Season of Blood

by Jeri Westerson

  Speak of the devil.

  Simon Wynchecombe shuffled forward. His boots and clothes were muddy, his hair in disarray, his face and beard dirty. He slowly lowered his hands.

  ‘Master Wynchecombe,’ said Crispin, as exasperated as he’d ever been, with surprise dappled atop it. ‘I’ve been looking for you.’

  ‘I know.’ His eyes, wide with an unusual emotion, darted toward Jack. ‘My God, is that Jack Tucker? I remember when he was no more than a sprig of a lad. And dirtier than I am now.’

  ‘What has happened, Master Wynchecombe? Much must be discussed.’

  ‘Yes, that is true. But there is one thing that must be done first.’

  ‘And what is that, my lord?’

  Wynchecombe wrung his hands and staggered toward the fire. Crispin was beginning to wonder if the man was hurt in some way. He wore no hat or hood and his cloak was torn and muddied, like his clothes. Crispin surmised he’d ridden hard from a distance and hadn’t had time to change. But why had he come here first before going home?

  And where was Sybil Whitechurch?

  Crispin girded himself, waiting for the former sheriff’s reply. Girding didn’t help.

  Wynchecombe made the motions of warming his hands before the meager fire. ‘God’s wounds, Crispin. I never thought I’d say this, but … I’m in trouble. And … and I need you to hide me.’

  TWELVE

  Crispin stared, unable to scramble the words into something that made sense. ‘I … what?’

  ‘It’s a simple request, isn’t it?’ he snapped. The irritation tinged with muted panic gave Crispin pause.

  ‘Of course,’ he said carefully. Jack’s mouth hung open and his hands were balled into fists. ‘But … can you tell me why I must offer this boon … and for how long?’

  ‘Goddammit, Crispin!’ His shoulders hunched over his tall frame, curving inward like a protective shell. ‘Must I explain myself at every turn? Can you not do this one simple thing I ask of you?’

  ‘Only with an explanation.’ He settled his hand on his dagger hilt. For once in his life, he had the better of Wynchecombe, and he intended to savor it.

  ‘You’re a knave, do you know that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Wynchecombe turned to glance at him, disbelief in his wild eyes. ‘I see.’

  But the former sheriff didn’t speak any further. Realizing they were at an impasse, Crispin decided enough was enough. ‘First, I must ask some questions. Where is Sybil Whitechurch?’

  ‘Sybil Whitechurch? That bitch? I haven’t any idea and I don’t care.’

  Crispin couldn’t help but exchange a glance with Jack. He cleared his throat. ‘Er … Master Wynchecombe, there has been some tears shed over her and the fact that she is missing and believed spirited away … by you.’

  ‘By me? I’m married!’

  ‘Yes. It is puzzling.’

  ‘Wait, wait. Are you telling me that you believe I was responsible for … for … stealing away with that woman?’

  ‘I was hired by her aunt to find her and she had every reason to believe it was you. So she told me. And so I investigated.’

  ‘This is unbelievable! Who is this aunt with all her concern? Where was her concern when that woman was forcing her affections upon me?’

  ‘You are saying that you never abducted her?’

  ‘No, dammit. This is beneath you, Guest.’

  ‘Forgive me, my lord, but … well. I’m confused.’

  ‘You’re damned right you are.’

  ‘Perhaps it would help matters if you told me where you have been. For you were not at home in London or at your estates in Winchcombe.’

  ‘How do you know about Winchcombe?’

  ‘I have just returned from there.’

  ‘God’s wounds.’ He lowered himself to a chair and clutched at the arms.

  ‘Have you not been home in Candlewick Ward yet, my lord? Your wife is worried.’

  ‘Alice …’ He laid his head back and closed his eyes. ‘Maybe I’d best tell you all.’

  ‘It might help.’

  He opened one eye to stare at Crispin before closing it again. ‘Very well. I suppose it’s the least I can do.’ He sighed and licked his lips. ‘I met the damned woman at the abbey some weeks ago. She’s a patroness; I am a patron. We both venerate the blood relic at Hailes. We … well, dammit. She was beautiful and solicitous, and I was far from London, and … For God’s sake, do you have any wine?’

  Crispin nodded to his other shadow. ‘Jack?’

