Blood Lance: A Medieval Noir

by Jeri Westerson

  “I saw you on the bridge when that man was killed,” rasped Crispin. “You ran away then. What did you do? Answer me, or so help me I will bash your head till it’s cracked like an egg.”

  “Please, Master Crispin! Please! Don’t hurt old Lenny. I’ve done no harm.”

  “Then tell me, you scoundrel. What have you done?”

  “Nothing! Nothing!”

  Crispin drew back his hand to deliver another blow when Jack grabbed it and held on. He glared at Jack in amazement and shook him off roughly. “What the hell do you think you are doing, Tucker?”

  “Stopping you from making a fool of yourself. Look at him. Miserable piece of dog shit that he is. Don’t soil yourself touching him, Master.” Jack frowned and with his fist raised, he turned viciously on Lenny, who cringed back. “And you! Answer my master’s question. We both seen you on the bridge. We both know you’re up to no good. You stole from that tailor, didn’t you!”

  Lenny’s eyes darted from Jack’s to Crispin’s and the hope of mercy slowly died in their dark depths. “Peace! Don’t strike me again, I beg of you. You’ve got a damnable wallop, you have.” He rubbed his mouth where his lip bled. His tongue flicked out and licked at it but only managed to smear the blood. “I was a desperate man, living off of filth in the streets to get me bread. I’ve nothing to me name and that’s God’s truth. I was starving.”

  “And so if I turn out your coat right now I will not find half a dozen purses belonging to other people,” said Crispin, gritting his teeth. He felt like slamming the man’s head to the table. But Jack was right. It wasn’t worth the trouble with the sheriffs.

  One hand came up to the neck of his coat in defense, but when Lenny realized what he was doing, that hand dropped away. Lenny lowered his face. “Aye. I was on the bridge that night. But I didn’t do naught to that man. It wasn’t me.”

  “Damn you! What were you doing?”

  “I came for me payment. I done a job for a man.”

  “What job?”

  “I’m getting to that, Master Crispin.” His eyes shifted to the barred door. “I was hired by a man to … to steal money from the tailor shop next to the armorer’s.”

  Crispin stepped back and looked down at his blade. His reflection was blurry and distorted on its shiny surface. “Tell me everything,” he said quietly.

  Lenny finally lowered his hands and rubbed his palms against his thighs in their torn and disreputable stockings. “Well, then. A man approached me ’bout a sennight ago. Told me he wanted me to do a job and paid me half then. I waited till the place was empty, when both went off to mass—” He cringed at Crispin’s look of disgust. “He told me exactly where to find the funds and told me not to take anything else. I done what I was told and took the money to him. He paid me some of what he owed me but said he’d give me the rest in a few days’ time. I asked him why he couldn’t just take it from the pouch then and there, but he told me no. So when I come back he doesn’t have the money. And I come back again, and again he puts me off. Nobody cheats Lenny, and so I pursued him on the bridge but we were interrupted by your rescuing that dead man. And now that he sees me talking to you he’ll kill me for sure.”

  “And how can he see you? Only a handful of men saw me drag you in here.”

  But suddenly Lenny became remarkably tight-lipped. His eyes darted to the door again.

  “There was someone here.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But your eyes did.” Crispin walked slowly away. He sheathed his dagger and rested his hand on the hilt. “Did the man say why he wanted you to steal the money and nothing else?”

  “Said it was a scheme to make the place empty. That was all he would say. What did I care? I did it for the money.”

  “That don’t make sense,” said Jack.

  “Yes, it does.” Crispin raised his hand to silence his apprentice. “And who is the man that hired you?”

  “I don’t know his name.”

  “Was he here in this room?”

  Lenny said nothing and Crispin swiveled to look at him, hand curled tight. “Well?”

  He swallowed loudly, staring at Crispin’s fist. “Aye.”

  Crispin didn’t like that at all. Spies everywhere. Even in his favorite tavern. He glanced quickly at Gilbert, who seemed a little shocked by this revelation.

  “Describe him.”

  Lenny sighed and licked at his bleeding lip again. “He’s not too tall, what I’d call middling. Not fat and not thin. Darkish hair.”

  Crispin frowned. “What are you playing at?”

