Blood Lance: A Medieval Noir

by Jeri Westerson

  Someone poked him and when he turned he looked into Jack’s concerned eyes. “Come, Master. We’ve done all we can. The sheriffs are done with you. We have to get to the joust.”

  “I must go after her.”

  “I’ve already questioned everyone at the inn, sir. No one knew where they were off to. You will find her, Master Crispin. Just not today. Today you must go to the joust as you promised Sir Thomas.”

  Crispin swallowed the vitriol he wanted to express, and followed Jack silently out the door.

  It was after Sext by the time they reached the bridge. A rumble of voices threaded over the long lines of people waiting to get through the gatehouse, of sellers of ale and meats calling their wares. Men and ladies on horseback pushed their way through and Jack danced on his toes, looking above the heads of the crowd in front of them, trying to see when they would reach the entrance.

  “We should have been here earlier,” he grumbled. “We might never get in.”

  “Yes, so inconvenient of Master Lucas dying like that.”

  “That’s not what I meant, Master Crispin. Bless me but you are in a fine state.”

  “I’ve been duped,” he growled. “And I have no liking for it.”

  “Aye, I know it.”

  “You were correct about your assessment of her. You have every right to mock me.”

  “I’m not mocking you, sir. Far from it. But aren’t you always telling me, Master, to learn from my mistakes? I suggest you do the same and put aside your ire for a time to attend to the business at hand. That of this joust. If we can ever get through the sarding gate!”

  The crowd surged forward. It was only another half an hour before they got through, but it was evident to Crispin that they would get nowhere near the viewing stands. People were hanging out of windows along the avenue and some were even sitting on the roofs.

  The pavilion tents of the contestants stood on either end of the lists with makeshift corrals for their horses. By the colors of the closest tent, Crispin surmised it belonged to Sir Thomas. He shoved his way forward, tempted to assist with his dagger. He managed to bully his way through and when he reached the tents, he surveyed the area. Young men who looked like squires and pages were milling by the horses, and lances were propped against a stand.

  “Master,” said Jack, tugging on Crispin’s sleeve. “What is going to happen?”

  “This is a Wager of Battle, a sort of trial by combat. Ordinarily, the combatants would be the plaintiff and the defendant. They would fight on foot with simple weapons, bare legs, bare arms, and simple sandals on their feet. In this case, because it is a situation of cowardice and desertion, I suppose the Earl Marshal’s court chose a joust to prove once and for all Sir Thomas’s fitness to serve.”

  “Who will he joust, then?”

  “I don’t know. I would have thought it would be one of Lancaster’s men since he offended the duke, but it seems more likely that it will be another champion. I’ll wager the king chose the competitor. And he will be very good.”

  “Sir, do you think Sir Thomas will prevail?”

  Crispin’s glance swept out past the stands to the fluttering pennons whipping in the wind, the striped lances, the horses being paraded in their caparisons, and gave a sigh. The bridge now sported a dirt field with a fence running down the center directly before the viewing stands. The jousters would each stay on their side of the barrier. It was empty now except for a few pages with brooms, clearing it of any debris. The viewing stands in the center were covered and formed a private box. That would be for the king and his retinue when they arrived right before the joust was to begin.

  Crispin’s heart beat with a conflicted tempo. To see the lists again, the tilting yard, brought back good memories of his own competitions. He missed his old destrier, a dapple gray stallion named Hippocrates. A strong horse with a good heart, who could turn on the spot with just the slightest pressure from Crispin’s knee. He often wondered what had happened to that horse. Probably served some other master. The grim thought that he might be dead weighed on his soul.

  “Will … will he fight to the death, Master?”

  Crispin set his jaw. “This is the Joust á l’Outrance—the joust to the bitter end. It is finished when one surrenders, becomes wounded, or is killed. The only prize here, Jack, is Life. If Sir Thomas surrenders or is wounded, he will hang on the spot.”

  “Blind me,” he whispered, crossing himself.

  “It is a just measure. It is an opportunity to publicly prove himself. There is no other way.”

  “Master Crispin!” hissed Jack in his ear. “Look, sir. I think that page is beckoning to you.”

