Blood Lance: A Medieval Noir

by Jeri Westerson

  He turned toward a shadowed wall and leaned against it, pulling his cloak about him to stave off the cold sweeping up through the lane. A mist had rolled in, obscuring even the nearest houses.

  The soft footfalls slowed to a stop and Crispin smiled a feral grin. “Join me, Geoffrey?”

  A pause.

  Then out of the mist, “How did you know it was me, damn you?”

  A figure stepped out of the gloom and approached and soon joined him against the wall. “You have become a very cautious man.”

  “Would that I had done the same nine years ago, eh?”

  “Yes.”

  They stood silently, neither looking at the other.

  “It occurred to me, Geoffrey, that I do not know where Sir Thomas is being held and I should speak to him before his trial.”

  “He is in Newgate. The trial is tomorrow.”

  “That’s very … soon.”

  “The king is anxious for a distraction. He wants the joust to commence quickly. Some of the knights left behind by Lancaster’s expedition would enjoy the entertainment. They have become restless while awaiting a thwarted French invasion.”

  “The invasion that never was.”

  “Indeed. I admit it’s been a while since I’ve seen a joust, though I doubt I shall enjoy this one overmuch. Thomas has been loyal to Lancaster. If he prevails the duke will take him back … though he will send him far away back to his estates.”

  “And if he dies on the lists?”

  “Well, that is the way of it, Crispin. No general can countenance a coward.”

  Kicking at the mud, Crispin nodded. “I know.” He gazed at his boot a while longer before lifting his face. “Geoffrey, do you ever get the feeling that events, people, are always in flux? That we are not the masters of our universe as we thought?”

  He chuckled. “Oh yes. We are only allowed to play in the garden but for a little while … until the storm drives us away. Changes, yes. We grow older, that is a certainty. Politics sweep over the continent with each whimsical breeze and we are caught up in it like autumn leaves. We grasp it for but a moment and then … it is loose again, whipping in another direction. We think we are the puppet masters but it is an illusion. We are helpless after all. And I tell you, Cris, with all that I have done and in all my travels and dangerous dealings, with all my confidence either deserved or undeserved, never have I felt so helpless and in need of God’s good grace than when my children were born. As simple as that. The master of my house and a man of duty and purpose, but powerless in the lying in.”

  “So I have heard similar tales from others.”

  He looked at Crispin steadily. “None of your own?”

  He shook his head. “And Lancaster’s children are all grown. I sometimes felt like … well. An uncle, perhaps. I stumbled upon Henry, Lord Derby, just the other day.”

  “No! Well, he’s quite the man now.”

  “Yes, he is. I do regret missing his childhood.” He was being a fool, he knew it. Wallowing in his morose past? He could use a wine bowl about now.

  “But it is God who guides our lives,” said Chaucer. “And so it is a vain and foolish thing to imagine we have reign over our destinies. When we sin we ignore His good council. When we thrive it is because we are living holy lives.”

  Crispin laughed. “Geoffrey. You? A holy life?”

  “I resent the implication, Cris. I am a model husband. I am a good citizen and a loyal servant of Lancaster and the Church.”

  “And a member of Parliament, don’t forget that on the accounts, Geoffrey.”

  Chaucer huffed. “You are making light of me.”

  Crispin smiled. Geoffrey always was easy to insult. “Not so light. You have done well. You must know something of Heaven that I don’t.”

  “I fear God, Cris. For the life of me, I do not think that you do. You are forever Jacob wrestling with angels.”

  The smile faded. “Perhaps.”

  “Why not give Lancaster the Spear?”

  “Aren’t you putting the cart before the horse? I haven’t got it yet.”

  “But I know you will get it. Since last year I have been following your exploits, looking into your history.”

  “Oh?” A warm glow settled in his chest. “Are there histories of me?”

  “Once your name was whispered in secret corners. People are most anxious to talk of you now in voices that have the sound of admiration. If I were King Richard I’d be worried.”

  “He has nothing to fear from me. I am entirely repentant and reformed, a devoted champion for the crown.”

  “So I also hear.”

