Blood Lance: A Medieval Noir

by Jeri Westerson

  “He’s there. Or his minions. They are not far away.”

  Jack pushed off from the table and went to the window. He flipped the bolt and pulled it open slightly, glancing down at the darkening street. “I don’t see no one.”

  “I don’t imagine you would.”

  He closed and bolted it again. “Blind me. I don’t like people watching and following me.”

  “The shoe is on the other foot now, eh, Tucker?”

  Jack smiled and sat again, taking another sizzling sausage from the trivet. He tossed it from one hand to the other until Crispin speared it mid-flight with his knife. He handed it, knife and all, to Jack. The boy took it sheepishly.

  “We will have to talk to Mistress Coterel again,” said Crispin. “Perhaps there is something she heard Grey say that might indicate where he could have hidden the relic.”

  “Could he have given it to someone for safekeeping?”

  “Perhaps. Anabel might know.”

  “Anabel, is it?” he muttered.

  Crispin glared at the boy as he chewed, juice dripping down his chin. “You have something to say, Tucker?”

  Jack sighed. “Sir, it’s just that … This woman. I think she’s trouble. You shouldn’t have aught to do with her.”

  “That opinion is not relevant to the situation. I suggest in future you keep such judgments to yourself.”

  “Yes, sir,” he grumbled.

  Crispin continued to eye the lad until Jack rose and cleaned the cooking things, stirring the ashes and adding more peat and a few sticks of wood to the hearth.

  Crispin turned his chair to face the fire and Jack settled on his stool to pore over the brief lesson Crispin had written in Greek. With his wax slate in front of him, Jack attempted to copy it out and translate, tongue firmly planted between his lips.

  A knock on the door made them raise their heads.

  Crispin motioned Jack down and drew his knife. He crept to the door and rested his hand on the latch. “Who is there?”

  “It is Anabel Coterel,” said the muffled voice. Immediately, he cast the bolt aside and pulled the door open.

  “I … apologize for arriving here so late in the evening.”

  Crispin glanced over the landing and poked his head out the door to look down the stairs. Exasperated, he closed the door and sheathed his knife. “You should not be out at all! And alone, damosel? I thought I made it plain—”

  “You have every right to be angry. You are taking fine care of me … and my father.”

  Stiffly, Crispin stood over her. What the hell was she doing here?

  She offered a bundle of clothes and held it forward a long time until he slowly took it from her. “The coat and shirts for your apprentice, sir. Father only just finished them. I know they are not fitted, but if Master Tucker will return to the inn with them…”

  Jack was there in an instant and took them from Crispin. His eyes were alight with gratitude and he sat quickly in his corner of straw and carefully laid out each item, whistling softly to himself. Of what Crispin could see, the blue coat was well made and the shirts looked sturdy as well. As long as the boy didn’t suddenly sprout up another foot, these clothes would do him justice for at least another few years.

  He expected Jack to whip off his old cotehardie but he spent a great deal of time running his hands gently over the fabric of the coat laid out on the straw and toying with the many cloth-covered buttons down the front and at the sleeves.

  “I thank you for that,” said Crispin softly.

  Jack’s head popped up. “Oh aye! Thank your father for me, damosel! Please do. It is a beautiful coat.”

  “I shall,” she said. She stood before Crispin for a time until she ducked away from his scrutiny to stand before the fire, raising her curled fingers to the meager flames. “I’m certain they will fit you well for many years, Master Tucker,” she said to the hearth.

  “That was kind of you to bring them,” said Crispin, “but as I said, foolish.”

  He walked around the table to join her at the hearth and she looked up at him then, suddenly startled at his appearance. “Oh! What has happened to your face?”

  He had forgotten the bruises. His jaw still felt tender but he was used to it by now. “An altercation with the same knights who detained you.” He raised a finger to the yellowing bruises on her cheek as well, but she turned her face away. Her veil hid it from view.

  “Who were they?”

  “They killed Roger Grey.”

  “Christ have mercy,” she gasped, blinking.