  “I’m not playing at naught, Master Crispin! I swear. That is the man. I can’t help it if God made him look like every other man. But I do know this,” he said, raising a shaking finger. “He mentioned someone in high ranks, someone at court whose orders he was following.”

  “What? Who?”

  “He didn’t know he let slip mention of a ‘Sir Geoffrey.’ How this Sir Geoffrey would be pleased.”

  Chaucer? Could he be involved—Crispin laughed unpleasantly. But of course he was involved. Could he have hired this man to hire Lenny? Damn him.

  “You shouldn’t have run from me, Lenny. You should have come to me.”

  “It wasn’t no murder, Master Crispin. It was just thievery. And you gave me your word that you would leave the sheriffs out of it when I done you that favor two years ago.”

  “This involved a man’s death.”

  “How was I to know that? And I don’t see how, anyway. It happened days before.”

  “Nevertheless. The bargain I made with you was a contract with the Devil. I wipe my hands of you.”

  “Ah now, Master Crispin. You mustn’t say that. I’m useful to you, I am. Lenny knows things that others don’t.”

  “Tell me the name of the man who hired you, then.”

  “I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

  “Get out.”

  “’Slud, good master. Don’t be that way about it. I can be useful to you still. Why, a farthing goes a long way with old Lenny.”

  “I’ve had enough of you. I said get out.”

  The thief frowned and staggered to his feet. “You’ll be sorry. One day you’ll need old Lenny, and where will he be? Out of your reach, that’s what.”

  “Dead, you mean?”

  Lenny cringed. “Ah now! Bless me! Don’t go laying a curse on me, Master. That isn’t sport, is it?”

  “There’s worse than dead, you know.”

  Lenny clapped an involuntary hand to his shorn-off ear. The sheriff had cut it off years ago because of his thievery, but he was lucky he’d gotten off with only that and not the noose. And that had been due to Crispin’s charity.

  Lenny shuffled toward the door, wary that he would be stopped. When he stood before it, he looked back at Crispin. “I’m marked now, like Cain. He’ll want to kill me because I told you.”

  Crispin scowled. “How is that my problem?”

  “You’re hard today,” he said, and spit on the floor. Gilbert made an indignant gasp. “So that’s it? You would send me away? I’ve done good work for you in the past, Master Crispin. In truth, I’ve done my share of thievery over the years. Why now does it vex you?”

  “I’m tired of it, Lenny. I’m tired of your lack of conscience. Of your devilry. There is too much of it afoot in London.”

  Lenny gestured to Jack. “But you don’t mind this one cutting a purse or two to keep the wolf from the door, eh?”

  Jack shot him a murderous glare. “I never! I don’t do that no more, you scum. Master Crispin well knows about my past.”

  “Past, is it? So you would have him believe.”

  Jack pounced and the both of them went down. Jack got in a few good punches to the man’s gut before Crispin and Gilbert pulled him off. When he pushed Jack aside his face was red and tears brimmed at his eyes.

  “See what a devil you are,” said Crispin with a sneer. “Throw this rubbish out.”

  Gilbert grabbe
d him and pulled him toward the door. He threw aside the beam and opened it.

  Lenny grabbed the doorway and turned back to Crispin with fear on his face. “But Master Crispin! I’ll be killed for certain!”

  Crispin stood impassively as Gilbert thrust Lenny out the door and barred it again. He rested his back against it and stared at Crispin.

  But Crispin was looking at Jack. The boy’s shoulders heaved and he wiped angrily at his eyes. “Don’t believe him, Master Crispin. It’s the Devil’s own tongue he’s using. I don’t do that no more. Not unless you tell me to.”

  “I know that, Jack. Never fear.” He lowered himself to a bench, his back to the table. “Damn Lenny. And damn that man who hired him.”

  Jack sniffed. “He said he was here in the tavern.”

  Gilbert sat beside Crispin with a huff of expelled breath. “You know such fine people.”

  Crispin fell silent and stared into the fire. Lenny had been useful over the years, but Crispin had had to turn a blind eye to his mischief. He couldn’t any longer. He dropped his head into his hands and raked his fingers through the thick locks of his hair.

  “I’ll wager anything that the tailor’s landlord was in on it,” said Jack.

