Season of Blood

by Jeri Westerson

  Crispin hid his smile in the shadows. ‘And how well you fulfill your destiny.’

  ‘Destiny? Is there such a thing when God grants us free will, Crispin?’

  Abbot William was fond of such philosophical discussions, as was Crispin. Abbot Nicholas had been less so, but Crispin found he much preferred Abbot William’s thoughtful questions and viewpoint that mirrored his own.

  The abbot turned from the shrine and tomb and tucked his hands into his sleeves. Crispin wished his sleeves could accommodate his hands, for it was cold in the church. They walked sedately side by side. ‘I have another query for you,’ said Crispin as they walked back toward the abbot’s lodgings and to the much-appreciated fireplace. ‘Do you know a Katherine Woodleigh?’

  ‘The name is unfamiliar to me.’

  ‘A young woman, early twenties, blue eyes, auburn hair. A former courtier.’

  The abbot slowly nodded. ‘I believe I have seen such a woman talking to one of my monks.’

  ‘And might you know the nature of that conversation, my lord?’

  ‘Does this relate to our relic situation, Crispin?’

  ‘Indeed it does.’

  ‘Well, now. The monk in question is a Brother Rodney Beaton. Do you wish to speak to him?’

  ‘I would be most happy to do so.’

  ‘I will have him brought to my lodgings. By the way, as a consequence of our many discussions on the matter, I have obtained a chess set.’ His eyes seem to sparkle with mischief. Crispin couldn’t help but smile back. ‘I would be pleased to play a game or two with you, if you have the time.’

  Abbot Nicholas had left his chess set to Crispin in his will, and when Crispin first met Abbot William he had called it a foolish waste of time. Now he had warmed to the idea of it as he had warmed to Crispin himself. It was endlessly amusing how the man had changed. ‘I wish I had the leisure time now, my lord.’ And he did wish it. But his thoughts fell to Simon Wynchecombe hiding back at his lodgings, and he dearly needed to find out more about that. ‘Alas. I have much work to do to save another life. But I’m certain I can find the time for you at a later date.’

  ‘I would be pleased. I do not believe it is pride to say that I shall likely trounce you.’

  ‘You can certainly try.’

  They walked through the enclosed cloister in silence. The shadows of the trefoiled arches cast an intricate pattern across the stone floor. Crispin glanced across the garth. The grass was patchy with many dead spots, but with the spring he was certain the new shoots would push up and in no time the whole of it would be green again.

  They passed under the shadow of an arch where a monk stood guard outside the abbot’s chamber. The abbot spoke quietly to the monk and the cleric ran off to do his superior’s bidding. Entering the chamber again, they found the Cistercian at his post, kneeling by the closed ambry.

  Crispin forgot he would be there, but it didn’t appear that the abbot had. Crispin doubted he forgot or overlooked much.

  They waited until the monk returned with what Crispin could only guess was Brother Rodney Beaton. His hair was dark, and his thick brows and sharp nose gave him a penetrating appearance. His dark brown eyes scrutinized Crispin with intent.

  ‘Brother Rodney,’ said the abbot, sitting behind his desk. ‘This is Crispin Guest. He is known as the Tracker and he is a friend to this abbey. Please answer his questions.’

  The monk looked startled but even more so when he turned his head and saw the Cistercian kneeling silently by the ambry.

  ‘Brother Rodney,’ said Crispin without preamble. ‘Do you know a Katherine Woodleigh?’

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘My lord?’

  ‘I am not a lord. Answer the question.’

  His eyes darted between Crispin and the expressionless abbot. ‘I … know her, yes.’

  ‘She came to the monastery recently. What did she talk with you about?’

  ‘She … she is worried about her niece.’

  ‘And how is it that you know her?’

  The monk slid a glance toward his attentive abbot again. ‘I … made her acquaintance some years ago.’

  ‘How?’

  The monk shrugged. ‘I cannot recall. She was in the church and needed a candle, I think.’

  ‘And she sought you out ever since?’

  He shrugged again. ‘I offered her comfort.’

  ‘Surely she had a confessor for that.’

