Anabel Coterel. She had secrets, too. How women liked their secrets.
He looked up into the sky. Church bells began ringing for Vespers and indeed, the bleary sun was setting over the city beyond the bridge. Shadows stretched, lengthening across his path. He escorted her back home.
“It is late … Anabel. I will continue tomorrow.” He bowed and turned away, but stopped. He bounced on his heels for a moment before reluctantly turning back to her. “You did fine work today. I appreciate the help.”
She curtseyed to him and brought up an unexpectedly mischievous smile. “You had best find your apprentice, Master Crispin. For I fear he was not pleased with you today.”
With a blush, he realized he hadn’t given Jack a thought the whole time. He gave a sheepish grin. “Perhaps I had better.” He bowed again and left her.
As he strode toward the gate, he wanted to look back but had no wish to make a fool of himself. Only a hairsbreadth, Crispin, he admonished, between a fool and a martyr.
* * *
JACK TUCKER WAS NEITHER at home on the Shambles nor in any of the usual places Crispin was likely to find him. “Damn that boy.” He rubbed his chin, feeling the sharp scratch of stubble. He could wait or he could go to the Boar’s Tusk.
He glanced at the wine jug on the back sill and knew it was low. “Boar’s Tusk it is.”
11
THE NIGHT DREW ON later and later and the candle before him got shorter and shorter, and somewhat blurrier as the wine filled him. Someone slid next to him on the bench and Crispin sluggishly shifted his gaze.
Gilbert looked back at him, his face questioning as usual, his disapproval thick.
“Gilbert, I sense you are about to admonish me.” His tongue felt thick and unmanageable. A proper drunk had set in and he liked the feel of it. It was better than the feeling of that damned head cold. “Why don’t we pass over this part since I already well know what you are going to say?”
“That you’re drunk and you should go home? What makes you think I was going to say that?” He slid a horn beaker into view and took Crispin’s jug, pouring himself a dose. He took a drink and smacked his lips.
“Because you always do. Because I always am. Drunk, that is.”
“Why so intemperate today, Crispin? Is it that knight you spoke of, your friend?”
He shrugged. It threw him off balance and he had to grab the table to keep from falling backward off the bench. “Maybe. Maybe not. I’ve encountered plenty of former acquaintances.”
“And each time, you drink.” He saluted with his cup and drank.
“Why shouldn’t I?” Crispin grumbled. “Every one of them is doing far better than I. And little wonder. They have moved on, taken that one step higher on the ladder rung while I wallow where I have been for the last nine years.”
“Now Crispin.” Gilbert laid an arm on the table and leaned on it. Wine moistened his beard. “That is not true, and you well know it. You did not start on the Shambles as the Tracker. You earned that title and much admiration since.”
“Amongst shopkeepers,” he sneered.
Gilbert elbowed him hard, eliciting a grunt. “And tavern keepers, you wretch. You never rejoice in your achievements, you only compare your failings to those above you. Those of our rank—yours now, too, mind you—never do that. Why should we? We will only achieve so much. But a good day’s work and food in our belly is a satisfying thing, Crispin.” He shook his head and drank again. He eased the cup down, placing it on the table. “You have an apprentice now. A new cotehardie.” He brushed his hand over Crispin’s crimson sleeve. “And coins on your person for a change. Things are looking up, are they not?” He took another drink and rubbed his bearded chin. “You and I must not continue to have this conversation. I’d much rather talk to you of festive things, of cheerful things.”
“Cheerful things.” Crispin made an unsteady perusal of his friend’s face, a round and generally merry countenance. Gilbert Langton was a man with much. He had a loving wife in Eleanor and they owned this tavern. And though it wasn’t as proud an establishment as some others of its ilk, it was a good and affable place. Their greatest sorrow was in not having children. He knew this vexed them sorely, for what were they to do in old age? Who would care for them? Strangely, Crispin never thought of that for himself. He had assumed a long time ago that he would eventually lose his edge and get involved in one too many altercations. It would take only once to let his guard down and a dagger blade could easily slip between his ribs. Yes, he knew how his days would end. And yet, this did not frighten him or darken his mood. It was not the future that vexed him but his past. He could not let it go. Never would he.
