Blood Lance: A Medieval Noir

by Jeri Westerson

  “You see plots in cobwebs.”

  “I have good reason to. What, Geoffrey? Tell me, then. The only wine I can afford won’t be worth the wait.”

  “The Spear of Longinus.”

  “Ah. Finally. And what makes you think I am looking for it?”

  “Coy? No. I know you are looking for it. Just as I know that Sir Thomas Saunfayl paid money to obtain it from the dead armorer on London Bridge. Just as I know it is missing.”

  “You know a lot. I could have saved my feet from all that walking.”

  “There is still a great deal I don’t know. Who killed the armorer, for instance, though little I care.”

  “You should care more. It is likely the killer has this relic.”

  “You think so? I have reason to believe he doesn’t.”

  “And what reasons are those?”

  “I have my sources.”

  Crispin began to rock his chair gently, the soft creak, creak soothed him. “What sort of sources?”

  “Does it matter? Cris, we don’t need to do this. We can join forces to find this thing. It needs to be found.”

  “And when it is found what will happen next?”

  “It will be returned to its rightful place.”

  “And where is that?”

  Suddenly, Chaucer’s effusiveness stilled. “Never fear, Cris. It will be a goodly place.”

  He smirked again. “Why is it when someone tells me ‘never fear’ I find that I must fear very greatly?”

  “Cris—”

  “What do I get out of this?”

  Chaucer’s thoughts seemed to stumble. “Why, the accomplishment of your task.”

  “I do this work for money. It is my livelihood. I say again, what do I get out of it?”

  “So it’s coins you want. Perhaps I was mistaken about you, Cris.”

  “Geoffrey, you are a clever man, a sometimes rake, and, God help us, a fine poet. But you have never been a stupid man. Why are you playing stupid now?”

  “I seem to have missed a page in this manuscript. You asked about compensation and I was incredulous that you wanted it. And so. If that is our bargaining chip, I will pay.” He unbuttoned the flap on his scrip and took out a large pouch, bulging with coins. “What will it take, Master Guest? How many marks? We can pay whatever you like.”

  “We?”

  “Surely you do not imagine I am working alone. If I pay you your fee then you will deliver the Spear to me and me alone. You will also speak of this to no one.” He began counting coins onto the table in neat piles. Crispin didn’t stop him. He merely watched, counting them out in his head. The fee was climbing higher by the moment.

  “I will not take your money.”

  Hand suspended over another growing column of coins, Chaucer looked up. “You may have little choice in the matter. It would be better, I think, to at least have the coins in hand. You never know what the future will hold.”

  “I know there is no future in taking your coins, from whatever the source. I will find this object and I will decide then what I do with it.”

  “You would do well to bargain with me now. I doubt that this offer will come again.”

  A sudden wave of anger swept over Crispin and he gritted his teeth. “Don’t. Don’t sound like those cursed dogs I must deal with every day. Twisted men with a vile purpose. For God’s sake, Geoffrey! Don’t sound like them.”

  But Chaucer’s face was hardened. “Forgive me. I suppose I forgot myself. For I have forgotten you, the man you used to be.” Slowly, Chaucer collected the coins from the many piles he had positioned on the table and dropped them back into his pouch.

  Jack burst through the door, out of breath and panting, but holding the jug with two hands. His eyes caught the glitter of silver and he was in time to watch the last of the coins disappear into their pouch and scrip.

  Jack’s eyes looked as if they would bulge from his head, but he controlled himself and fetched the bowls from the shelf and filled them with the wine and set them before each man.

  “I’m afraid I can’t partake of your wine, Crispin. It appears I must be going.” Chaucer rose.

  “Oh? So soon?” Crispin stayed where he was.

  “Yes. I’m sorry we couldn’t do business together. It would have been so much easier if we had.”

  “Yes. Easier. Though ‘All persons ought to endeavor to follow what is right, and not what is established.’”

  “Are you still quoting that philosopher? I thought you would have grown out of that by now.”

  “Not when Aristotle proves so apt time and again.”

