“Win a joust?”
The abbot’s pale blue eyes scoured Crispin’s gray. “More than win it. He could win far more than that. But he need not be pure of heart, as the thorns demanded. That is what makes this a most dangerous relic. It wields its own power.”
“Master!” whispered Jack.
“Hush, Jack.” Crispin handed his cup to the boy, who set it on the sideboard. “Nicholas, I have sworn to turn this relic over to … someone. I made an oath.”
“And your oaths are worth more than gold. I only hope that this can come to a happy conclusion. You have seen much sorrow, my young friend. I hope, that in the end, you will make the right choice.”
Nicholas said no more. He seemed content to merely stare with disconcerting concentration.
“I will do my best as always, my Lord Abbot.”
“See that you do. Now Young Master Tucker, convey your master hence so that I can get my rest. This is troublesome business, dying.”
“God keep you, good sir,” said Jack, bowing and standing beside Crispin, who rose from his seat. The abbot sketched a cross over them both in blessing.
“And no more talk of dying, old man,” said Crispin with a brief smile. He took his leave, and with a gesture to Brother John, quit the bedroom.
In the hall, Crispin took Brother John aside. “I know he is ill, but—” Crispin frowned. “I saw him only yesterday! You were helping him with his armor.”
The monk shook his head. “He has not eaten in some days now. He takes only small quantities of wine with a little bread. He is an old man and I suppose the body knows…” He looked back at the closed door, but it was more to conceal a tear than to worry whether the abbot could hear him. He wiped at his eyes. “I fear the king will be choosing a new abbot soon.”
It was like a blade twisting in his heart. Crispin could barely breathe. But the man was seventy-five if a day. He was due his rest in the arms of God. Such a selfish heart to want to keep him here.
He clenched his jaw, nodded to the monk for he did not trust his voice, and led Jack out the door.
He stood on the path and looked back at the manor house, at the vines crawling up its stone face, at the pleasant fields surrounding it. He thought of the man within, whom he had known well for nearly two decades, and at the quiet tragedy unfolding.
He whipped his hood up over his head and strode quickly down the path to the road.
* * *
SUBDUED FOR MOST OF the journey back to Westminster, Jack finally spoke when they reached Charing Cross. “He always seemed like a kind old gentleman. Not like a monk at all.”
Crispin smiled. “A fine compliment. He would be pleased. I shall tell him when next I see him.” And then he wondered when that would be. If it would be.
Jack stopped abruptly and threw an arm across Crispin’s chest. About to admonish his servant, Crispin saw his eyes. They were hard gems. “Master Chaucer,” he whispered, and gestured with the tilt of his head.
Geoffrey Chaucer rode down the Strand, moving his horse with purpose toward the direction of London. Crispin said nothing to Jack, but they both hurried their pursuit.
13
CHAUCER TURNED OFF THE London road and into an inn yard. He tossed the reins to a waiting groom. Crispin and Jack waited in the shadows across the lane and watched as Chaucer crossed the yard and entered the inn.
“Jack, I can’t go inside. I’ll be spotted. You must go.”
“Right, Master!”
He grabbed the lad’s hood and yanked him back. “Make certain you are not seen.”
“Aye, sir. I understand.” He made to move forward again but Crispin pulled him back a second time.
“Find out who he is meeting.”
“I know, Master Crispin! I wasn’t made no Tracker’s apprentice yesterday.” In a huff, he stomped toward the inn and disappeared into the shade of its muddy courtyard.
Crispin crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against a gatepost. His hood hung low, nearly blocking his view, but he was glad of it, as the rain had not stopped, though it had eased from before.
He tried not to think about Abbot Nicholas. Instead, he thought of his current situation, threading the many bits and patches through his head: the dead armorer and the missing relic; the stolen rent money; the three knights; Lenny; Sir Thomas. And Chaucer. How did his presence slip into these strange and unrelated events? What the hell was he up to in that inn? Oh to be a fly on the wall. But his own little fly was doing his spying for him. Crispin could only hope he did it well enough that Chaucer would not notice him.