He drank again. His sleeve caught the dribble down his chin. “Gilbert, you are ever my conscience in this. You are always right. And yet I find myself here time and again.”
“I’ll bring you some food. How about a nice roasted coney, eh? Ned has an extra one on the spit. I’ll bring that and share it with you.”
He nodded sloppily. “Yes. That would content me.”
Gilbert climbed out of the bench and straightened his coat. “Where’s that rascal of yours, Jack Tucker? Shouldn’t he be here taking you home?”
“I was wondering that myself. It seems he rushed off in a jealous fit.”
Gilbert paused by the table. “Eh? Young Jack? Jealous of what?”
Crispin smiled, remembering. “I was with a client who showed exceptional perception when it came to investigating. Jack got it into his wooden head that she was taking his place.”
“She?”
Crispin drew patterns on the table with the spilled wine. “She. A beauteous maid. Well, perhaps not so much a maid.”
Gilbert sat again. “Older?”
He smirked. “Not older. Merely … experienced. At least that is my impression.”
Gilbert tsked and shook his head. “You need the company of decent women, Crispin. How will you ever find a woman to wife?”
“I’m not looking for a wife. I’ve told you that.”
“So many have slipped through your fingers, women of worth.”
“But not fit for a knight,” he muttered.
“Crispin,” he said, rising but leaning down to whisper close to his ear. “You are not a knight.”
Gilbert walked toward the kitchen as Crispin scowled in his direction. “I don’t need reminding,” he said to the nearly empty room. But when he looked into his wine bowl he saw the face of Philippa Walcote, the woman he had discarded because of his lingering sense of his past. A woman he had loved. A woman he still loved.
He pushed the bowl away, sloshing its red wine on the table like blood. What was it that truly vexed him, he wondered, among all other thoughts? Was it Philippa? Was it Anabel, who reminded him so of her? Was it Sir Thomas, who was throwing away that which Crispin longed for? “Maybe it is all of it,” he muttered. “Perhaps I am a flagellant and these memories are my flail. Only then may I find my peace, when I have done proper penance.”
“Are you Crispin Guest?”
A man stood over him, one he did not recognize.
“Who wants to know?”
“Pardon me for interrupting your conversation with your wine bowl.” The man snickered. His reddish gold hair was covered by a close-fitting cap. His clothes were those of a middling merchant, no velvets but good cloth, no patches, and a decent dagger hanging from a belt carved with decorative designs. “I am Lucas Stotley, a clerk. You are the one with Jack Tucker as an apprentice, no?”
“What of that scoundrel?”
“Well, I saw that boy being dragged away by some knights who were none too happy with him. Thought you’d want to know.”
Crispin staggered up from his seat and leaned shakily on the table. “What?”
“I saw them back up the lane. He was talking vigorously with a group of knights. They didn’t like his tone or his manner. He did not treat them with the proper respect and they set about to teach the lad a lesson. I would have thou
ght you would have tutored him properly in this yourself, Master Guest, his being your apprentice and all. Well, they are doing the job now.”
Crispin grabbed his arm. “When? Where?”
“Not long ago. Just up the lane.”
“By God’s death, where?” Crispin grabbed clumsily for his coin pouch. He managed to withdraw a coin and tossed it on the table. “WHERE?”
“I’ll show you.” He grabbed Crispin’s arm and led him outside. He pointed up the street to a stable. “See there. Their horses are still tied to the posts. They must be teaching him a lengthy lesson.”
Crispin drew his dagger at last and staggered up the lane.
“Wait! Master Guest, you do not intend to rescue him by yourself? In your state?”
Crispin looked down at himself and felt how wooly his head was from a cold and from the wine. “I have no choice.”
“Wait there, Master Guest. I will get Master Langton.”