  “But he is dead and gone. He can no longer speak on these topical issues.”

  “Well, we’ve all got to die sometime.”

  Chaucer gave a pained smile before he pulled open the door and left, leaving it open behind him.

  Jack slowly closed and bolted it and stared at Crispin. “Was he offering to pay you?”

  “You don’t truly want to know.”

  “You’re right. I don’t.” He picked up the bowl. “May I?”

  “Why not? Here’s to your continued health, Jack.”

  They both drank quietly.

  * * *

  LYING HERE WASN’T GOING to solve this, thought Crispin. On his bed, hands tucked behind his head, Crispin stretched. Morning light, such as it was behind a layer of gray clouds, filtered in through the partially opened shutters. Roger Grey and his apprentices were dead. For the sake of a relic? That did seem to be the case, but Geoffrey all but told him that the killer didn’t have it. How did he know? What more did he know? Had Crispin been a fool to throw that information away? As well as the silver?

  Or was Geoffrey merely lying again to get what he wanted?

  “Ah, Jack,” he sighed.

  “Aye, Master? Is there something you wanted? I have hot water for your shave and hot broth to break the morning fast.”

  “In a moment. I’ve been thinking. If Chaucer is right—and at the moment we will indulge ourselves that he is speaking the truth—then the relic either didn’t exist or is missing by other means.”

  “So, Master Crispin, Sir Geoffrey claims the murderer does not have it?”

  “Correct. And if that were true, then it is in the hands of another.”

  “How are we ever to know that!”

  “We must think it through as we always do.”

  “Very well, then.” Jack sat on the end of Crispin’s bed and leaned against the wall beside the window.

  Crispin folded his legs, making room for him. “First of all, this business of Lenny running from the scene. I do not like it, Jack. I think he had something to do with it.”

  “He is a slimy fellow. I don’t trust him. He scares me a bit.”

  “But is he a murderer?”

  “Lenny?” Jack scratched his nose thoughtfully. “Well, you would know him better than me.”

  “I do not see him in that role but it does not mean he is not capable. For what do I truly know of the knave? But I know with certainty that he is a thief. He might have stolen the relic.”

  “And why would he do that, Master? He wouldn’t know what it was. That it was worth anything. Especially with all the fine things in that shop.”

  “True. Unless he was hired to steal it.”

  “Ah! Now that is a possibility, sir. But, of course, that still doesn’t tell us who is ultimately responsible.”

  “But if we find Lenny—”

  “Aye, Master.” He rubbed at his upturned nose. “Of course, it might also be that he didn’t do so grand a burglary and is more likely responsible for stealing the Coterels’ rent money.”

  “Yes, about that. Why was it that the rent money and only the rent money was stolen?”

  “That has troubled me too, Master.”

  Crispin scooted up until his back rested against the wall. Jack took this as a signal to bring over a bowl of hot broth. Crispin took it gratefully, for his head cold had not entirely surrendered. He dipped his
stale bread in it and chewed on the softened scrap.

  Jack sat back on the bed with his own bowl and bread. He clamped his teeth on the crusty edge of the loaf and tore it free, chewing loudly with his mouth open.

  “Manners, Jack,” Crispin reminded.

  “Oh,” he said, tongue pushing the bread to the side of a bulging cheek. “Sorry.” He closed his mouth and chewed more silently. “And so,” he said, still chewing. “Why would a thief ignore all the finery around him—as well as needles and thimbles, which are expensive—and steal only coins in a hidden place? And would he know that place? It don’t make no sense … er, any sense.”

  “No, it does not. Except … What is the outcome if the rent is gone?”

  “The tenants get booted out on their ears, that’s what. Master Kemp has been good to you, sir, and allows you to be late many a time.”

  “Yes, he does. But other landlords are not as charitable. Though Mistress Anabel said that her landlord has not in the past been so adamant. What would make him suddenly irate about late rent now?”

  “It’s a good excuse to roust out your tenant.”