  Crispin raised his head. Jack had composed himself and looked more like the stalwart apprentice he was.

  “Yes. He’d have to be. But how would he know exactly where the tailor hid his wealth? It’s not likely something the tailor would tell him.” He ran his hand through his already untidy hair. “I’ve been sloppy, Jack. Too sloppy. I haven’t asked enough questions of the right people. That landlord, for one. And Master Coterel for another.”

  “You’ve been ill, Master.”

  “A dreadful excuse. I must not allow that to continue.”

  “Very well. We will work together. So as Lenny said, there is a ‘Sir Geoffrey.’ Why is Master Chaucer involved in it?”

  “Because he wants the Spear, Jack. If the Coterels were evicted then the culprits would have time aplenty to break into the armorer’s to search for it.”

  “Blind me!”

  Gilbert sat before the fire, wringing his apron. “What spear?”

  Jack sat beside Gilbert. “So who was it that was here in the tavern tonight?”

  “The usual,” said the tavern keeper. “All men you are acquainted with. But what is this spear you’re speaking of?”

  “Excepting maybe one or two,” said Crispin thoughtfully. He smacked his forehead suddenly. “God’s blood! They saw Anabel leave with Ned.”

  “Who’s Anabel?” asked Gilbert.

  Crispin caught Jack’s gaze. “She was captured by those same knights that you encountered.”

  “God’s bones,” he muttered.

  “They were questioning her about the Spear.”

  Gilbert edged closer. “What spear? Who’s Anabel?”

  “I told her to go to the Unicorn Inn on Watling Street. Ned will get the message to her father.”

  “I’ll go after them, Master Crispin, and see that all is well.”

  Jack got to his feet and hurried out the door, leaving it to fall shut behind him.

  Gilbert turned to Crispin and quietly asked, “Who is Anabel and what is this spear?”

  “I must go.” Crispin headed for the door.

  “Crispin!”

  He turned back, one hand on the latch. “Yes?”

  Gilbert offered a weak smile and a shrug. “God keep you.”

  Crispin nodded and pulled open the door. He stepped out onto the darkened street and wondered where to begin. The landlord, surely, for he was in it as deep as any other. And Chaucer. It was time to have it out with him and about his Spanish friends. But then there was Sir Thomas getting wound tighter and tighter.

  Deciding, he stepped in the direction that would take him toward the bridge. But something heavy collided with the back of his head and all his thoughts dissolved into darkness.

  * * *

  COLD WATER ON HIS face and in his mouth. He struggled to the surface, imagining he was drowning. But he was not underwater.

  He opened his eyes and saw a vague light cast by an upper window to the stinking alley below. He was kneeling in the mud and furiously trying to recall how he got there when the boot sunk into his gut. Doubling over, he dry heaved, gasping for air at the same time.

  Well, he certainly expected this, just maybe not so soon.

  He curled in on himself, trying to protect his gut, when a kick to his side sent him rolling over.

  Have to gain my feet. Being on the ground was a distinct disadvantage. He rolled again and hands grasped him, lifting until he was slammed against a wall.

  He cracked open his eyes and saw their dark shapes. Three of them. The blond one was closest. His foul breath puffed into his face.

  “No stable this time, Sir Osbert?”

  The man hesitated. “How do you know my … Oh, the girl.”

  “Are you going to ask me where the Spear is, too?”

  He pushed his fist into Crispin’s neck, grasping his coat collar and grinding his knuckles into his skin. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  “I don’t know. I was rather hoping you did.”

  Backhanded. He bit the inside of his cheek, even though he had prepared for it. Dammit. A rush of blood filled his mouth and he spit it in the direction of the man’s surcote.

  Sir Osbert looked down at the red blotch on his chest. “Whoreson.” He grabbed Crispin’s hair and slammed his head against the wall.

  Stars flickered behind his eyelids. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to stop,” he grunted.

  He got a fist in his gut for an answer, which sent him down again. His knees hit the mud.

  “I thought … you had … the box,” Crispin gasped.

  Osbert chuckled above him. “It was as empty as your head, apparently. I told you, Guest, you were in over your head. I’m telling you now to forget you ever heard of the Spear.”