He sniffed, feeling with relief the stuffiness finally receding. He didn’t suppose standing in the rain would ease his cold, but it couldn’t be helped. He glanced down the lane— God’s death! Not those damned sheriffs again. Didn’t they have the peace to keep? From atop their mounts the pair smiled at him.
He didn’t need this right now.
He composed his features before pushing away from the post and sauntering toward them. They all but rubbed their hands together in anticipation. When he came alongside them he bowed. “Lord Sheriffs.”
“It’s a small world, isn’t it, seeing you again so soon, Master Crispin?” said Staundon. “But a fortunate meeting, for I have new tidings. We have looked at the evidence and made the notation that you have done your job well, being the First Finder, Master Crispin.”
“Indeed,” put in More. “You called the hue and cry as is prescribed and you gave good testimony to the coroner. All in all, we cannot see fit to fine you.”
“That’s a mercy,” he mumbled.
Staundon leaned down. “Did you say something, Master Crispin?”
“No, nothing. Only that I am glad that the jury found Grey’s death a murder. It was not fit to bury the man without the blessings of the Church.”
“Rightly so,” said More, crossing himself. “We hope to find the other apprentice. It does not do well that he should lie at the bottom of the Thames without the proper burial sacraments.”
Staundon nodded his head solemnly for the allotted moment before he got right to the point as he leaned an arm across the pommel of his saddle. “Have we caught you in the midst of your investigations, Crispin?”
More looked around with bright eyes. Did he hope to see the murderer come striding up to Crispin, a flag of surrender in his hands?
“Er … it is a delicate business, my lords. I am waiting for my apprentice to arrive with information.”
“Oh?” Staundon dismounted and grabbed the horse’s lead with a gloved fist. “Perhaps we can help.”
“Yes, indeed!” More slipped off his horse as well and anxiously surveyed the lane. “From which direction is he bound to come?”
Crispin flicked his eyes across the lane. “He is in yon inn, spying.”
“Spying!” cried More with glee. He clapped his hands together and then rested one on Staundon’s sleeve. “Did you hear that, William?”
“Indeed I did. Why don’t we go in, Master Guest, and help you get your information. The presence of the Lord Sheriffs will surely help you in your cause.”
He grabbed their arms as they made to cross the lane. “My lords! Why don’t we let my apprentice do his work? Sometimes it is best to keep a low profile in these endeavors.”
They stared at him until More broke into a smile. “Low profile. I get your meaning, Master Crispin. And we, being the sheriffs, are the highest profile to be had, eh?”
He nodded vigorously. “Oh indeed, my lords.” You pompous asses.
Staundon pressed his fists to his hips. “Dear me. And I was so looking forward to helping. Master Guest, you take the fun out of it.”
“I apologize, my lord. I did not realize that investigating the murder of three men was somehow … fun.”
Staundon lowered his arms and shuffled in place. “Ah. Yes. Well, certainly I did not mean that.”
“Of course you didn’t,” said Sheriff More. “That would be most vulgar. But Master Guest mus
t also certainly realize that without our patronage, his job would be much harder. And his fines would be more rigorous.”
Crispin set his jaw. “My lords, what would I do without your help? Your full credit for solving this murder will, of course, be heralded throughout London.” Again.
Sheriff Staundon smiled. “Of course. Master Guest is a clever fellow. He never misses a clue.” He gazed longingly at the inn before turning abruptly on his heel. Mounting his horse, he said, “We can be as patient as the Tracker. We will wait for the conclusion of this until his apprentice returns.”
“So be it,” said More from atop his horse again. “He is a clever boy. Jack is his name, is it not? Whence did he come to you, Master Crispin? A servant from your former days at court?”
There seemed a little too much emphasis on “former,” he thought, but he plastered on a faint smile. “Not at all. He used to be a cutpurse.”