  “But why would one do that? Surely a new tenant would be hard to come by, paying those higher prices on the bridge.”

  “I dunno, sir. The place would stand empty. And that can’t be profitable.”

  “Indeed not.”

  “It wouldn’t be good for tenants or landlord.”

  “Just so. Perhaps we are speculating in the wrong quarter.”

  “It would help to ask Lenny what he was up to.”

  “Indeed. I should very much like to talk with him but he is more slippery than an eel.”

  “Shall I search for him, sir? We haven’t made much of an effort till now. I am more familiar with his haunts, having made them myself.”

  “You’re right.” He scrubbed his face, fingers trailing down to his unshaven chin. “Too many distractions. Damn Geoffrey. Why can’t he just come out with it? And what the hell is he doing plotting with a Spaniard?”

  Jack slurped his broth until Crispin raised his eyes and looked at him. The boy folded his lips and sipped instead. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Jack set the empty bowl aside. “I know this vexes you the most, Master. Sir Geoffrey and Sir Thomas. Friends of yours who are at odds. It doesn’t sit well with you, I can see that. And I’m sorry for it.”

  Crispin shrugged. “It’s damnable, to be sure. But I must not let it distract me. And we must be careful, Jack. If Geoffrey is somehow following us, we must make certain he does not know what we are about.”

  “That’s a certainty. Well! He’ll never dog my steps, sir.”

  Crispin smiled at the arrogance of the boy and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “See that he doesn’t.”

  * * *

  WHILE JACK WENT IN search of Lenny, Crispin found himself returning to the bridge. He made a circuitous route to get there, making certain he wasn’t followed. Damn Geoffrey.

  He strode down the main thoroughfare of the bridge, observing the viewing stands rising, the carpenters and their apprentices calling to one another, their workers planing posts into shape over sawhorses. The stands were to be narrow, as there was little enough space for the tilting yard.

  When he reached the armorer’s shop, a sheriff’s guard stood before it. Word must have gotten back to them that some suspicious goings-on were occurring.

  Crispin leaned against a post across the way and ran his eyes over the building, its windows shuttered tight now. Beside it to the right was the haberdasher’s. And then there was the tailor, Coterel’s shop. If Crispin had not paid their quarterly rent money for them, their shop would stand empty. Why did that suddenly trouble him? An empty shop on one side of the armorer’s. And there was something in the armorer’s that someone wanted. If I were devious, he thought, I would use that empty shop to bore a hole and get myself inside, in secret, to steal what I wanted. But what of the apprentices? Apprentices were often sent on errands, as Jack was doing. It would be an easy thing when Master Grey was out to tell his apprentices that they were wanted at the other side of London. How long would the place stand empty? Long enough to get through the wall and rummage about at will. But something had gone wrong. The plan had changed. Roger Grey was killed and his apprentices along with him.

  A talk with the Coterels’ landlord was in order, that was certain.

  “Yet they had not gotten the relic,” he muttered. But then the memory of that missing box or at least something with a rectangular shape came to mind. It seemed likely that a reliquary of some kind had housed the Spear. Suddenly, he recalled the ornamented spear shaft that Grey had fashioned. It had no spear head but was awaiting it. Maybe Grey had lied. Maybe he had not yet received the Spear.

  No, some event had triggered all these happenings. Crispin was certain the Spear had been present. But where was it now?

  Crispin watched the tailor shop, waiting for Robert Coterel to open the shutters and begin his day as his neighbors were doing. His shop, however, remained quiet and dark. Crispin frowned. He pushed away from the post and strode across the lane, allowing a wagon loaded with long beams to ramble in front of him until it passed, heading for the viewing stands.

  He knocked on the door and waited. Nothing. He pushed and the door yielded. The room was dark and smelled of smoldering hearth. He was careful to open the door slowly.

  In the dimness, he saw a figure on a chair. But as his eyes adjusted, he could see the man was tied to it with a gag in his mouth and his head slumped on his chest.

  Crispin rushed to him, shaking his shoulder as he slipped the gag off. “Master Coterel! Awake! What has happened?”

