Table of Contents
Cover
A Selection of Titles by Jeri Westerson
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Foreword
Glossary
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Afterword
A Selection of Titles by Jeri Westerson
The Crispin Guest Medieval Noir series
VEIL OF LIES
SERPENT IN THE THORNS
THE DEMON’S PARCHMENT
TROUBLED BONES
BLOOD LANCE
SHADOW OF THE ALCHEMIST
CUP OF BLOOD
THE SILENCE OF STONES *
A MAIDEN WEEPING *
THOUGH HEAVEN FALL
ROSES IN THE TEMPEST
* available from Severn House
A MAIDEN WEEPING
A Crispin Guest Medieval Mystery Noir
Jeri Westerson
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
This first world edition published 2016
in Great Britain and the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.
Trade paperback edition first published 2016 in Great
Britain and the USA by SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.
eBook edition first published in 2016 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2016 by Jeri Westerson.
The right of Jeri Westerson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8621-7 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-722-7 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-783-7 (e-book)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents
are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described
for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are
fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,
Stirlingshire, Scotland.
To my husband Craig, who has the patience of Crispin and suffers his own trials. And in memoriam of George, or should I say ‘Gyb’.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Grateful thanks go out to my husband, not just for offering suggestions and helpful thoughts on my writing but in all things; to my agent Joshua Bilmes who keeps Crispin clothed and fed; to Mark Davidson, David Seipp, and Paul Hyams, medievalists all, who offered advice and further reading suggestions on all the complicated medieval English law; to Facebook friend Pat Smith for suggesting the cat; and finally to my readers who keep sharing their love of this strange and distant medieval man who solves crimes. Thank you!
FOREWORD
The idea that a person ‘shall not be compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself’ is a relatively new one. Not that medieval jurisprudence was all that, well, medieval. In fact, it was downright civilized … to a point. And in England it was well-reasoned and workable.
By the way, that rule about self-incrimination in English common law became law in the latter half of the seventeenth century, too late to do Crispin any good. Prior to that, silence was construed as guilt. In the 1600s, reason seemed to prevail. But in the early fourteenth century it wasn’t about the individual’s right to remain silent but the opportunity to speak out and defend yourself.
There aren’t any details as to exactly how a criminal trial proceeded during Crispin’s time. All we have are the bare facts from the court records, which are interesting enough. Because we don’t know exactly what transpired and there were no records of every step and word uttered at a trial as you would see today in court transcripts, I’ve taken only a few liberties. But the court, as we know it or knew it, was depicted extant. Defendants and juries were specifically not ‘sworn in’ so that they would not be compelled to blaspheme themselves if they lied, assuming they might. And there was no assumption of innocence or guilt. A crime was committed, evidence suggested the accused might be guilty, an indictment or formal accusation was made, and the accused arrested.
Jurors were seated because they had intimate knowledge of the case and came from the immediate vicinity of the crime or knew the accused’s character. This is completely unlike today when both of those aspects would get you immediately thrown off the jury.
London was divided into wards, and jurors were culled from those wards where the crimes were committed. Sometimes jurors were important people chosen to be seated in likelihood that they could corral some of these common merchants and laborers who didn’t know what they were doing. Unfortunately, that could be stacking the jury. There were a lot of checks and balances in place to try to prevent that, but it did happen with varying results.
A jury, though usually ready with their decision before ever getting to trial, could still be swayed by further testimony or new evidence – or a bribe – but on the whole, trials were pretty quick business, lasting no more than ten minutes. You can see how this might have made for a very short novel.
Despite what bribes might have been levied or not, it seems that sixty percent of trials ended with an acquittal. This either speaks about the seriousness with which all parties took the events or it was a clear sign of widespread corruption. And no mistaking, there was corruption, and bribes, and favors gained and meted out.
All that trial by combat or ordeal was done away with by the end of the fourteenth century. You might remember in Blood Lance that Crispin was involved in a trial by combat, but this was a different situation of a knight being tried for desertion and cowardice by the court of chivalry. In that instance a trial by combat was certainly appropriate.
GLOSSARY
Abetment The aiding of a criminal in their illegal
enterprise.
Abjure the realm Banishment.
Assize A trial or court or the ordinance or
edict made there.