  He coughed and pried open an eye. The other two knights still stood in the shadows, while Osbert smacked his fist into his palm, mouth twisted into a leer.

  “Forget the Spear? You must be jesting.”

  Osbert planted his beefy hands on his thighs and bent over to stare into Crispin’s face. “Do I look like I’m jesting?”

  Crispin inhaled a shaky breath. “Indeed not. But once I am commissioned to do a job I rarely surrender it.”

  “You’ll surrender like you’re told. Though, mark me, I’d rather continue to thrash you.”

  “I got that impression.” Crispin rubbed his sore belly. “Perchance, may I ask why I am being told to disregard my oaths?”

  “You’re not good at obeying orders, are you?”

  “Orders by whom, my lord? You see, I find it difficult to obey random requests by men who snatch women off the streets for nefarious purposes.”

  He laughed. “Listen to you. ‘Nefarious purposes.’ As I said, you don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “Then instruct me, my lord. Tell me why I must forswear myself.”

  “You still think yourself a knight, Guest?”

  “True. But just because I am no longer a knight does not mean I am without honor.”

  They all laughed at that and Crispin scowled. “A traitor?” Osbert chuckled, including his men in the jest. “An honorable traitor! Fantastic, your arrogance.”

  “Nevertheless. You haven’t yet offered me a good reason to abandon my search for the Spear.”

  Osbert frowned. “Because I’m telling you. That should be good enough for the likes of you!”

  Crispin shrugged. “Alas.”

  With a grimace, Osbert cocked his leg back, ready to deliver another blow, but as it swung forward, Crispin caught it by the sole and shoved the foot upward, hurling the knight onto his backside. The others froze for a heartbeat before they descended on him, feet and fists thrashing.

  Ducking his head, Crispin punched and rolled, trying to avoid fists and delivering as many blows a
s he could curled like a hedgehog. In the end, two against one—and then Osbert joined in—proved too much.

  They stepped back, panting and huffing clouds of breath into the night. Crispin landed against the wall. He slid down until he sat with his back to it. His head swam and the shadowy men became that much more obscure.

  Osbert jutted a finger at him. “Do what you are told, Guest. Or next time we won’t stop with such a friendly request.”

  Friendly? Exhausted, sore, Crispin slumped. “One thing more, my lords.”

  The men were already walking away when they stopped and glared at him in amazement. “You want more, Guest?”

  “Merely an answer to a burning question. Did you kill Roger Grey and his apprentices?”

  Osbert’s face changed only slightly. He licked his lips and his chest rumbled with a malevolent chuckle. “If I were you, Guest, I’d keep my mouth firmly shut. Or it will be shut for you.”

  “Apprentices, my lord? Young boys? I cannot abide a killer of children. I will not rest until I bring such a foul creature to justice.”

  Osbert sneered and spat. He leaned down again. “I welcome the chance to have at you again, Guest. I truly welcome it.” He turned on his heel and the others followed.

  But suddenly they stopped. Through the haze of his blurry vision, Crispin saw three men blocking their escape.

  “Buena tarde, mis señores,” said a deep voice, and then the sound of a sword drawn.

  Crispin tried to sit up but his head was too woozy. Osbert and his men drew their swords and six blades suddenly clashed, ringing like church bells in the narrow alley. A shimmer of moonlight breaking through the clouds slipped over the blades in flashes and in a momentary lapse, Crispin grabbed for his own sword and cursed when he remembered that there was none.

  No one spoke but each knight found his own opponent. As if by a secret signal, they all began at the same time.

  The fight scattered the muddy puddles, kicking up soaring splashes caught by moonlight. Steel clanked against steel, followed by grunts and gasps. Blades slapped shoulders and fists found jaws.

  Right above Crispin, two men fought. Their moonlit faces snarled and one had his arms clasped in a bear hug around the other. Crispin could not tell who was which until the one on the right gasped out a string of what Crispin thought might be curses, only they were in a foreign tongue. The English knight suddenly pushed him away and cocked back an arm to strike with his fist, but his opponent ducked and used his shoulder to shove him into a wall. The English knight gasped out a whoosh of air and dropped his sword. He seemed to recover quickly and nimbly drew his dagger in time to deflect the down-rushing sword blade.