Crispin swayed with uncertainty. He knew the man was right, but he did not wish to delay. Jack was in grave danger. Who knew what those knights were doing to him?
It wasn’t long before Gilbert was at his side, and the clerk, too.
“What mischief is this, Crispin? Young Jack is in trouble?”
“And so he might be. Master Stotley, this clerk, says so.”
Gilbert eyed Stotley. “So he has said. What do you need of me? I am ready.”
Crispin heartened at Gilbert’s presence. “Draw your daggers, men. I know not what trouble Jack might be in.”
Flanked by his companions, Crispin hurried up the road and stopped before the stable, trying to sober himself with deep gulps of fresh air. The roof bowed inward, and bits of plaster had chipped away from the walls, leaving the wattle exposed. The stable looked to be abandoned, but Crispin knew that it was still in use, renting old horses to unwary travelers.
Crispin motioned for the two men to stand behind him while he reached for the door. Carefully, he pulled it open and peered inside. The stable was dark except for a lantern hanging by its chain from a post peg near the center of the straw-covered floor. A shaggy horse in a stall whinnied in agitation. The sharp smell of horse dung twined with the oily smoke from the lantern.
Jack stood under the lantern’s light. Two men each had him by an arm and were pulling those arms to their extremes, keeping him secure. Jack’s worn coat had been discarded and lay in the dirty straw. His shirt was rucked up over his shoulders, exposing his back. Coming closer, Crispin saw why. Behind him, the third man swung back his arm and delivered another stroke with a switch. From the look of agony on Jack’s profile and the sweat on his cheek, this had been going on a while. Yet he bit his lip bloody and made no sound except for a grunt when the switch fell.
Lurching forward, Crispin captured the man’s arm before he could swing the lash again. Grabbing the switch from him, Crispin broke it over his knee and cast the pieces to the ground. “What, by God’s bones, are you doing to that boy?”
The man glared, and Jack tried to twist around to look. His back was striped with red welts. But the men held him firm and he could only struggle and flick his head over one shoulder and then the other.
The spare lantern light slipped across the man’s face. A scar ran down his cheek from his eye to his chin. Lank blond hair fell to his shoulders in greasy strands. “This boy needs to learn how to speak to his betters. And he appears not to be the only one.” His hand slid toward his sword hilt but Crispin was quicker and before he could consider the consequences, his dagger was pressed to the blond man’s throat.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said Crispin, suddenly sober.
The other two men released Jack. He dropped to the hay-covered floor like a sack full of meal. They unsheathed their swords and Gilbert and the clerk drew back.
The blond man with Crispin’s dagger at his throat smiled. “Three swords to three daggers. I wonder who will win?”
“Well, I doubt they can save you before I slash a seam in your throat … my lord. So that will be one sword down.”
The man’s smile faded. “You realize what you are doing, knave?”
Crispin felt sweat break out on his face, though the stable was cold. “It’s not a very good position I’m in at the moment, is it? But neither is it good for you.” And he emphasized that by pressing the blade harder against his throat. The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.
Crispin kept the dagger steady and glanced at the other swordsmen, who hesitated at their companion’s peril. He was in too deep. There was nothing for it but to get in deeper. “Will you drop your swords, or would you see your companion wear a crimson smile across his neck?”
There was much silent commiserating, but in the end, the swords clanged loudly onto the hard dirt floor.
Crispin studied the man he had captured. Well-bred, surcote, sword. Knights all, but it was too dim to see their arms properly. Each had different blazons. He could see that much. His dagger remained at the man’s shaven throat but his other hand grabbed the surcote at the collar. At this point his fuzzy brain was a little uncertain how to proceed.
“Jack, are you all right?”
The boy regained his feet and was easing down his shirt with a hiss between his teeth. He winced upon reaching to the floor to retrieve his soiled coat. “Aye, Master,” he said breathlessly. “As well as can be expected.”
“Is what this man says true? Did you not treat them with the proper respect?”