Bezant A medieval gold coin.
Captus in Medio Latin for ‘caught in the middle of.’
Chancery The medieval equivalent of administra
t
ive offices responsible for paperwork.
Chirographer The officer appointed to produce a
legal document (chirographs) to collect
fines in the Court of Common Pleas.
Close Rolls Records kept by the royal chancery
office. These were letters issued and
sealed by the monarch to grant special
rights, titles, grants to persons or
corporations. Each year, the chancery
would sew these parchments together
into one long roll as a record of that
year’s letters close.
Engross To produce a legal document in its
final form.
Gaol Delivery The trial of prisoners held in gaol upon
charges for which they were impris
oned. It is not delivering a prisoner to
the gaol, but rather ‘deliverance’ from
gaol, albeit to a trial.
Gyb Common name for a cat in this period,
short for ‘Gilbert’ as one might call a
male cat ‘Tom’ today. The ‘g’ is a hard
g, as in ‘go’, the ‘y’ a short ‘i’ sound.
In Flagrante Delicto Latin for in ‘blazing offense’ or caught
in the act of committing an offense.
Sometimes referring to being caught
in the sexual act.
King’s Bench A trial or presentation before the king,
following the king wherever he might
go in the realm. To cut down on the
many cases presented before the king,
the Court of Common Pleas was created
and stayed in one place rather than
having to follow the king’s itinerary.
That one place was Westminster Hall
and later also included the Guildhall
in London.
Letters Patent A type of legal instrument issued by
a monarch to grant an office, right, or
other status.
Liripipe The long tail at the back of a hood,
often wrapped around the wearer’s
shoulders and neck because it was so
long.
Mainprise A surety of money, making certain a
man will appear in court. A bond.
Nisi Prius Latin, meaning ‘unless first.’ A nisi
prius is a procedure to which a party
FIRST agrees UNLESS he objects.
Also a court of jurisdiction; the original
trial court that heard the case.
Outlaw Outside the protection of the law. By
three times refusing to appear at one’s
trial, the suspect is declared an outlaw
and can be killed on sight or brought
back to gaol and executed without
further trial.
Oyer and Terminer A commission that empowers justices
to ‘hear (oyer) and determine (terminer)’
certain cases.
Quinzaine Fifteen of something; people, stanzas,
days, weeks, etc.
Stew Brothel.
Sennight One week. Seven nights, or se’n nights.
Small Beer Beer/ale with lower alcoholic content.
Trailbaston Commissions of Oyer and Terminer
for violent cases, like murder.
Wain A small cart.
Who can tell truly
How cruel sheriffs are?
Of their hardness to poor people
No tale can go too far.
If a man cannot pay
They drag him here and there,
They put him on assizes,
The juror’s oath to swear.
He dares not breathe a murmur,
Or he has to pay again,
And the saltness of the sea
Is less bitter than his pain.
Song Against Sheriffs, c. 1200
‘Iff he goth to the law there is no helpe; for trewly law goys as lorsdship biddeth him.’
Preacher sermonizing to the poor, early fourteenth century
ONE
London, 1389
Wednesday, 14 October
His head snapped up for the second time. Definitely drifting off to sleep. Too much wine … as usual.
Crispin Guest licked his lips and settled his chin unsteadily on his hand once more. A horn cup sat at his fingertips. Looking down, he saw it was almost empty. What was left in the jug was, thankfully, just a hand’s reach away on the spotty table. The pleasant sounds of others drinking and laughing around him reminded he was in his favorite tavern, and though it wasn’t as often these days that he felt morose enough to drink alone, he found a certain comfort in the friendly noises around him, even if he himself never participated in their jovial camaraderie.
A contented lassitude kept his head muzzy, and that was fine. He didn’t have to move, didn’t have to think. Wasn’t that the point of filling himself with wine at the Boar’s Tusk?
He’d just about convinced himself that closing his eyes was a good idea when someone beside him nudged his shoulder. He flicked a lazy glance at the unfamiliar profile, ignored it, and settled down once more … when it happened again.
He turned to the man in the dark cloak, clearing his throat to give him a rounding, when something hard was shoved at his gut.
