Blood Lance: A Medieval Noir

by Jeri Westerson

  It was dark inside the raucous interior, but it took only a moment for his eyes to adjust. When they had, he stopped dead. In a darkened corner stood Chaucer, talking furtively to a man. And who should that man be but Lucas Stotley.

  He drew his dagger and pointed it. “You!” cried Crispin. Stotley whipped his head toward Crispin. Terror swept over his face and Chaucer quickly pushed him away and gestured for him to escape.

  “Oh no you don’t!” The crowd was in his way, and Crispin tried to push through, to no avail. He growled his frustration and leapt onto the nearest table, to the outraged cries around him. He jumped to the next, making his way toward Stotley over the tables. Stotley moved furiously through the crowd toward the door, looking back at Crispin with widened eyes.

  Men sitting at the tables shouted and fell out of Crispin’s way as he strode along the surface, oblivious to their curses. His feet kicked wooden cups and ale spilled out in cockerel tails through the air.

  Stotley scrambled toward the exit, pushing men out of the way. Crispin changed direction after him, still bounding from table to table, now knocking over candles and spilling wine jugs, some crashing to the floor in scattering shards.

  Crispin leapt and hit the floor. He lunged, nearly reaching the clerk, when hands pulled him back. He lost his footing, slipped, and careened backward, barking his shoulder on a bench.

  “Stop him!” he cried, but Stotley was out the door before anyone could react.

  Crispin twisted around to see who had had the audacity to hinder him and wasn’t surprised to see Chaucer’s face. He hauled back a fist and punched him.

  Chaucer’s head snapped back and he wobbled but was able to whip his head about and shake it off.

  “God’s blood, Geoffrey! What the hell do you think you are doing?”

  Geoffrey moved his jaw back and forth, testing it, before he frowned with a painful squint to his eye. “Damn you, Crispin.” He swung but Crispin ducked, coming up with a fist in Chaucer’s gut.

  Geoffrey doubled over, took a breath, and head-butted Crispin.

  Crispin crashed backward into a tray of bowls and jugs. Everything scattered and splintered and he found himself gasping and sitting on his bum surrounded by a pile of broken crockery. He sneered and jumped to his feet.

  By then Chaucer was standing upright, balling his hands into fists. He drew one back and swung forward, but Crispin caught it in his hand and twisted. Chaucer yowled and sank to one knee and bit Crispin’s leg on the way down.

  It was Crispin’s turn to yell, and he kicked, not caring where the blow landed.

  It landed in Geoffrey’s side. The man spun away, clutching his ribs, and glared back over his shoulder. He made a sudden lunge and grabbed Crispin’s coat, hauling him close. “Come with me!”

  But Crispin fought and grabbed Geoffrey’s gown at its furred collar.

  “No, you’re coming with me!”

  They struggled for a bit with the sound of ripping cloth before both came to a halt. Glaring got them nowhere until Crispin heaved a disgusted sigh. “Let’s have this out.” He pointed to the alcove with a curtain and Chaucer silently agreed, though neither one let go of the other’s gown.

  It was obviously a place for a servant to sleep, nothing more than a space for a mean cot and a niche for an oil lamp, but Chaucer pulled the curtain closed and pushed Crispin hard against the wall. Crispin recovered and shoved Geoffrey into the opposite wall and kept pushing, fists curled around his now torn collar.

  “Are you a murderer, Geoffrey?” he rasped, mindful of the thin curtain separating them from the tavern. The scrape of bench and table being righted and men talking loudly about the disruption masked something of their conversation. “Are you aware who that man is?”

  “I’m not a murderer, you idiot! Let go of me!”

  Crispin shoved harder. “Tell me, dammit, or I swear I’ll … I’ll…” With a growl he released his friend’s gown and stepped back, running a trembling hand over his mouth. He shook his head and grimaced. “Lancaster put you up to this,” he whispered. “Answer me.”

  Geoffrey didn’t fix his clothes. His expression warred between rage and disbelief. He seemed to be deciding, shoulders tensing. And then he let it go, all of it. His body became fluid and he leaned against the wall, head back, throat rolling as he swallowed. “Cris. Damn you. Why did you have to be involved?”