  Jack hurried toward the larder. In the darkness, Crispin heard the lad pour liquid into two goblets. He rushed toward Wynchecombe and handed one over first. The former sheriff grabbed it and tipped it to his lips, drinking thirstily, spilling some over the side at his cheek.

  Crispin waved off the goblet Jack presented to him.

  ‘Go on,’ said Crispin after a pause.

  Wynchecombe cradled the now-empty goblet to his bosom. ‘How can I say it? I stupidly fell in love. I, at my age, and she such a young thing. I suppose I’m a fool. I believed she loved me, too. Or so I thought. Clearly it was the Devil at work, bewitching me. We met in Winchcombe for dalliance. Then she told me of her family’s poverty and I tried to help. I gave her money, jewels. But it was never enough. Her tenants, she told me, were ruined by a flood and could not pay the rents. I believed her and tried to help where I could, but she would never let me come to the estates. Then, one day, I secretly followed her and found them to be derelict. When next I saw her at Hailes, I confronted her. There were no tenants, and it looked as if there hadn’t been any for some years. She wept, and yes, my heart fell for it again. There was something she wanted me to do. She was desperate for it. Something she was loath to tell me that would see her saved from poverty. I couldn’t imagine what it could be, what would be such a boon to her, but like any eager paramour I agreed to it. That was before I knew what it was.’

  ‘And what was it?’

  He opened both eyes and fixed them on Crispin. ‘She wanted me to steal the damned blood relic.’

  ‘And did you?’

  He jolted to his feet, dashing the wooden goblet to the floor. He stalked up to Crispin but Crispin didn’t waver. He felt the man’s hot breath on his face. ‘How dare you? How dare you stand there and assume I am guilty.’

  ‘I’m still waiting, my lord.’

  Wynchecombe drew back his fist but stopped at Crispin’s words: ‘I don’t have to let you stay, my lord. There is little compelling me. To imply that we are friends would be disingenuous to me, surely. I will offer my hospitality on the condition that I believe you. And so I must be informed of every turn of your relationship with the missing woman. I shouldn’t like to shield a murderer, after all.’

  Slowly, Wynchecombe lowered his hand, his whole body deflating. ‘I see.’ He suddenly looked around at the still, largely dim room. ‘I recall when your circumstances were quite grim,’ he said vaguely. ‘That squalid one room … above a tinker shop, wasn’t it?’

  Jack caught his attention again and his glance roved over the boy … the man, Crispin supposed. Taller than Crispin, older than when Wynchecombe first met him and now with his own ginger beard. Jack was not the frightened orphan he had once been but a man in his own right. And Wynchecombe, who stood as tall as Jack and whose dark beard and mustache were now streaked with gray, seemed frailer than when he was at his full power some years ago. He had never risen to the role of Lord Mayor. Maybe he wasn’t as popular an alderman as he liked to think he was. Maybe not as wealthy as he liked to play at, judging by his estates in faraway Winchcombe. Maybe he was never the man Crispin assumed he was.

  ‘And now look at you,’ Wynchecombe went on. ‘This … this new place of yours. That apprentice. Everything is bigger and better. You’ll claw your way back, won’t you, Guest? One decade at a time. I’ll be damned if you don’t.’

  The words were satisfying but Crispin could find no solace in them. Wynchecombe could only see the outer lay
er of his life: grand new lodgings with a hall and two rooms, a sword at his side, an adult Jack Tucker. But he did not know what lay beneath – that it was the same harsh circumstances he had left behind when exiled from court. He was still the man who had committed treason, the man who’d been banished from court, who had lost it all and yet still lived.

  He examined the man who had harassed him, who had made his life on the Shambles miserable for the year he was Lord Sheriff. Their relationship had been one-sided, antagonistic. He had seen the many faces Wynchecombe had worn, seen for himself the many roles he had played. But Crispin had never seen this face on him before. Fear. He was frightened. And desperate. Why else had he resorted to coming to Crispin, a man he never liked? Perhaps he had harbored a begrudging respect, but he had never treated Crispin with the respect that was his due.

  And now he wanted a favor.

  Crispin stared him down until it was Wynchecombe who turned away first. His shaking hand found the back of the chair and grasped it. ‘I didn’t steal the relic.’