  Now his friend’s warm scrutiny began to irritate. He pushed away from the wall and started walking. Geoffrey trotted to catch up.

  “I will not surrender the Spear to Lancaster. I will give it to the Church where it belongs. If I find it.”

  “You will.” Geoffrey halted, letting Crispin walk ahead. “Think, Cris,” he called, “what Gaunt could do with it.”

  “I am thinking of it, Geoffrey,” he said over his shoulder.

  * * *

  CRISPIN DECIDED TO GO to Newgate that day. It was possible the serjeant would not let him in, but it was also possible he would. And without the interference of the sheriffs. That would be a boon.

  Crispin approached the stark exterior of Newgate’s damp stone walls. A cresset burned in the archway and he entered under it, rousing the sleepy guard, who blinked at Crispin in surprise. “Master Crispin? What would you be doing here?”

  “I have come to visit a prisoner.”

  “Have you permission of the sheriffs, sir?”

  “I am certain the sheriffs would not object. As you know, they are curious about my exploits. They would not want to interfere in them.”

  The man scratched his head through his leather cap. “We-e-ell, seeing that you have been here before and that it is well known these sheriffs favor you, I suppose I can allow you through. But don’t make no mischief, Master Crispin.”

  “Me? Mischief?”

  The guard scowled as he reached for the keys to unlock the gates. He pulled them open with a rusty whine. “Er … which prisoner, sir?”

  “Sir Thomas Saunfayl. Where are they keeping him?”

  The guard gasped. “Curse me, I should have asked you that first. No one is allowed to see that particular prisoner, Master.” He gestured for Crispin to go back through the gate, but Crispin had already put a foot on the first step of the stairwell leading up into the tower.

  “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll see that all is accounted for.”

  “No, Master Crispin, you must come back down, sir. I am not allowed to let you up.” His hand twitched near his sword.

  Halfway around the curved corner, Crispin peered back at the now perspiring guard. “All is well, good sir. I won’t tell anyone you let me up.” Crispin didn’t wait, but quickly made his way through the shadowed stairwell, the swearing rant of the guard below disappearing into echoes.

  Sir Thomas was likely housed in the better cells, more like chambers with a hearth and a cot with a straw mattress. He headed down the gallery toward the nearest cell and peered through the barred window in the door. “Sir Thomas!” he rasped.

  A stirring. Someone shuffled toward the door and Crispin could see his face. A faint glow from the hearth behind him lit a forlorn countenance. “Crispin.”

  “Thomas. Geoffrey told me he had found you.”

  He nodded listlessly. The knight looked haggard and drawn.

  “The trial is on the morrow.”

  “It is not so much a trial as a hearing. The joust is to be tomorrow afternoon as well. That is my true trial.”

  “Well, better to get it over with, eh?”

  “Yes. Over with.” He sighed. “Crispin, I am weary of this world. I shall be glad of my fate.”

  “Thomas! Don’t talk like that. You are a fine warrior and a valiant knight. You will prevail. Pray on it.”

  “My praying is done. Without the
Spear, all is lost.”

  Crispin gripped the grille and drew himself right to the window. “Dammit, Thomas! You mustn’t speak like that. Do not give in to melancholy. You should have seen a barber. You should at least have been bled to restore your humors.” The man was exasperating! He had surrendered before the fight was ever fought. No wonder he found himself in peril.

  He pushed it aside. There was other business that needed attending to. “Thomas, you must tell me about this relic. How did you hear of it?”

  His eyes rose toward Crispin at last and a rueful twitch of lips was the only expression he wore. “Rumor. I was lucky.”

  “This is no time to lie. I saw the letter you wrote to Roger Grey.”

  Thomas frowned. “And so. You have discovered all my secrets. Why ask me, then, except to trap me in a lie, another sin?”

  “I am not trapping you. I merely need to know. Did you intercept this relic that was meant for the duke?”