  Crispin flopped against his own wall, needing the plaster and stone to hold him upright. “Answer the question.”

  “Of course Lancaster charged me! He is my master.”

  “To kill?”

  “No! What do you take me for? I am no assassin.”

  “And yet you track with them. What of Lucas Stotley?”

  He didn’t think Chaucer could look more shocked, but his face configured that way. “He is not a murderer, nor did I contract with him to that end.”

  “But you did hire him. To do what?”

  Chaucer sighed and sat on the cot. The straw crunched beneath his weight. “He was to find a thief to steal the Coterels’ rent money so that they would be evicted so that the shop would lie empty, allowing us to do our work.”

  It was everything Crispin suspected, but knowing it was true did not give him pleasure.

  “But you fouled it up when you paid their rent,” Geoffrey continued. “I thought you were without your own funds.”

  “Thanks for your confidence. Yes, that is generally true, but I was flush from a recent venture. How did he know where the money was hidden?”

  Chaucer shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t care. All I know is that Stotley was accomplished and did his part well. Until you showed up.”

  “Lancaster wants the Spear.”

  “Of course he wants it. Wouldn’t you?”

  “How did Sir Thomas get wind of it, then? Of your transaction with the Moor?”

  Chaucer’s cheeks flushed. “How the devil did you know that?”

  Crispin crossed his arms and simmered.

  Geoffrey ran a hand through his hair and only just realized he’d lost his hat somewhere. He looked around for it for a moment and then gave up. “I’m not certain. Possibly he overheard my discussing it with someone. His messenger was faster, his gold heftier. He slipped in right under my nose.”

  “Is that why you are after him?”

  “Among other things. He is being tried for cowardice. And you need not hide him any longer, for I have found him. He is in custody now.”

  Crispin slumped. Not good news.

  “So there is no more a reason to hide the Spear either, Cris. You should hand it over to me as soon as possible.”

  Crispin raised his head and studied his friend, his torn collar, his mussed beard and hair. So fastidious, but not today. Crispin’s voice was rough and low when he asked, “Why were you conspiring with the earl of Suffolk?”

  Chaucer’s lips parted but Crispin interrupted whatever he was about to say. “You need not lie. I saw you with him. At a tavern.”

  With brows raised the man nodded. “I have forgotten how thorough you can be. Well … he, too, wanted the Spear for Lancaster. He has supported the duke in the past, you know. I told him my plans and he agreed.”

  “Are you certain it was for Lancaster?”

  He frowned and would not look Crispin in the eye.

  “I think you are over your head in this one, Geoffrey. I think he might have changed loyalties. He either wants it for the king or more likely for himself, for he is in sore need of it.”

  “So I have heard.”

  “Nevertheless, no matter how much you must have trusted him, he did not reciprocate the feeling. He hired his own men to kill Roger Grey and be done with it. Those men also killed his innocent apprentices, brothers, aged fifteen and ten. One of their bodies was recovered by the sheriffs.”

  Chaucer was suitably horrified and Crispin felt a modicum of satisfaction. His arms tightened across his chest.

  “How do you know—but you must be certain. I believ
e you. All the more reason to surrender the Spear, Cris.”

  “I might be tempted if only I had it, Geoffrey. I do not. I am still searching for it.”

  He shot up from the cot. “But you can’t be! You must know where it is by now!”

  “I am no miracle worker. Chances are it is far from here, perhaps even heading back to where it belongs. Wherever that is.”

  “But this is ghastly! I thought—” He sat again, his head in his hands. “Ah Cris, I thought you had it. What are we to do now?”

  It was tempting. Working with Chaucer would certainly be more rewarding than working against him, but a niggling doubt still poked at his senses. After all was said and done, he didn’t think he could truly trust Geoffrey. Keeping silent was the best option, and he took it, watching his friend moan and roll his head. At last, Geoffrey finally looked up.

  “What are you going to do now, Cris?”

  “I’m going to ask you one more question.”

  He straightened. “Oh? What more could you possibly need to know?”