He stuck an arm in a coat sleeve and then carefully repeated the action with the other arm, but he left it unbuttoned. “I just done what you would have done—”
“Answer the damned question, boy!”
He hung his head. “Aye. I reckon.”
“Then what should you do now?”
Slowly, Jack got down on his knees and looked up at the knights surrounding him. “My lords. I beg your mercy. Please forgive me for speaking above my station. I meant naught by it. I only wanted to help my master, who cannot be blamed for my impertinence.”
The man held captive by Crispin glared into his eyes with a look that seemed to say otherwise.
Jack knelt for several moments before Crispin told him softly to rise. With a sigh, Crispin turned to the knights.
“My apprentice has apologized. I hope you can forgive him as good Christian knights. He is young and as yet inexperienced. Perhaps he failed to frame his questions with the right tone. And so I will attempt it.” Though he could well see the irony, as he had a dagger to one of the men’s throats. “You and your companions have not, by any chance, been to London Bridge of late, have you?”
The blond knight under Crispin’s dagger sneered. “We go to many places in London. Among them, Newgate. Perhaps you would also visit there again, Master Guest.”
Crispin paused at the use of his name. “No, thank you. I’ve seen enough of Newgate.”
“Have you? One wonders.” His eyes dropped to the knife again.
“There was a murder. A man was killed on the bridge last night. But rumors had it as suicide.”
“Maybe it was.”
“Oh no. I have seen much evidence to the contrary. The sheriffs are now treating it as a murder.” He hoped. “You were seen that night.”
“Oh? By whom? We shall visit them and ask them personally.”
Crispin did not look at Jack. “That won’t be necessary.”
The man’s expression did not change. “Are we done here, Master Guest?”
He tried one last time to make out their blazons in the dim light, but could see little. The wine also made certain of that.
Reluctantly, Crispin withdrew the dagger and stepped back, bowing deeply, hoping that the man would not now hew off his head while he was so vulnerable. “My sincerest apologies, my lords, and I beg your mercy for my foolish servant. And also I apologize most humbly for my own actions. My only excuse is that I was out of my mind for fear of my servant’s safety, for I alone am responsible for him.”
Crispin remained with his back bent and his head lowered, not daring to look up. This would either be the end of it … or the end of him.
A fist clouted the side of his head and toppled him. He rolled in the hay and righted himself, standing none too steadily. “I should kick you to death, Crispin Guest,” said the man he had captured, teeth gritted. He rubbed at his neck where the dagger’s blade had been. “But I know you. I should have known that this knave was yours. Have better care. And teach him some manners.” He swung a kick at Crispin, catching him in the shin. He went down on that knee as the man strode by him, pushing Gilbert and the clerk out of the way.
The other knights retrieved their swords and looked as if they, too, would clout him, but they merely sneered in his direction and left the stable, shouldering him roughly on their way out.
The shaggy horse seemed relieved and snorted once before its whiskered muzzle reached over the top of the wooden stall and it began chewing on the wood.
Crispin straightened and found Jack beside him, offering to help. The boy looked as chastened as a penitent, but that was not enough for Crispin. Without acknowledging him, he turned to the tavern keeper. “I thank you, Gilbert. And you, Master Lucas.”
The clerk bowed to Crispin. “Always willing to help.” He held out his hand and Crispin found there the coin he had given the man earlier. Crispin took it with a nod and clenched it in his fist.
“Home, Jack,” he rasped. He did not need to look back to know that the boy followed him.
Though it was only a few lanes to the Shambles, tonight it seemed like a much longer walk. Crispin was still in the throes of wine spirits and now the hot blood that had sustained him during the encounter had cooled. Jack followed silently behind and climbed the stairs to their lodgings with light steps.
Once Crispin unlocked the door and moved into their dark surroundings, Jack slipped past him and knelt at the fire. He immediately set to work churning the coals to a small flame.
Crispin sat on his bed and pulled off his boots.
Blood Lance: A Medieval Noir Page 10