  A young boy in Thomas’s colors stood by his tent and was indeed motioning to Crispin. Crispin pushed his way forward again and finally reached the boy.

  “You are Crispin Guest?”

  “Yes. What is it, boy?”

  He shook his head sadly. “Sir Thomas won’t let any of his pages or squires attend him. He threatens us and throws things when we try to enter. He won’t let his squire arm him. I have heard him talk of you. Can you do something, sir?”

  The man had gone mad, there was no other explanation. Crispin said nothing as the page led him to the tent opening. “Have a care, sir, when going in. He throws weapons as well.”

  Crispin exchanged glances with an anxious Jack before pulling the flap aside and ducking in.

  “Get out! I told you to leave me!”

  Thomas sat in a folding chair, his legs sprawled and covered with greaves. They were the only armor he wore. He was dressed in his shirtsleeves and hadn’t even donned his padded aketon. He sagged over his sword hilt, the point digging into the carpets layered on the tent’s floor. The fine breastplate made by Roger Grey lay on a table alongside his pig-faced bascinet and the rest of his armor. On the floor beside the arms table lay broken pottery, a jug, a cup, in a pool of red wine. It reminded Crispin of Lucas Stotley’s final breaths.

  “It is me; Crispin.”

  Thomas lifted his head. His eyes were rimmed with red and tear tracks were plain on his face. “Oh. So you’ve come.”

  “As I said I would.”

  Thomas made no move to rise. If anything, he seemed to slump further. He smelled of wine but he did not appear to be drunk. “Well, at least a friend will be on hand to bid me farewell.”

  “Thomas, get hold of yourself. Be a man, dammit!”

  He laughed but his eyes held no humor. “Be a man? But not all of us can be a Crispin Guest. How many died in that treasonous plot, Crispin? How many brave knights plotted to put Lancaster on the throne? How many screamed as they were tortured and betrayed one another, giving name after name? Do you know I heard that you would not? No matter how they harried you, no matter how long the torture went on, you would not name any other even to save your own skin. That is the kind of man we all aspire to be. But it is not the kind of man we are all capable of being.”

  “It is merely a joust, Thomas. You have won many jousts and under worse conditions. Prove yourself! Defend your honor. Come back into the ranks of Lancaster’s army.”

  “But you see, dear Crispin. That is the one thing I do not wish to do.”

  He rose then, leaning heavily on his sword. He picked it up, examined its fine blade, the gleam of it in the brazier’s light. “I do not wish to rejoin his or any other army. I am done with that.” He spoke to his sword, unwilling or unable to face Crispin. “My bosom is too weak, too frail now to cosset courage.” He lowered the blade to his chair and slid the sword with the hilt side down so that the cross guard braced against the chair leg. “I wish I were you, Crispin. Yes, even after all you have suffered. I wish at least that I had your verve, your audacity. Young squire,” he said, addressing Jack, “you should be proud to serve your master. He may no longer be called a knight, but it runs through his veins, it beats in his heart. Such a man must be emulated.”

  Crispin watched Thomas fiddle with his sword in its unusual position. What the devil
was the man doing?

  All at once, Thomas spun on his heel and faced the chair, placing the sword point at his gut.

  It finally registered in Crispin’s mind what the man intended. Time itself slowed. Crispin launched himself across the room. It seemed to take a damnably long time. He slammed into the knight at last and closed him into a tight embrace, knocking him to the floor. They rolled a few feet and Crispin landed atop him. Shocked to his core, he stared down at the man, who was weeping and struggling to cast Crispin off.

  “Why did you stop me? I am good for nothing but the worms!”

  Thomas struggled, but Crispin held him tight. “Thomas,” he rasped in his ear. “For God’s sake, man! You would take your own life?”

  “Better that than the dishonor to my family when I am cut down on the lists.”

  “But … a suicide? Thomas, your soul…”

  “What do I care of that? God will not want a coward in Heaven. He will not want me amongst his angels. Let me go, Crispin. Let me die as I will.”

  “No, damn you!” He pushed hard against Thomas’s shoulders and ground them into the carpets. He sat up and glared. “Fight for yourself! For your mortal soul, if for nothing else.”

