around the table. ‘This has got to be the worst. Oh, I’ve heard about you and Wynchecombe. Don’t think I haven’t. This is your revenge, eh? You think you will accuse him of murder? You think you will use us to do it?’

  ‘You’ve wasted our money, Guest,’ said Loveney. ‘Ha! Maybe you didn’t even go to Hailes.’

  ‘My lords! Do you accuse me of lying?’

  ‘There’s no other conclusion I can draw,’ said Loveney. Toying with his dagger hilt, he rested against Walcote’s chair back.

  ‘I can well assure you, my lords, that I was the guest of the abbey, that I investigated, questioned and came to the conclusion that the evidence suggested Wynchecombe’s involvement.’

  ‘Proof, Guest?’ Loveney shook his head, a disgusted expression marring his face. ‘Petty revenge is so unbecoming.’

  ‘His dagger was in the man’s back!’ cried Jack.

  Crispin turned to glare at his apprentice. Jack realized his mistake immediately, clamping a hand over his mouth. It was much too late.

  Walcote swooped down on Jack, walking him backward into a corner. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I … I …’

  Walcote grabbed Jack by his collar. ‘Repeat what you just said, knave.’

  ‘Lord Sheriff,’ Crispin interjected. ‘Please allow me to explain.’

  Walcote glared daggers at Jack before letting him go. His eyes swept over Crispin with an accusatory expression. ‘Well?’

  ‘When the monk from Hailes arrived at our door … he did have a dagger in his back. And I recognized it as belonging to Simon Wynchecombe.’

  Walcote ruminated before sliding his glance toward Loveney. ‘And where is this alleged dagger now?’

  ‘In my lodgings.’

  Loveney guffawed. ‘As usual, Guest, your reasoning is fouled. He could easily have given the dagger away to a servant, who could have sold it. This is not evidence.’

  Crispin knew it would be sufficient to hang him if the circumstances were different. But he said nothing.

  Loveney chewed on his lip. ‘Why did you not present this evidence before now?’

  ‘Before his apprentice spilled it, you mean,’ sneered Walcote.

  Crispin shook his head. ‘I knew that such evidence would be hard for you to believe.’

  ‘And it is.’

  ‘I wanted more proof – if any – before presenting it to you, my lords.’

  ‘And you have found none.’

  ‘Well, Master Wynchecombe has estates near Hailes and has been a patron to the abbey. I, er … I’m also investigating a possibly related situation in which Master Wynchecombe might have stolen away with a young lady, a woman who was also a resident of Hailes. I was hired, in fact, to find the two of them.’

  Walcote sputtered. ‘More and more outlandish! See how he tries to hide his true motives.’

  ‘I have a client staying at the Unicorn Inn on Watling Street, my lords. She has paid me to find her niece, one Sybil Whitechurch of Hailes, whom she claims ran off with Master Wynchecombe.’

  ‘But Wynchecombe is married,’ said Loveney.

  ‘I know.’

  Both Loveney and Walcote seemed to arrive at the bitter conclusion at the same time. Loveney sidled up to Walcote. ‘This is ghastly! Do we believe Master Guest in this?’

  It stole across both their faces. Seldom had Crispin been wrong, and they knew it. But this was not information they fancied hearing
. ‘I, for one,’ said Walcote, ‘would like to see this so-called evidence. Guest, you will bring that dagger to me forthwith.’

  He bowed. ‘Yes, my lords.’ He spun on his heel before they could say anything else.

  He was out from under Newgate’s arch and heading up to Newgate Market before Jack finally caught up to him. The lad dragged his leaden feet. ‘Master Crispin, I’m so sorry. God’s teeth, I never meant to say anything. But they were talking such rubbish to you—’

  ‘As they always do, Jack. Well, it makes no nevermind now. The milk is spilt. Let us get the dagger and be done with it.’

  Newgate Market soon enough became the Shambles. He held his anger in check. Jack’s mistake was one that Crispin might have made in his own anger. They were baiting him as every sheriff he had ever known had done. It was Jack’s inexperience that had allowed the matter to get out of hand. Ah, well. He couldn’t hold onto the damned thing forever. Maybe it was a good turn that the cat had gotten out of the bag. The sheriffs might yet believe him and then the investigation might go more smoothly.

  Crispin reached for his key when they neared the old poulterer’s that they called home, stepped up the granite step and turned the lock.

  The place always smelled of chickens when he had absented himself from it for a few days. He supposed it had permeated deeply into the old timbers.

  It was also dark and cold. Jack hurried past Crispin to light the hearth with flint and steel.

  Stepping toward the coffer where the dagger was kept, Crispin could hear Jack striking the flint, cursing when a spark failed to ignite the bit of straw and fluff he used as kindling. But it was the faint scrape of a boot on his floor that caught his ear, and he stilled. In the darkness of the gloom, something stirred in the far corner.

  His sword was out just as the spark caught. Light and steel both flashed in the darkness and Jack’s exclamation of satisfaction was temporarily quashed by Crispin’s own shout. ‘Who is there?’

  Jack jerked back and pulled his dagger, standing at Crispin’s shoulder.

  A tall figure moved in the shadows. With hands raised, he slowly emerged into the sparse light that had caught in the hearth, crackling over the twigs and dried peat. As the shadows fell away, Crispin recognized the gaunt cheeks and haughty brow. He lowered his sword and sheathed it.