  ‘Yet it was stolen.’

  Those eyes again, haunted, surprised, fearful, fixed on Crispin once more. ‘It was?’

  ‘Yes. That’s why I rode to Hailes. To return it. And … to tell the abbot of the murder of one of his monks at my very door.’

  ‘A murdered monk, you say?’

  ‘Yes. Murdered … with your dagger.’

  ‘My dagger?’ He reached for the sheath that should have hung at his right hip, but it wasn’t there. ‘Ah.’

  ‘Where is your dagger, my lord?’

  ‘Apparently, it was in the back of a dead monk. Do the sheriffs have it now?’

  ‘No. I do. I removed it before they came. And I have it still.’

  ‘Oh, I see. You recognized it, then. And now you intend to do your mischief to me in return for my past treatment of you. Well, and why not? It’s the least I deserve, eh?’

  Crispin gritted his teeth. ‘That is not why I kept it.’

  ‘Isn’t it, though?’

  ‘No! Damn you, Simon. You have never understood me. You’ve betrayed me at every turn, you used me, and yes, ill-treated me. But you have never understood me.’

  ‘You’re a traitor, Guest. What more is there to know?’

  Crispin heaved a hot breath. ‘Get out.’

  The fear was back and he could see Wynchecombe swallowing his pride. ‘Wait … I … I misspoke …’

  ‘Only because you want something from me. But the sheriffs have requested this dagger, this evidence from me, and we are required to give it to them.’

  ‘Wait, Guest … Hold for but a moment.’

  ‘Why? Why should I?’ His hand squeezed his own dagger hilt. ‘Give me a reason.’

  ‘Because … because my life is in danger. Because … my dagger was stolen from me and used against me. I killed no one. I didn’t take the relic. And I don’t know where that damnable woman is.’ He approached Crispin but kept far enough away so as not to threaten. ‘You’ve helped others. Some even less deserving than me. Can you … can you put aside your animosity to help me? I …’ He seemed to gird himself. ‘I don’t know where else to go.’

  Sincerity at last. Crispin took a deep breath and gusted it through his nostrils. He loosened his grip on his dagger but kept his hand resting there. ‘When did you lose the dagger?’

  ‘I don’t know. Over a sennight ago. Possibly a fortnight.’

  ‘Any idea who took it?’

  He shook his head. ‘I was at the abbey at the time.’

  ‘Were you aware that Sybil Whitechurch garnered the … erm, affections of some of the monks at Hailes?’

  He blinked. His face crumpled before he righted it. Crispin supposed he had fallen for the girl. ‘The whore,’ he muttered.

  ‘That’s as may be. Since she couldn’t convince you to steal the relic, I surmise that she did convince someone else. And if this other paramour was known to you, it could easily be construed that you killed him out of jealousy.’

  ‘But that’s not what happened.’

  ‘But it could be construed so.’

  He slumped. ‘I’m doomed. There is no way out of this.’ The unbelievable was written on his face. ‘I’ll hang,’ he whispered breathlessly.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘We’re supposed to give them sheriffs the dagger,’ said Jack suddenly.

  Wynchecombe seemed to only just remember he was there and turned to face him. Jack had always been fiercely loyal to Crispin, and there’d been many a time when Wynchecombe had left Crispin bruised and bloodied and Jack had been there to pick up the pieces. Jack certainly had no love for Wynchecombe, but Crispin had taught him a love of the law and what was morally right, and he was fairly certain what Jack was going to say next.

  ‘But … we can easily lose it for a time,’ said Jack. His gaze was steady on Wynchecombe. Yes, things were certainly different from seven years ago. Jack was no child and Wynchecombe, at the moment, had no power at all.

  ‘Yes, Jack. Why don’t you return to Newgate and tell them that?’

  ‘I was afraid you were going to say that, Master Crispin.’ He gave Wynchecombe a steady look – a warning – before Wynchecombe silently deferred to their new positions and stepped aside for the former cutpurse. Jack stood at the door and gracefully bowed – to Crispin, or Wynchecombe? – before slamming the door shut behind him.

  Crispin walked gravely around the former sheriff to stand before the fire. ‘Why do you think someone is out to kill you?’

  ‘Because they are. I’ve been fleeing for my life for days.’