  Thomas stopped struggling and lay back. “No, not even for that. I can’t go out there. I can barely stand to even look at my armor. Whatever bewitchment has enchanted me, it is as strong now as on any battlefield. Don’t you see, Crispin? I am doomed.”

  For a long moment, Crispin stared into the eyes of his friend, willing him the courage to go on. But it was beyond his capacity. He got to his feet and offered a hand down to Thomas. He took it and reluctantly gained his own feet. He strode with leaden steps to the table holding his armor and picked up the helm, fingering the sharp, pointed nose of the visor. “I used to enjoy the tilt. You saw me. I loved it.”

  “I remember,” said Crispin softly.

  “But now…” He cradled the helm for a long time, until his shoulders stiffened and he whipped around to stare at Crispin. “Crispin! You could do it. You could joust.”

  He snorted. “But I am no longer a knight,” he said bitterly.

  Thomas reached and covered Crispin’s shoulder with his hand, closing his fingers on the bone with a tightening grip. “You could joust for me, in my stead.” He gestured with the polished helm in his hand. “Wear my armor and none would be the wiser!”

  It was slowly dawning on him that Thomas was serious. Crispin took a step back, but Thomas’s grip was strong. Crispin blinked his confusion. “You can’t mean it, Thomas. I can tick off the list of ways I am not fit to be a competitor.”

  “But you are! You are without fear.”

  “I beg to disagree.”

  Thomas’s gaze measured Crispin from head to toe. “You are hale and fit. A worthy man to take my place.”

  “Thomas, I am not a knight! I haven’t the right to go out there. And all that aside, I haven’t been in a joust in over ten years. Don’t be a fool.”

  “But it could work. Crispin, as soon as I strode out there I would fall from my horse in mortal fear. But you could do it. No one would ever know. It would save my honor and my life. Crispin, you do want to save my miserable life, don’t you?”

  His blood was pumping so loudly in his ears that he could barely hear. “Thomas,” he said weakly. “This is mad. Someone will discover it. And then both our lives will be forfeit.”

  “No, no they won’t.” He looked to Jack. “Your boy here will help me arm you. He’ll say nothing. I trust him. I trust you.”

  Crispin shook his head vigorously. “Thomas, I am woefully out of practice. How can you expect me to prevail over the king’s champion, the finest jouster there is? It is madness.”

  “But there is no choice.” He released Crispin and stepped aside, the helm dangling from his hand. “There is no choice. Either I fall upon my sword as is my due, or you help me.”

  Crispin looked to Jack, whose face was now white as linen. To Thomas, who, even despite everything that had transpired in the last few minutes, looked as calm as he ever had. He was convinced that Crispin would not only don his armor for him but would win against the king’s finest jouster.

  “God’s blood,” he whispered. “Don’t do this, Thomas. Don’t ask this of me.”

  “But I am asking. Selfish as I am. You swore to me, Crispin. You told me only yesterday that you would always owe me for risking all for you nine years ago.”

  “But this is a cheat. It is dishonor! To you, to me, to the joust itself.”

  “It is my life, such as it is. Would you deny me? I will not forget this boon, Crispin. For my life and my honor, I beg of you.”

  “I won’t do it, Thomas. I haven’t the right and you haven’t the right to ask me.”

  Thomas said nothing. He merely fastened his reddened eyes upon Crispin, his desperation flowing off of him in waves. It didn’t matter. There were simply some things that Crispin could not consent to. This was to be a battle that decided Thomas’s fitness to continue as a knight. If Crispin were to take his place, that would pull down great dishonor on the Saunfayl house, for what would it prove but that its master was a coward, unable to even stand up for his own name.

  And yet. He had made Crispin swear an oath to help him in any way he saw fit. To refuse that oath was to bring dishonor upon Crispin and on the memory of what he owed Thomas.

  He felt the raw bite of his predicament as it slowly nibbled at his senses. It was dishonor if he agreed to such madness but it was dishonor if he turned his back.

  Which was greater?

  He glanced once more at Jack, whose young face was always open like a parchment scrawled with all of his feelings and thoughts upon its surface. But he was no help at all in this matter.