  “Yes!” he cried suddenly. “I had the greater need. He had already conquered his foes. Many times! What need did he have? I heard Chaucer talking with that Spanish bishop who cleaves to Lancaster’s side. I got the name of the man who was retrieving the Spear. My runners were faster. I sent gold, more than what Chaucer was going to send. I got there first! It was mine!” His eyes, wide and wild, searched Crispin’s. “Grey was cheating me, is that it? There was no Spear?”

  Shaking his head, Crispin released the grille, its cold still permeating his hands. “I am uncertain of that. Chaucer and others seemed to believe Grey had the Spear. If he hid it, then it is hidden well. Who else might have stolen it, Thomas? I know Geoffrey was after it. And Juan Gutierrez.”

  “He is here?”

  “Yes, and with two Spanish knights. Also … the earl of Suffolk. He, too, sent men for it. They killed Grey but they were unable to find the Spear. Who else, Thomas? There must be someone else.”

  He shook his head and finally rested it against the iron grille. “I don’t know. Don’t you see? There could be any number of people who could have known.”

  Crispin did see. So many were now implicated. Lucas Stotley, for one. And Lenny for another. Lucas hired Lenny to steal the rent money but he could have told him about the Spear. And maybe even the landlord, for he might also be involved. And then there was Anabel, the one who kept the most secrets. He was certain now that she knew more than she had let on. It was entirely possible she had known of the Spear all along and might even have already sold it to the highest bidder. This certainly warranted more scrutiny.

  “You are right, of course,” he said vaguely to the knight.

  “Crispin,” he said quietly. “Will you be there? At the joust?”

  “Of course. And I shall be cheering the loudest when you win and prove yourself.”

  He smiled. “You are a good friend. I have been a poor one to you. I abandoned you with all the others because that is what we were told to do.”

  “Thomas—”

  “But you have never abandoned me, even in my blackest hour. Knowing full well that I am a coward and deserter. You made an oath to me and you have kept it. I release you, then. You owe me nothing more. Nothing more than what you wish to give. It’s a shameful thing, what happened to you, Crispin.”

  “And you tried to talk me out of it, risking your own neck. I owe you more than I can give, Thomas. I was guilty of treason. I should not now be standing before you.”

  “Your crime was in being faithful to Lancaster, your liege lord. A ten-year-old boy was not fit to be king. Perhaps we all should have looked at that with more care.”

  “Richard is the rightful heir. Lancaster has been his steward. The kingdom has not crumbled while he reigns. I was mistaken.”

  “Perhaps. But storm clouds are coming, Crispin. Next year when the king comes into his full majority, what will happen then? With men like Suffolk and Oxford at his side, what will happen then?”

  “We will see, Thomas. I will not worry over it now. I worry over you. I will be on hand tomorrow afternoon on the bridge and you will win.”

  Thomas chuckled low in his chest. He shuffled away from the door and sat on the scraped and chipped chair in front of his meager fire. “We shall see. We shall see.”

  * * *

  THE DAY DAWNED COLD but clear. Excitement was in the air, even on the Shambles. Jousts had been rare of late and this one on London Bridge was positioned to be a memorable one. It was rumored that King Richard would be there. Ordinarily, that would have made Crispin think twice about going, but he had promised Sir Thomas, and there was no way around it.

  Jack was buzzing with enthusiasm. His brief bout with weapons practice had not sated his appetite for action, only whetted it. Yet even through Jack’s excitement, he had the aplomb to try to curb it. After all, he knew that they were going to see Crispin’s old friend destroy himself. For Crispin sensed that Thomas had already surrendered.

  They were on their way to an execution.

  But there was time before it all began. They were early yet, even though most of London was heading in the direction of the bridge. There was time to go to the Unicorn Inn and confront Anabel.

  Jack was silent at his side, wearing his new blue coat from Robert Coterel’s talented hands. There was much to say but Crispin wanted to speak of it to Anabel, to push her against the wall, not in a passionate embrace, but to strangle the truth out of her.

  And the more he brooded on it the more he convinced himself that she had more to do with the disappearance of the Spear than she had let on. She certainly knew Lucas Stotley, and if her loquacious neighbor could be believed, knew him very well. Even her father had corroborated that relationship, though little he understood of it. She was worse than a whore, then, for not only did she receive money for the favors she doled out, but she schemed ever greater. And schemed with Lucas Stotley. He didn’t know how and to what extent, but he was damned well going to find out.