  ‘She did. At court. But … she no longer goes there.’

  He nodded. ‘How often do you see her?’

  ‘Not often. She came here last week. And before that, months had passed. I do not think she lives in London or Westminster.’

  ‘No, she lives in Hailes.’

  Brother James turned his head momentarily toward them but then turned back again.

  Crispin kept a steady gaze on Brother Rodney, saying nothing, waiting him out, watching him sweat and fidget under his scrutiny.

  ‘Tell me, brother,’ he said suddenly. The monk did not appear to expect it and jumped. ‘Do you find her … enchanting?’

  He blinked and wiped the beads of sweat from his upper lip. ‘I am a man of God, sir.’

  ‘But even a man of God can recognize a pretty face.’

  Abbot William leaned forward, hands interlaced on the desk before him.

  The monk looked his way but was forced by Crispin’s nearness to look up at him again.

  ‘Answer the question. Is she enchanting?’

  ‘I do not know your meaning.’

  ‘Of course you do,’ said Crispin forcefully. ‘You were not born a monk, man. Is she charming? Is she beautiful? Even the pope could answer that.’

  Abbot William cleared his throat in warning. Crispin ignored him.

  The monk pulled his collar away from his throat. ‘Yes. Yes, she is. But I was not bewitched by her, if that is the crux of your meaning. As a man of God, it is my duty to ignore such worldly things, as my abbot instructs.’ And he bowed toward his abbot, who nodded back.

  ‘Crispin,’ said Abbot William softly. ‘Have you got your answers?’

  Not even close. How much better would it be to beat it out of the man, for he knew in his gut that the monk was lying. About what, he wasn’t certain, but the lies were there. Yet he doubted very much that Abbot William would allow it.

  Crispin postured, hand on his dagger hilt, and glared at the monk. ‘I haven’t gotten satisfactory answers, but that is all for now. Mark me, I’ll be back again to ask more.’

  The monk looked to the abbot for confirmation and Abbot William flicked his hand. That was enough for Brother Rodney and he scrambled out of the door, letting it fall closed behind him.

  ‘Is that how you usually extract information?’ drawled the abbot.

  Crispin gave him a withering look. ‘Not usually, no.’

  ‘Bless me.’ He sighed. ‘But even I could see that he was sinning by omission.’

  ‘Yes. He is hiding something. I will return and, by that time, after he stews a bit, he might be more amenable to speak to me.’

  ‘Shall I admonish him as well?’

  ‘It might help.’ The Cistercian was still at his prayers. ‘Brother James, guard your charge well.’

  He raised his head and nodded but said nothing. Cistercians. Crispin snorted.

  ‘I bid you farewell, my Lord Abbot.’

  ‘As always, Crispin, it has been … intriguing.’ He motioned a benediction over him. Crispin accepted it and made his way out of the abbot’s lodgings.

  Brother John hovered outside. ‘I suppose you are free to go in again, Brother John.’

  The monk smiled, but before he could get away entirely, Crispin asked, ‘Brother, do you know a Katherine Woodleigh?’

  He thought for a moment. ‘No. Should I?’

  ‘A woman comes into the gate and talks with Rodney Beaton, one of your fellow monks. Young, auburn-haired, blue-eyed. You have not seen her?’

  ‘No.’

  Crispin sidled up to
him and spoke quietly, even though they appeared to be alone. ‘If she should make an appearance, could you get a message to me?’

  ‘I shall do all I can. With my abbot’s permission, of course.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He turned to go when the monk called him back.

  ‘Master Guest, I do know a Katherine Pyke. She has a similar appearance and has come to the porter’s gate before.’

  That name sounded familiar but he could not place it. ‘She reminds you of my description?’

  ‘Yes. If she comes, should I also notify you?’

  His eyes roved over the monk, the arches, the shadowed corners. ‘Why not? Too many women loitering about the cloisters, eh, brother?’

  He left the abbey and stepped onto the muddy street, busy with the traffic of carts and men on horses. Crispin smiled. He had much to say to Katherine Woodleigh when they next met.