  Crispin was a fox in a steel trap with the hunters closing in.

  There was nothing but the sound of his own panting breaths and his heart hammering in his chest. Crispin took one deep breath and expelled it through his nose. Ah, his cold was gone at last. A clear head. Clear in time to be hewn off.

  He made for the tent door, the only decision possible. He even put his hand upon the flap, and stopped. He had sworn an oath. And he had never—even when his own life and comfort had been at stake—never forsworn himself.

  But God help him. As much as he tried to suppress the feeling, tried to deny it, he could not. Because for all of his protestations, all the rationalizing, he wanted to joust. He wanted to be a knight again at least one last time.

  He turned. Thomas wore an anxious face, pocked with sweat. Slowly, reluctantly, Crispin reached for the helm in Thomas’s hand and grasped it, pulling it loose from his yielding fingers. It was a mere quarter of a stone in weight and as finely fashioned as the breastplate and the fine steel mesh of the habergeon hanging from its padded dummy.

  In a low roughened voice, he said, “Arm me.”

  22

  WITH NUMBED FINGERS, CRISPIN unbuttoned his cotehardie, and when it lay open like the skin of a butchered animal, Thomas took it from him and slipped it over his own shoulders.

  Jack stood at the tent door, guarding the entrance, alternating his attention between the doorway and Crispin.

  Thomas said nothing more as he helped arm Crispin. There was little left to be said. Crispin knew he should be praying, but he felt weightless, as if this was happening to another, and he couldn’t come up with even the simplest of prayers. Instead, he stood like a child being dressed by his nursemaid, arms out, as Thomas slipped him into the sleeves of the aketon, pulled it taut against his chest, and laced it up.

  Next, he lifted the mail shirt from its stand. Crispin bent forward and let Thomas slip the habergeon over his head, arms through the sleeves. When he straightened, he felt the weight of it resting over his shoulders as it flowed down his body to his upper thighs.

  Thomas then knelt and held a sabaton for Crispin to slide his boot-clad foot into. The fit was tight—after all, it was made to fit Sir Thomas—but the straps and spurs hel
d it in place. It would have to do. On one knee, Thomas unstrapped the greaves from his own shins and clapped them over Crispin’s, pulling the leather straps tight. He rose for only a moment and that was to retrieve the cuisses from the arming table. He soon knelt again and affixed them to Crispin’s thighs, pulling the leather buckles almost painfully taut. Crispin didn’t complain. He accepted it as he accepted all of it.

  The poleyns were next, fitting just over Crispin’s exposed kneecaps.

  As the armor rose up his body, so did the fear at what was about to happen. His mouth felt dry. How he wished he had spent the day in the Boar’s Tusk rather than coming here. His mind raced with the things he had yet to achieve. There was bringing Osbert and his ilk to justice, for one. And Anabel. She had yet to be dealt with. And then there was the Spear. Its fate was still unknown. If it did confer the power the abbot claimed it did, it was a dangerous object.

  The abbot. Nicholas, his friend, dying at his estates. He would have liked to spend some time with the old man, perhaps played a last game of chess. How Nicholas would wag a finger at him now if he saw what foolery Crispin had let himself get into.

  Then there was Lancaster. He would have liked to have seen Lancaster one more time. His anger at the duke for deceiving him, for putting him in the state in which he now lived, had suddenly dispersed. The fear at his impending doom appeared to have chased it into the mist.

  And finally there was Jack. His gaze found his apprentice, one eye glued to the slit of the tent flap. That clever boy. Crispin did not fear for Jack Tucker now. He had skills he could use. He would have to hone them but he could do it. He could succeed Crispin. True, he could do with a few more years in his apprenticeship, for he would stumble and get into trouble, but he was sharp. He would survive.

  Crispin jerked at the suddenness of the breastplate entombing him. The heaviness of it seemed to rob him of his breath. He could not help but gasp for air even as Thomas bound him within. He put his hand to it, feeling the smooth planes of steel, the delicate carvings that made up the arms of Saunfayl. It was beautiful armor. A shame he could not fully appreciate it.