  Eyes sweeping over Wynchecombe’s state of dress, Crispin turned back to the small flames. ‘When did you return to London?’

  ‘A few days ago. I’ve been in hiding. I was waiting for you to return.’

  ‘I’m flattered.’

  ‘Don’t be. I thought no one in their right mind would suspect I’d hide out with you.’

  He nodded. ‘Rightly so. Do you suspect anyone in particular?’

  ‘That damned woman. Hired someone, no doubt.’

  ‘What of Katherine Woodleigh?’

  ‘Who?’

  A scratch at the back of his thoughts. It made him think of Jack and fairy barrows. ‘Katherine Woodleigh. It was she who hired me to find her niece, Sybil Whitechurch. She is the one who told me you stole her niece away. And she is the one who told me that you cheated her out of some much-needed funds.’

  ‘The gall! The utter gall! I’ve never heard of her. Unless … The daughter of Thomas Woodleigh … of Hailes?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘God’s wounds. Sybil Whitechurch’s aunt, you say? The Devil take all their wretched family. I did nothing of the kind, for I have never set eyes upon her.’

  ‘You do not know her?’

  ‘No. It’s all lies.’

  ‘And I should believe you over her?’

  ‘Yes, damn you.’

  A knock at the entrance ceased their barbs and they both stilled, staring at the door. Crispin gestured for Wynchecombe to go up the stairs. The former sheriff released his held breath, nodded and made a quiet exit upward.

  Crispin waited till he was out of sight before taking the latch in hand and, using his body to hide the room, opening the door a sliver.

  THIRTEEN

  ‘What do you mean she was capering about on rooftops?’ asked John Rykener. This Lenny knave was scraping his last nerve. How did he even know if Crispin had truly hired him? The last time he saw the rogue, he had lied in court in order to get Crispin convicted of murder. Would Crispin forgive and forget so easily? It certainly wasn’t like him, though if the man proved useful Crispin might still give him a chance. How was John to know?

  ‘That’s what I seen,’ said Lenny, nodding his head. With his bent posture and skinny neck, he looked like the vulture he was. ‘I can’t explain it. But as you well know, Master Guest does ally himself with some peculiar characters.’

  ‘Indeed he does,’ said Jo
hn, giving Lenny a particularly dour eye.

  ‘Here now. I know your meaning. Put it away. I tell you that it’s the Lord’s truth. I seen her up there. And after she got done watching Master Wynchecombe’s house, and once night fell, she went scampering along them roofs and snuck herself into a window.’

  ‘Now I know you’re lying. I’m going to beat the truth out of you!’

  He raised his fist to do just that when Nigellus grabbed his arm. ‘Now, Master Rykener, you mustn’t call attention to yourself … or the law,’ he said, the last quietly.

  He wrenched his hand free of Nigellus’ grip. ‘It would be worth it. This miserable son of a whore is accusing this woman of … of … witchcraft, for all I can tell.’

  ‘It weren’t witchcraft,’ said Lenny. ‘Just common thievery. Saw her come out the usual way through the door. Carrying a sack, mind.’

  ‘A sack of what? The horse shit you are trying to peddle me?’

  Lenny folded his arms over his chest, closed his eyes and slowly shook his head. ‘I don’t expect you to believe me. I don’t expect Master Guest to believe me. But I seen it with me own eyes and I’d swear to any priest it’s what I saw. So help me God.’

  John got in one good clout to the man’s ear before Nigellus grabbed at him and pushed him back.

  ‘Ow, sarding, ow!’ Lenny rubbed the side of his head. ‘Don’t hit me again, sodomite, or I’ll knife you in the throat.’

  ‘Now see here!’ cried Nigellus, getting between them. ‘Stop it at once! Master Rykener, you stand there. Master Munch, you stand there. Now.’ He wiped his hands down his gown’s front that was shiny with grease and speckled with crumbs. ‘There is a truth here that may not be readily evident. And as men of intellect …’ He eyed Lenny and paused. ‘W-we … we must reason it out. You say she was on the roof,’ he said to Lenny.

  ‘Aye, that’s what I said and that’s what I seen.’

  ‘And you say,’ he said to John, ‘that it is an impossibility. How are we to prove which is right and which is wrong?’