  He looked back longingly toward the palace and wondered if he could send a message to the duke, but just as quickly dismissed the idea. He was back from his travels but very much doubted he would be pleased to receive a message from Crispin. The king had not warmed to Crispin over the years and, especially after the last escapade with the Coronation Chair, he didn’t think Richard would be any more pleased to see him now should he encounter him in the halls of Westminster Palace. And he always seemed to run into him there when he least wanted to see him.

  He skirted the carts and riders and many people going to and fro. He turned back to look at the gate and ran right into someone.

  With an apology on his lips, he shut them just as quickly. The woman looked at him aghast and pivoted to run, but he snapped his hand out and closed it on her wrist, dragging her close as if he were escorting her.

  ‘My dear demoiselle,’ he said to Katherine Woodleigh. She struggled for a moment but then stiffly surrendered. ‘How you do get about.’

  ‘How dare you, Crispin Guest,’ she snarled. ‘How dare you leave me with a man dressed as a woman!’

  ‘Oh, that.’

  ‘Yes, that! What were you trying to prove?’

  ‘I was trying to protect you the best way I knew how. And yet, you scarce needed his protection. Your “abduction” was a brilliant mummery.’

  She raised her chin and he admired the profile as they walked.

  ‘But now I wonder just exactly what it was for. You didn’t expect to be watched at all hours of the day. That must have irked. You needed to get rid of him and that sufficed. But I wonder at this capering about on rooftops.’

  She stopped and he was forced to stop with her. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I have spies, demoiselle. Perhaps you aren’t as poor as you let on, what with your larcenous habits.’

  Her outrage, etched clearly on her face, suddenly vanished, replaced by a playful smile. She laughed – a merry, ringing sound. He was reminded suddenly again of fairy barrows and changelings. ‘You are a damned clever man, Crispin Guest. I’ve never met the like. Would that I could have met you years ago.’

  ‘I don’t think you would have liked me years ago. Believe it or not, I have mellowed with age.’

  ‘Mellowed or not, you are quite extraordinary.’

  ‘Allow me to be more extraordinary. You don’t have a niece, do you?’

  Her playful smile transformed again into a wide look of shock. ‘By God’s wounds, you are a match for me.’

  ‘A match? I think not. You are clever, true, but I have not yet discerned the nature. So, there is no Sybil Whitechurch? I want to hear you say it.’

  ‘If that is your desire then I will. There is no niece, there is no Sybil Whitechurch. I am she and she is me, for what it’s worth.’

  ‘Then you owe me a tale, demoiselle.’

  ‘I believe I do. Shall we to an alehouse to tell it?’

  He led her on, until he found an ale stake leaning into the street. The Cockerel would do. He opened the door for her and she stepped in.

  SIXTEEN

  Once they had settled with ales in beakers in front of them, she began.

  ‘Much of what I told you was true. About me, that is. Reduced circumstances forced me to make some difficult decisions. A woman alone can only accomplish so much without becoming a whore. I chose to avoid that route.’

  ‘And yet, the men you have left behind you …’ He ticked his head at her.

  She frowned. ‘You judge me? You, who have committed treason and then found your way through dubious occupations? Look in a glass, Crispin Guest. If I am a whore, then so are you.’

  ‘Careful, demoiselle. My honor may be tattered but it is still intact. My honor has never been compromised. I have never stolen to live.’

  ‘But you let that servant of yours do so. Oh, I know about you, Master Guest. I’ve asked. I’ve listened to the tales. People seem to love to talk about you and your exploits. Before you climb onto that high place, do not be so certain you can look down upon me.’

  Perhaps she had a point. Jack had started out life as a cutpurse and thief. Crispin had often enough looked the other way when the larder was empty but Jack had produced his meals nonetheless. He folded his arms huffily over his chest and leaned back against the wall with a scowl. ‘So what now? If there is no niece, then who is it that had these affairs? You?’

  She teased a circle with her finger on the rough table. ‘Naturally.’

  ‘And if you do not whore for a living – and that is debatable given the statements of various monks I have encountered – then what is it you do?’

  ‘I’m surprised you must ask. I’m a burglar.’