  “As you might have surmised, they do not have the relic that was surely the reason Master Grey was killed. I must ask you to search your thoughts, your memories, damosel. Is there anything that you can tell me—of Grey’s associates, of his enemies—that could help us identify what might have happened to this important object? For I fear that the danger to you and to me will remain until this item is found.”

  She shook her head, her plaits gently swaying with the motion. “Roger had many secrets. He did many favors for rich patrons. I feared that some of the things he did were not quite within the law. He was well paid for them, that I do know, for he did show me once what he made from one of his schemes. There was a lot of gold.”

  “Yes. That begs the question, too, of what became of his fortune.”

  “It would have been a great comfort to me and my father had it been found.”

  “He has no heirs?”

  “None that I know of. But as you saw, there was nothing there.” She continued to stare into the fire. “Master Crispin, are you any closer to finding the culprit who stole our rent money?”

  “I might be.”

  “Oh? Who, then?” She turned and was closer than Crispin thought.

  He cleared his throat and stepped back. “No one you are likely to know. He is a thief, and known to me.”

  “Then it isn’t likely our funds will be returned, is it?”

  He shook his head, watching the shape of her mouth as she spoke.

  “I fear you must forget this theft, then. It is a waste of your time. And I’d rather you spent that time bringing Roger’s killers to justice.”

  “The crimes may have to do with each other.”

  She seemed surprised at these tidings. Her lips parted but she said nothing.

  “Strange,” she said at last. “What would these killers need with our rent money?”

  “It seems to me, damosel—”

  “Anabel,” she corrected softly.

  “Anabel,” he whispered. “It seems that the killers wanted your eviction to empty your shop.”

  She kneaded her hands together before the fire. “Very strange,” she muttered. “Still, I would forget the thief and concentrate on these knights.”

  “You have never seen them before?”

  “Never,” she said.

  “Nor have you heard of this relic.”

  “As I’ve said. Would that I had!” She spun away from the fire and paced, coming to stop before Crispin. “I wish Roger never had anything to do with relics. What does it matter now that it’s gone? If you know who killed him, hadn’t you best tell the sheriff? You do believe it is these knights? But how can you bring noblemen to justice?”

  “True, they are knights, noblemen. I can’t just accuse them without further proof. And the relic will supply that proof.”

  Her veil shadowed her face. “Maybe,” she said softly, “maybe it is best … to forget … all of it.”

  “I am very much afraid, damosel, that I cannot.”

  She looked up. Her pliant lips worked gently, trying to form just the right words. “But why? You and I know in the sight of God who did it. Is that not enough?”

  “No. It is very much not enough. You must think of someone, somewhere who might have either helped Roger Grey find this relic in the first place or kept it safe for him until he called for it.”

  She shook her head again and took a step closer. “I can think of no one. He confided v
ery little.”

  “You were to be wed to him. Could he not trust you?”

  “As far as I knew, he trusted no one enough. Not even his apprentices. In your experience, have you found such men to be forthcoming to their wives?”

  “Sometimes. But as you say, he was not such a man.”

  “No. I am sorry for his death.” She traced a cross delicately over her face. “But I cannot say,” she said, voice falling to a whisper, “that I am sorry I did not marry him.”

  A throat cleared behind him and Crispin turned, remembering Jack. The boy buttoned his cloak and, slump-shouldered, headed toward the door. “I’ll just be on the landing, then,” he muttered, his reluctant steps taking him outside. He closed the door and Crispin, astonished, merely stared at it.

  She laughed softly, a deep rumble in her throat. “Your apprentice is a perceptive lad.”

  When he looked back at her, he knew again why Roger Grey had chosen her. The firelight claimed one cheek, dusting it with gold, while the other lay in shadow. The dark plaits shimmered with glossy amber fire. Her lids slid lower and she looked up at him through lashes that reminded him of another who was fond of gazing at him through sleepy eyes.