  His eyelids fluttered and he slowly opened them. His lip trembled. “Anabel,” he rasped.

  “Master Coterel.” Crispin quickly took his knife to the tailor’s bindings and cut him free. “What has happened to your daughter? Is she here?” He glanced behind him up the darkened stairs.

  “No, no! They took her.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “They took her, those men. They kept asking us but we did not know. So they took her. God help us!”

  “Asking you what?”

  “About some spear. I did not know what they were talking about. But they took her, Master Guest. They took her!”

  14

  HE HAD CALMED COTEREL with wine and busily set about lighting all the candles he could find. Light helped in terrifying circumstances.

  After a time he settled opposite the tailor, leaning in. “Who were they, Master Coterel?”

  “They were knights. Men in surcotes of different colors. But I do not know their names or houses.”

  “What did they look like, then?”

  “There were three of them. One had blond hair down to his shoulders and a scar crossing his cheek. He was the one who spoke to me, s-slapped me.”

  Anabel was right and Jack had been right to question them. If only he’d gone about it better.

  “I have an idea where they might be. Are you well enough for me to leave you, Master Coterel?”

  “I will go with you!” He snapped to his feet, but his legs wobbled and he fell back to his chair again.

  “No, you won’t. Stay here. I will go.”

  “But Master Crispin! My daughter…”

  “Trust me on this, Master Coterel.” Crispin bowed and quickly took his leave. When he had stepped outside, he raced down the lane and out the gate before anyone could stop and question him. Gutter Lane. He had to get to Gutter Lane. If the knights favored that particular stable to carry out their illicit proceedings, then he would find her there. If they favored it.

  And then what? He was still a man alone against three knights.

  Well, he’d had worse odds.

  It took some time to get to Gutter Lane and Crispin slowed to a halt near the crossroads of Gutter Lane and West Cheap, breathing hard. Peering around the corner, he was relieved to see three horses tied to posts outside the stab
le. The street seemed fairly deserted. Up the lane stood the Boar’s Tusk and men were coming and going from the tavern, but no one he knew, no one he could trust. In the end, he didn’t want to involve anyone who might get injured. And there wasn’t time to get the sheriffs.

  He pulled his dagger and headed for the door. Leaning in, he listened. His eyes scanned the dingy walls, their plaster now gray from mud, hay dust, and dirt. Shadows moved, circled. Anabel was tied with her back to a post, standing in a shaft of murky sunlight. A purple bruise puffed her cheek directly below her left eye.

  A furious rage suddenly broiled in Crispin’s chest, and his senses roared with renewed vitality. He slipped away and carefully circled the stable, looking for another way in. A small door near the back afforded an entrance. He pulled it open soundlessly. Creeping along the walls, he drew as close as he dared.

  It was them, the same men who had harassed Jack. The one with the lank blond hair and scar pushed his face close to Anabel’s. With lips tight, she turned away, but he grabbed her chin and forced her to face him. He smiled, and then made a slow perusal down her body. There was no mistaking his intent. “Wench, this will go very badly for you unless you tell me now. Where is the Spear?”

  “If she won’t tell, I’ve a spear for her,” said the dark-haired knight, rubbing his groin through his surcote.

  She tried to pull her chin away but the scarred knight held fast, his fingers pinching into her flesh so hard it was leaving red marks.

  “I told you,” she said between gritted teeth, but there was a tremor creeping into the undertone of her voice. “I don’t know. I do not have any idea what you are talking about!”

  Crispin looked around for any advantage. His gaze followed the leaping shadows from the circling knights and rose up the posts to the dim ceiling. A loft jutted just over the stalls below. Squinting, his eyes captured the shapes of ropes and pulleys hanging from rafter beams. He searched again and found a ladder to the loft standing only a few feet away.

  Quietly, he moved toward the ladder and tested the bottom rung with his boot. Silent. Up he went, gently putting his weight to each rung for fear it would creak.

  Reaching the loft, he looked down. The men encircled Anabel like jackals.