  He eyed their surroundings once more to make certain no one could hear them. She didn’t seem as concerned.

  ‘You jest.’

  ‘I assure you, I do not. No one ever suspects a woman, especially a woman with breeding.’

  ‘You would have me believe that you break into houses and steal?’

  ‘Your own spies confirmed it. My “capering about on rooftops.”’

  He studied her, poured more ale into her cup then poured more for himself. Yes, she was proud of this feat. Her smile told him so. But she was also an accomplished liar. Was this, too, a lie?

  She sipped her ale. ‘But I am also invited into these houses. It’s how I met Simon Wynchecombe.’

  ‘Did you coerce him to kill for you?’

  ‘Don’t be absurd.’

  ‘Demoiselle, the entire circumstances are absurd. And two men are dead.’

  ‘Two?’

  ‘Yes. One you saw at my doorstep. A monk. The other back at Hailes Abbey also a monk.’

  She drew back. This was clearly a surprise … or more of her theatrics. He couldn’t decide which. ‘A monk at Hailes, you say?’

  ‘Both monks of Hailes. I think you know Simon Wynchecombe was involved.’

  She stood. ‘I may have said too much. Consider our agreement dissolved. There is no need to reimburse me for paying your debts. We are even.’

  He grabbed her wrist and rasped, ‘Sit down.’

  She pulled but his grip was tight, perhaps too tight. Her hand whitened. ‘Release me.’

  ‘No. Sit the hell down. I’m not done talking to you.’

  Narrowing her eyes, she slowly sank to the bench beside him. Crispin unfurled his fingers and let her go. She rubbed her red wrist.

  ‘Now. You will tell me everything. Leave out any details and I begin slapping.’

  The indignant expression was back. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

  He was quick. She must have heard it before she reacted. Her hand went to her face in shock. Other patrons looked but no one seemed to interfere with a man disciplining his wife.

  ‘That’s a beginning salvo. Try me and there will be more.’

  ‘I do not like you, Crispin Guest, as much as I first thought.’

  He smiled and leaned back, arms folded over his chest again. ‘Well?’

  Still she said nothing. Her pout was most appealing. Instead of slapping her again, the thought occurred to hi
m to lick that pout.

  ‘Let’s begin with why you hired me. You sought Simon Wynchecombe. Why?’

  ‘He had something I needed. Or I thought he had.’

  ‘You were his lover, not this fabled Sybil Whitechurch.’

  ‘As I said.’

  ‘Why the deception? Why not simply be who you are?’

  ‘That is somewhat complicated.’

  ‘I have the time.’

  ‘Perhaps I don’t.’

  ‘What did you think Wynchecombe possessed that you needed?’

  She studied him and then leaned forward on the table. ‘It’s strange. If I had had the idea sooner, I should have become a Tracker, I think. Not that a man would have hired me. But a woman might … Hmm. That bears thinking about.’

  ‘And why do you think you can accomplish what I do?’

  ‘Because it takes cunning. And audacity. I have them both in abundance. And it would require far less “capering about on rooftops.”’

  ‘Well,’ he said, settling back and appraising her. Her lids had lowered to seductive creases. ‘I have my share of dangerous encounters. My dagger and my sword are not mere ornaments.’

  ‘But perhaps it is you who provokes violence. You slapped me in anger.’ She raised her face, perhaps to show him the red mark forming on her cheek. He suddenly felt chagrined at doing it. ‘As a woman, I do not provoke such violence. Men wish to succor me. Women wish to befriend me. It has always been so. I might prove even better at this tracking than you.’

  He laughed.

  ‘There is an envious tinge to your laughter, Master Guest.’ She looked into her cup. ‘How did you surmise that there was no Sybil Whitechurch?’

  ‘The more I thought about the interchangeability of your appearances at the monastery, the more suspicious I became. And your servant had never heard of her.’

  She jerked forward. ‘You went to the manor house?’ She stopped herself and sat back, feigning insouciance. ‘But of course you did.’

  ‘It was easier by the moment to put two and two together.’

  ‘And if you had been wrong?’