‘Here,’ croaked the shadowed man with a hoarse voice. ‘Take it. There isn’t much time.’
‘What? Take what?’
The thing was shoved at him again, and this time Crispin grabbed it. A money pouch, bulging with coins. His eyes widened and looked down at it. ‘What in the name of Heaven is this?’
‘Your payment, of course. By my Lady, I thought they said you were smarter than this.’
Affronted, Crispin swiveled to tell the man to shove the coin purse up his arse when the man said harshly, ‘The address is inside the bag. Have done with it quickly. It must be tonight. And make it quiet.’
Blinking, trying to clear his head, Crispin took a deep breath. ‘You mistake me, sir.’
‘No, you mistake me. Do it, or I’ll not be responsible for what happens to you. They want her dead and that’s an end to it. That’s enough silver, I’ll warrant, to satisfy any man. Get it done. Tonight.’
‘Now … wait …’ It took too long to untangle his legs from the bench, and when he’d freed himself the man was gone. He looked down at the pouch and opened the top. A folded piece of parchment was there, sitting atop a clutch of silver coins. ‘God’s blood!’ he gasped. He hadn’t seen that much money in a pouch of his in over a decade.
Turning back to the table, he unfolded the parchment and flattened it out. It read:
Elizabeth le Porter
Watling Street between the roper and the eel monger, second floor
He shook out his head. His shaggy hair stuck to the sweat at his brow. What had just transpired? That man had obviously mistaken Crispin for someone else. A someone who, by all accounts, was some sort of paid assassin.
He looked down into the coin pouch again. This woman, whoever she was, was supposed to be killed and this the payment for it. It was God’s mercy indeed that the man had stumbled upon Crispin instead of the real killer.
Crispin whipped his head up, looking around. Did anyone here have the face of a killer? He ran his hand over his cheeks and chin. God’s blood, they all did. Wait, wait. The man had been looking for a ‘type’ of man. A man alone, as Crispin was. For a second time, he scanned the tavern, slowly, carefully. There were a few men who were alone. One appeared to be a rich merchant. Another some sort of student. And another … dead drunk, his arms pillowing his head.
The fat merchant didn’t seem likely, nor the timid student. And what was he to do in any case? Go up to each one, bow with an ‘I beg your mercy, but are you, by any chance, a paid assassin?’
There was little choice in the matter. He had to find this woman, this Elizabeth le Porter, and warn her tha
t someone was out to kill her. He could do that much at least.
He grabbed the edge of the table and pushed himself to his feet. Standing for a moment – gauging as to whether or not he could – he shoved away from the table, stumbling over the bench before he righted himself. He looked back regretfully at the jug of wine. Straightening his cotehardie with a tug, he angled his head to crack his aching neck. It was time for the Tracker to do his moral duty.
Sometimes, he really hated that sense of honor.
A light drizzle greeted him as he emerged from the noisy tavern. The cold served to awaken him, and he dragged his hood up over his head. Beyond the clouds, the horizon was streaked with the amber light of an autumn sunset. And just as he wondered exactly how late it was, church bells began to peal Vespers. Later than he thought, then.
His cloak had absorbed the friendly smoke from the hearth, but now the drizzle was drenching it to the odor of wet dog. He pulled it about him and shivered. He crossed West Cheap to Friday Street, skirting carts laden with dampening peat. Their thick, dark smell overpowered. Townsfolk bustled toward the eaves of shops and houses, ducking under their own hoods to get out of the rain.
Friday Street let out onto the pungent Watling, and Crispin stood at the ‘T’ looking up one way and down the other. Between a roper and an eel monger. He squinted into the mist unsteadily. What he truly wanted to do was get this business over with so he could go home and crawl into bed. Perhaps Jack would have some sort of hot stew waiting for him.
‘Good old Jack,’ he murmured, smiling sloppily. Why had he left the lad at home while he’d gone off to drink? Oh yes. He had been feeling particularly sorry for himself, for it had been a month since they had gotten a proper client, and the cupboard was bare yet again. He had begun thinking of lost chances, lost loves, and it had somehow spiraled downward into a wallow of pity. Jack had tried to assuage him with watered wine, but they had quickly run out. Poverty stank like a chamber pot.
A Maiden Weeping Page 1