  “Why you were discussing these matters—or any matters at all—with a Spaniard?”

  With his hands gripping his knees, Geoffrey huffed a humorless laugh. “Very well. You’ve earned it. Come with me.”

  His doubt must have been written on his face, for Chaucer laughed at Crispin’s expression. “I swear on my life. I am not trying to trick you.”

  “Then lead on.” He gestured toward the curtain, which he pulled aside.

  The men of the tavern turned to look at them and Crispin felt their resentful glares as he made his way between the rearranged tables. The floor was still wet from spilled wine and ale and there were a few shards still kicked by wayward feet across the floor. He made it to the door, and noticed Chaucer hanging back and paying the tavern keeper for the destruction. He felt a bit guilty until he surmised that Geoffrey could well afford it.

  They walked up the avenue and soon left the bridge, where they turned at Thames Street and followed it to Queenhithe. The Swan Inn had a newly painted sign and they passed under it through the door. Crispin followed Geoffrey as they climbed the stairs to the end of the gallery. Chaucer stopped at the door there and knocked with a series of particular taps. They waited. A scratching at the door and a bolt was thrown.

  They entered into darkness. The faint glow from the hearth did little to illuminate the shadows but a spark grabbed Crispin’s attention. The spark ignited a bit of moss in a man’s hand until he lit the candle with the small flame and then tamped out the clump of moss on the candle’s dish.

  He picked up the candle and held it in his hand close to his face. The bearded man looked familiar.

  “Buenos días, Señor Guest.”

  “God’s blood! You are Juan Gutierrez. You’re—”

  He bowed. “Ah, you remembered that I am my Lord of Gaunt’s Castilian secretary.”

  20

  “WHY ARE YOU HERE in England, Bishop Gutierrez? Should you not be at Lancaster’s side?”

  The man strode to another candle and lit it with the one in his hand. Two other men moved out of the shadows and bowed warily to Crispin.

  Gutierrez set both candles on the table and sat, offering places for both Chaucer and Crispin. “There is much to be done, Señor Guest. My Lord of Gaunt—that is, his grace the King of Spain—is poised for opposition. As his secretary, it is my duty to protect his interests.”

  “And so you call him ‘king’?”

  “Did not your own sovereign declare him so? Did he not crown the duke and his wife, the Lady Costanza, Easter last?”

  “So I heard. He sailed to Spain with his family to claim his throne and to find husbands for his daughters. So why are you here?”

  “As I said. To protect his interests.”

  The other men stepped into the small circle of light cast by the candles. “May I introduce Don Lope Pérez and Don Gonzaluo de Castilla?”

  “You rescued me in the alley.”

  They bowed. “It was necessary,” said Don Lope. “It was I who spoke. Bishop Gutierrez said you would recognize his voice.”

  “But why come to light now?”

  He looked back at Gutierrez, who shrugged. “We should have hired you in the first place,” said the bishop, looking sternly at Chaucer.

  Geoffrey smiled. “We all could have saved ourselves a great deal of trouble.”

  “Except for the murders,” said Crispin. “They spoiled your plans.”

  “Indeed.”

  “It was those men, you realize. They killed the armorer and his apprentices. And they are working for the earl of Suffolk.”

  “Madre santa,” said the bishop, becrossing himself. “Are they any closer to finding the Spear?”

  Crispin ran his hand over his beard-roughened chin. “I don’t know. I don’t have any idea where it is or who might have it.”

  “We must join forces,” said Don Lope.

  Everyone was nodding, including Chaucer, but Crispin still had misgivings. “Gentlemen.” He rose. “I appreciate your sense of urgency. But I am accustomed to working alone.”

  Chaucer edged closer. “You don’t trust us.”

  He locked gazes with Geoffrey. There was hurt in his eyes but a hard edge, too. It soon smoothed to resignation. Finally, Chaucer looked away and masked his discomfort by toying with the poker. He jammed it into the fireplace, stirring the logs to a flame. “Master Crispin has little cause to trust me or you, Excellency.”