With swallowed gasps, the sheriffs fell blessedly silent. He stood beside their horses, allowing the flanks of the beasts to warm his back. Still, the drizzle seemed to grow colder the longer he stood. Crispin tilted his head down and crossed his arms under his cloak. Standing like a pillar, he let the rainwater cascade around him. The horses snuffled and chewed their bits with the jangling of bridles. But the sheriffs were the impatient ones, whispering back and forth to each other, as if Crispin couldn’t hear what they were saying.
At last, Jack trotted from around the wall of the inn, and stumbled when he beheld the sheriffs. The look on his face told Crispin that the lad was deciding whether to run in the opposite direction, but since everyone had spotted him, he continued on his course. When he reached Crispin he bowed to all three. “Master. What goes on here?”
“The sheriffs are here to help me, Jack.”
Jack gathered the full meaning in one. “’Slud,” he rasped.
“Well, Master Tucker,” said Sheriff Staundon congenially. “What have you discovered?”
Eyes like bezants, he looked to Crispin for help. Crispin obliged him by turning to face the sheriffs. “My apprentice is used to dealing only with me, especially on delicate topics.”
Sheriff More frowned. “Eh? Delicate?”
“At times, my lord, the subjects of our inquiries are persons of … grand nature.”
The sheriffs exchanged glances. “Oh!” piped Staundon. “Oh, I see. You do not wish to divulge—”
“No, my lords. It is for the best. You would not wish to be found at fault should our subjects discover our clandestine activities, would you?”
Even their horses shied. More clutched at the reins and pulled the horse to. “No, indeed, Master Crispin!” He cast a furtive glance toward the inn. “He didn’t see you, did he, Master Tucker?”
“N-no, my lords.”
“That’s a good lad. He’s a clever boy, Crispin. Did we not say that, William? Well! Sheriff Staundon and I must be off. Do report your findings to us when you can, Master Guest.”
Crispin bowed again, hiding his smile beneath his sodden hood. “In all haste, my lords.”
“Good. Good.” He turned the horse and, with Staundon beside him, they galloped their beasts away toward London.
“God be praised,” Crispin muttered before turning to Jack. “Well?”
“It wasn’t easy, Master Crispin,” he said. They both began to walk toward London, leaning in toward each other to keep their conversation to themselves and to keep the rain at bay. “It was a small inn. But I kept me hood low and, luckily, Sir Geoffrey had his back to me. He met a man in a dark cloak and they retired up to a room.”
Jack pulled Crispin aside and stood in front of him when a cart, going a little too fast, cast up a splatter of muddy water. His cloak took the brunt of it, and he looked back at the cart with a sneer before continuing with his tale. “As soon as they closed the door I crept up the stairs, but I couldn’t hear naught through the door. Anyhow, it would have looked suspicious my standing outside it, so I went to the end of the gallery where there was a window and climbed out of it.”
“You what?”
“I reckoned I’d have to listen in some other way. So I climbed out the window and went up over the roof. It was powerful slippery, mind you, with the rain and all. But I crawled along the roof and found the room below. There wasn’t no balcony—”
“There wasn’t any balcony,” Crispin softly corrected out of habit.
“As I said,” he went on, “so I crept as close to the edge of the roof as I dared. Their shutters were open—a good thing, too—and I listened. But because of the rain I didn’t hear much. Only that Master Chaucer said he was doing the best he could and that the other man’s lord would have to wait. And then the other man spoke but he had a foreign accent, and it was twice as hard to hear what he was about.”
“What sort of accent?”
“I’m sorry, Master, I could not recognize it. But then in the midst of their talking, Sir Geoffrey told the man he was a Spanish dog, and by that I reckoned it was a Spanish accent.”
“What?” Crispin pulled him to a stop and they stood on the muddy road on the cusp of Fleet Street. “Geoffrey was talking to a Spaniard?”
“That’s what it would seem like, sir.”
“But you couldn’t make out what they were discussing?”
“No, sir. I swear on the Holy Rood, sir.”
“You did well, Jack.”
“Master Crispin, if Sir Geoffrey was talking to a Spaniard, and our knights are fighting in Spain, then what would Master Chaucer be talking about in secret at an inn?”