  Was it fair that the other, that Philippa, was safe and married behind manor walls? Was it fair that Anabel’s betrothed, her safe harbor, was taken from her? A rush of emotions, anger laced with something else, swept over his heart and he grabbed her arms, clutching hard.

  She gasped, the small puff of breath pelting his chin. He lifted her. “What did you come here for?” he rasped, voice coarse. “What do you want of me?”

  She didn’t answer.

  A heartbeat, and then he pulled her in, mouth devouring hers. She gave another gasp but it was drowned in the onslaught of his mouth. His lips slid over hers until they were raw, tongue hungrily questing. He had her suddenly against the wall beside the hearth, pressing her into the plaster, his body tight against hers, touching from knee to chest. He continued to kiss, thinking that he was the one taking, until her hands slid around his waist and her fingers dug in, pulling him even closer.

  He yanked his head away and looked dazedly down at her. His hands loosened on her arms. “Anabel, I … we shouldn’t.”

  “No, we shouldn’t.”

  He felt her hands at the small of his back. Instead of pushing him away, they pulled him in until he was crushed against her once more. Her face was tilted upward toward his, breath fast and warm against his moistened mouth. Her plump lips beckoned and he angled his face down. It was softer this time, a lick over her parted lips, a gentle press against them. He drew back again and gazed at her. “My apprentice has left. We seem to be alone.”

  “I noticed.”

  They were only steps from the bed. He could not help but shift his eyes to it. Hers twitched in that direction, too.

  “Will you … stay a while? What of your father?”

  Such a question should have thrown cold water on the proceedings, but Anabel’s expression did not change. Her smile widened. “All is well. Don’t worry.”

  Crispin pulled the pins from her veil and let it drop away. He took her face in his hands and leaned forward. “Then I won’t.”

  * * *

  HE SHIMMERED UP FROM the depths of a dream, his body sated. But when he opened his eyes he was alone in the bed. Light filtered in from below the shutters and the rattle of metal pots against clay roused him to lean toward the hearth.

  Jack crouched before it in his new blue coat and jabbed angrily at the peat as if by sheer force he could make the flames higher.

  Crispin stretched languidly and got out of bed. The room was still cold, even for all the anger Tucker directed at the hearth, and his flesh pimpled from a chill. Naked and shivering, Crispin first grabbed his discarded shirt and slipped it on. He sat, scratched his head through his disheveled hair, and pulled up his braies. A loud yawn failed to redirect Jack’s single-minded attention away from the fire and Crispin proceeded to pull up each stocking and tie them to his underwear. “Porridge?” he asked hopefully.

  Jack said nothing, but dragged himself up and to the pantry shelf where he grabbed a bowl and returned to the fire, ladling in a gray glob of porridge. He set it harshly before Crispin on the table and returned to the fire.

  Crispin eyed him and sat, running his hand over his chin stubble. Dare he ask about shaving water? What was the matter with the boy? “Why so sulky, Tucker?” He dug into the bowl with a wooden spoon and licked the tasteless paste.

  “’M not,” he grumbled.

  “Oh? Then your cheerfulness leaves much to be desired.”

  “I think there is far too much desiring here already.”

  Crispin rolled his eyes but continued to eat. “Are you, by any chance, referring to the late visit of Mistress Coterel?”

  “I told you she was trouble.”

  “All women are trouble. It needs only be decided what kind. Besides, she is full of good humor. She is sharp. She helped investigate.” He glanced sidelong and rubbed his bristly chin again. “You’re not still jealous of her, are you?”

  Jack tossed the poker down with a reverberating clang. “I’m not jealous!”

  “Your reaction would seem to say otherwise.”

  “I’m not ‘reacting.’ I’m being smarter than you.”

  “Careful, Tucker. That smacks of rebelliousness and in a tone most unseemly for your place.”

  “Now who’s thinking with his cod!”

  Crispin jumped to his feet. “Damn you!”