  Gutierrez nodded. “I suspected as much. His grace the duke—the king—said the same to me. He said that even if he had given his word, it would mean little to Master Guest at this juncture. He also said he hoped that someday—someday soon—that Master Guest’s opinion would change.” He moved around the table and stood beside Crispin, studying him. “The two of you were close at one time. I wonder what has caused this rift between you?”

  “My Lord of Gaunt is aware of the reasons and that is enough,” said Crispin. At least Lancaster didn’t expect him to jump to the orders of these Spaniards, no matter how seemingly close they appeared to do the duke’s bidding. The king’s, he reminded himself ruefully. He smiled to himself. Well, he was a king at last, though not of England as Crispin would have had it; as Crispin had tried to achieve, much to his chagrin now. After all, if he had not attempted that very thing nine years ago, his life, his status would not have been forfeit. He would still be a knight and in the personal retinue of Gaunt, wearing his colors and standing beside him while he sat on the throne of Spain.

  Crispin turned toward the door. “My search continues,” he said over his shoulder.

  “Will you keep us apprised, Master Crispin?” asked Gutierrez.

  His hand paused over the latch. “I … cannot guarantee that, my lords.”

  “But Master Crispin.” Gutierrez rushed to the door, pressing a hand against it, preventing him from leaving. “We have told you of our need. It is for the duke of Lancaster, I assure you.”

  Crispin surveyed the Bishop of Dax, Lancaster’s longtime companion and secretary. The man was at his side when he traveled through Spain and sometimes to other places. “I have known you for years, sir.” He admired the man, for though he was a bishop, he was not afraid to pick up a sword, as he had done in the alley to protect Crispin. “But it is plain by your words that you do not know me.” He pulled at the door experimentally and Gutierrez slowly released the pressure, dropping his hand away. “The duke and I have a long history,” said Crispin. “And I seem to have a history of sorts with relics. Some would say I owe my loyalty to the duke. And some would say I owe my loyalty to God and to what belongs to Him. But in the nine years since my exile, I have learned to serve another master, that of myself and my intellect. If my intellect tells me to surrender the Spear to the duke, then I shall. But if it tells me to discard it down the deepest hole … well, gentlemen, then that is what I will do. Good day.”

  He pulled open the door. Chaucer and Gutierrez rushed after him. “Crispin!�
� cried Chaucer. “You cannot mean what you say.”

  “Geoffrey, I always mean what I say.”

  Gutierrez blocked his path. Crispin stiffened. He did not like to use force on an old friend, and a bishop at that, but he would if necessary. “The relics of God, of His Son, should be in the hands of His clerics who know how to safeguard them and to put them to their proper use,” said the bishop. “Have a care, Crispin, in these grave decisions, or you may find yourself in opposition to the might of the Church.”

  “It won’t be the first time, Excellency.” He waited. Gutierrez seemed to be deciding, and it was a long time until he slowly moved, stepping out of his way. Crispin didn’t look back as he walked stiffly across the gallery, down the stairs, and through the inn to the door.

  * * *

  HE STOOD IN THE street, debating with himself. In truth, he felt a bit lost. Was it a Spanish plot? Or was it what Chaucer would have him believe it was? A scheme to get the Spear’s power into the hands of Lancaster? For as much as he had seen, he still did not know if he believed in the power of relics. There were many explanations to cover their seeming miracles. So he told himself. But if it did have great power, then why did he hesitate to surrender it to the duke? He was more than his liege lord. He was far closer than that. At least, at one time this was so.

  “God’s blood!” he hissed into the bleak sunlight. He started walking, little caring in what direction.

  If it were a true relic with power, then he would see it safe away, out of the greedy hands of men. For who was to say that it would stay in the hands of the duke? Others could take it and use it for their own purposes. What if it fell into the hands of the French? No, if he found it—when he found it—he couldn’t allow it into the hands of just any man.

  His mind whirred with all the players laid across his path: There was Thomas Saunfayl, now in custody. Damn, he should have asked Chaucer where that was. But, listening with a tilt to his head, he knew all he had to do was wait, and Chaucer would present himself.

  After all, if he didn’t know better, he would say those were his steps following him on the empty street.