Any number of scenarios ran through Crispin’s head. “I don’t know, Jack. It can’t be anything good, that is certain. I may just have to confront Geoffrey.”
“But he’s your friend, Master Crispin. Surely he will tell you something.”
“Something, yes. But will it be the truth?”
It took another quarter of the hour to reach the Shambles, and by then it was nearing sundown. Discouraged merchants and butchers were shuttering their shops. Business had been poor on the street again. But the business of murder seemed to be booming. Crispin sneered at his own cynicism and trudged up the stairs, but pulled up short just shy of the landing.
His door was open. Either his landlord had let in a client, or he had an unwanted visitor.
Jack pushed forward, grumbling at his master’s hesitation. But Crispin laid a hand on his shoulder to impede him.
Jack jolted to a stop.
Shadows moved past the crack below the door. Crispin eased his dagger from its sheath. He stepped up the riser to the landing, stretched out his arm, and pushed open the door.
It was almost a relief to see Chaucer standing there.
Crispin sheathed his dagger and walked into the room, heading straight for his chair. He sat, leaving the stool for Geoffrey. “I almost expected you.”
Geoffrey scowled, glared at the stool, and finally sat hard. “I’m tired of playing games, Cris.”
“So am I. What exactly are you playing, Geoffrey? It seems very dangerous. To all of us.”
His lip twitched. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Crispin hunched forward and folded his hands on the table. The small tallow candle flickered. A ribbon of smoke rose between them, clouding Chaucer’s eyes. “I don’t like the company you keep.”
Geoffrey’s eyes narrowed slightly before the shadow passed and he threw his head back with a laugh. “You have been following me.”
“What else was I to do?”
“I should have thought of that myself. I should have followed you.”
A smirk pulled up one side of Crispin’s mouth. “But I was waiting for that.”
Chaucer shook his head and scooted the stool closer to the table so that he could rest his hands upon it. Fingers toyed with the clay dish that held the pooled wax of the candle. “So. Cat. Mouse. Which the cat and which the mouse?”
“Depends on the game.”
Geoffrey leaned on an elbow and stroked hi
s carefully combed beard. “No game. But many players. Where is Sir Thomas Saunfayl?”
“So bold a strike for your first move? Geoffrey, Geoffrey. Lancaster taught you better chess than that. ‘Do not show your opponent your strategy so soon.’”
“I don’t want to be your opponent.”
Crispin chuckled humorlessly. “Too late for that.”
“Oh, you have become hard, haven’t you? Although I can’t recall you being a particularly merry fellow in days gone by. But this? How can you say you know me and have so little trust?”
“I’m still waiting.”
“Very well.” He grabbed the edge of the table with whitening fingers. “I needed information on an object. Something of great importance. Something … I think you know about.”
Now we are getting to it at last! “You jest. An object?”
“Dammit, Cris!” A hand slammed the table. The flat pool of melted wax spilled over into white ghostly fingers, reaching across the wood. “You know what I am talking about. You went to see the abbot about it.” A pause. “Oh, very well, I did follow you.”
Crispin didn’t move, didn’t speak.
“We both know what we are talking about,” said Chaucer.
“Then you go first.”
Chaucer’s ire seemed to melt away. A smile, and then he closed his eyes, chuckling. “I have so missed you. Bless me.” He turned to Jack, standing in the shadows. “Has this God-forsaken hole of a room any wine?”
Jack’s gaze slid to his master first before he answered. “No, my lord. Shall I fetch some, Master Crispin?”
“I think you had better. And make haste, Jack. Master Chaucer won’t be staying as long as he thinks he will.”
Geoffrey laughed at that, but his eyes still followed Jack as he took up the empty jug and hurried out the door.
“Now that we’ve gotten rid of him,” said Crispin, sitting back. “What did you want to say to me that you didn’t want him to hear? Mind you, I’ll be telling him anyway.”
Blood Lance: A Medieval Noir Page 13