  They reached the street where the inn lay between a two-story house and an open field with a view of a wharf stretching its wooden piers into the Thames. Muscles tensing, Crispin entered and climbed the stairs as Jack directed. They reached the door, where Crispin knocked. He waited, wondering if he should send Master Coterel on some errand. It seemed the merciful thing to spare him the ugly truth about his daughter.

  There was no reply, no shuffling of feet, no movement of furniture. He knocked again and again heard nothing. He grabbed the latch and when it yielded, he pushed open the door.

  The room was empty but for the furniture, a cold hearth, and Lucas Stotley lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood.

  21

  CRISPIN KNELT AND TOUCHED the man’s face. He gurgled and fluttered his lids. In his chest was thrust a pair of scissors, a pair that looked like the same type the tailor had used for his trade.

  “Jack, go get help!”

  The boy scrambled away, and Crispin gently lifted the man, leaning the tailor’s back against Crispin’s thighs. “Master Lucas. Who did this?”

  “She was angry with me,” he gasped. “She complied with all of it … until the murders. She was … frightened.”

  “Anabel?”

  He nodded, licking his bloodstained lips. “We had nothing to do with murders.”

  “I know. I know the culprits.”

  The clerk nodded again. “Jesus mercy,” he whispered. “She was my lover. She pretended they were betrothed but they were not—”

  “I know that, too.”

  “Oh? I see.” His voice thinned to a rasp. “She knew of the bargain I had made with Sir Geoffrey. She told me where the money was. They … they…”

  “Would be evicted,” said Crispin. Stotley nodded, struggling to speak. “You would have given them shelter, to keep her close to you,” Crispin went on. “Then Geoffrey’s men could do their will and break into the armorer’s.”

  “Not to kill,” he gasped.

  “It was not Geoffrey.”

  He nodded. “Good. He se
ems … like such a merry fellow. Despite it all, I loved her. I knew about her and Grey. And the others. But I loved her.”

  “What of the relic? Did you know of that?”

  He gulped, nodded. “Later.”

  “Where is it?”

  He gulped again, tried to speak, coughed a spurt of blood. He saw it splatter upon his chest and weakly reached for the scissors. Crispin pushed his hand away. It was a cork to keep him alive, plugging the hole punched in his heart. Once pulled he would be done.

  “Do you know where the relic is?”

  Stotley’s gaze rolled about the room. “Anabel?”

  “She is not here. No one is here. They have fled.”

  “With all the money?” Suddenly he seemed more concerned with that than his life.

  “The relic. Did she have it? Did she sell it? Come, man!”

  He raised his eyes to Crispin’s and opened his mouth, but the red-rimmed lips worked silently. His eyes widened as he expelled a long breath and then his heaving chest moved no more. The light in his eyes dulled and he looked not at Crispin but into the middle distance.

  Jack came running with the innkeeper and several other men. They crowded the doorway. “I’m a barber,” said one, trying to push his way through from the back of the crowd.

  “It matters little,” said Crispin, laying him back down. “He’s dead.”

  Crosses were gestured over faces as some of the braver men entered. “Jack,” said Crispin. “Best go for the sheriffs.”

  * * *

  CRISPIN STOOD NEAR THE back of the room, watching in brooding silence as the sheriffs tutted and made pronouncements and gestured to their clerks and serjeants to do this or that. The body was removed at last and servants waited in the doorway with buckets and rags to begin their grim work. Another life was snuffed out, and once the blood was cleaned from the floor, he would be forgotten.

  But not by Crispin. Inside he seethed. Anabel was no longer the beauteous maid, the unfortunate of circumstances. No. She was a conniving, clever wench who would not allow anyone to stand in her way, even if that meant murder. He would bring her down. He would find her. He promised himself this, even as the servants knelt before the pool of congealing blood and swabbed the floor until their buckets ran red.