  Jack backed away as Crispin followed him around and around the table. “Master Crispin,” he said sternly, “you aren’t thinking clearly, sir. I know you’re lonely and she seems to be a smart wench and comely, too. But she’s too close to this. Why is she here with you when less than a sennight ago her betrothed met with a vile death? Something is amiss, sir. The first moment we met her we thought she was lying about something. Have you forgotten that? Have you got the truth out of her? If it were me with a woman in similar straits you’d tell me the same thing, now wouldn’t you?”

  Crispin paused. Damn the boy but he might be right. “God’s blood!” he hissed. He did question why she was here last night and yet she could not give him a satisfactory answer. She knew it wasn’t safe and yet she went abroad unescorted. He admired a certain amount of tenacity but there was something amiss here. She had absorbed his fears with her body and did a good job of it, too!

  He brought up a sheepish expression. “How did you get so wise?”

  “Learned it from you, didn’t I.”

  That made it worse. “I owe you an apology.”

  Jack finally loosened his shoulders and his face softened. “Not a bit of it.” He brought the pot of hot water to the table. “Shave, sir?”

  Slowly Crispin sat and allowed Jack to do the ablutions. When he was clean-shaven again, he helped clear the basin and porridge bowl.

  “Let us think of this thing logically,” he said to the boy. “What was her purpose in coming here last night, barring the obvious?” He could not help the heat crawling up his neck.

  “Well, a woman might be good at getting information from a man when he is in such a state.”

  Crispin gave a crooked smile. “We did very little talking.”

  Jack rolled his eyes. “Aye. Well then. What else? Did you say anything to her?”

  “I told her I was detained by the same men who accosted her. But that only served as a warning that we need to conclude this investigation quickly.”

  The boy nodded. “But you also told her you did not know where the relic is.”

  “This she already knows.”

  “But did she? She was ever anxious to help you find it. Maybe she knows something we don’t.”

  “She was unaware of it previously.”

  Jack smacked his own head, no doubt wishing he could do the same to Crispin. “And a woman has never lied to you before?”

  His fourteen-year-old apprentice was making him l
ook like a complete fool. Crispin sat back. “By my Lady, Tucker. I am not being myself. I have been caught up in my … my solitude, I suppose. Thinking of … another.”

  Jack’s eyes flicked to the mattress, and by that simple gesture, Crispin knew that Jack was aware of the portrait of Philippa Walcote.

  Crispin stared at the table. “She wanted me to forget the robbery. The whole thing.”

  “Forget the murder, too?”

  “It wasn’t … put in those terms. Not exactly.”

  “If you were any other man, might you have put it all aside … for her?”

  He frowned. “I have a need to stroll the bridge, Jack. Care to accompany me?”

  * * *

  THE CARPENTERS HAD WORKED fast, for the viewing stands were already finished by the time Crispin and Jack reached the bridge. Shopkeepers seemed energized by the business they were sure to acquire when the jousts began, which put Crispin in mind of Thomas Saunfayl. He hoped he had turned himself in by now. It was still difficult to believe that a man like him could be a coward, but he had admitted it to Crispin’s face. The whole world had truly gone mad.

  He reached the armorer’s and there was no longer a sheriff’s man guarding the shop. He checked the nailed boards. The window remained unbarred and he pushed the shutter open.

  “Here now!”

  Crispin’s foot was on the sill when he stopped and turned. A woman with a basket of turnips tucked under her arm was wagging a finger at him. “Get away from there. That’s been barred by the sheriff.”

  He stepped out of the window and faced her. “I do know that. I am here investigating—”

  “There’s been too many men going in and out of there. I’ve a mind to call the king’s guards again. That poor Master Grey being murdered and his apprentices, too! It’s foul, it is. What’s this town coming to?”

  “How many men have been coming and going through here?”

  “Half a dozen or so. First those three knights and then those other men. It’s not right. Looting a poor dead man.”

  “Were they taking things?”

  “Well.” She hitched the basket higher on her hip. “I live in yon lodgings.” She pointed across the way to a second-story window. “I can see the street well enough during the day and at night. And I could see these men coming and going without so much as a by your leave.”