“I am well, Jack. Just bruised. And tired.”
“Oh Master Crispin!” The tears were smeared and dried on the boy’s dirty face. “I never seen the like. You were magnificent. As if you’d never left the lists, sir. I mean, I knew that you were a lord, sir, but I never believed … I mean, I never could have guessed…”
“That I knew what I was doing?” He leaned against the wall, head thrown back, breathing in all the air he wanted. “‘The proof that you know something is that you are able to teach it.’”
“I know that, Master, but to see it! Oh, you must have been a terrible sight on the battlefield.”
“Enough. You say that Thomas knew what was in the breastplate?”
“Aye, sir. The squire handed it to me and said that you had said this was what we had been seeking. When it rattled, I reckoned what it was. But so did Sir Thomas. I am ashamed to say I wrestled with him for it.” And Crispin just now noticed a bruise on the side of Jack’s face. He hoped the boy had inflicted at least that much on the man in return. “But he knocked me down and got away. Should we go after him, sir?”
He closed his eyes and scrubbed his face with his calloused hands. “No,” he said to his fingers. “Let him go.”
“But Master!”
“Let him go, I say. He will run with as much as he can carry. I doubt we shall ever see him or that miserable Spear again. God help him now.”
“But what of Lancaster?”
“He had already lost a knight a while ago. But Thomas will not return to Spain to fight for his or for any other army.”
“But now he’s got the Spear!”
“Perhaps. If that is what was inside.”
“Don’t you want to know, sir? Don’t you want to know if it helped you fight?”
“I did not have it in the end, so what does it matter?”
“But sir!”
“Leave it, Jack. Would that I could forget it all. But we still have a murderer to catch.”
“Wasn’t that Sir Osbert?”
He rested his hand on Jack’s shoulders. Crispin shivered. Jack shook him off and divested himself of his cloak … and as it turned out it was Crispin’s, for he had worn one over the other. He gave it to Crispin and he quickly donned it. “No, Jack. It was not Sir Osbert.”
“But—”
“Osbert told me he had negotiated with Grey, offered him money. But then he told me that Anabel got in his way. She tried to insinuate herself into his scheme. He told me Grey intended to leave London.”
“And you believe him?”
“Yes. How could he have known that which Anabel keeps denying? And she denied ever seeing him before. She lied, Jack, about all of it. We must now find Anabel Coterel. She killed him, Jack. Because he intended to leave her. And she killed Lucas Stotley, with whom she conspired to steal her father’s money. There are no words to describe what she is. I will not let her get away.”
* * *
THE TRAIL WAS COLD by some several hours. Crispin had to believe Anabel and her father would return to the bridge for the remainder of their things. But the bridge was a mass of bodies and the remnants of the joust. It might be easier and quicker to get there by boat.
Again, Jack led him through the throng of people, threading their way as unobtrusively as they could. Crispin kept thinking of the Boar’s Tusk and how thoroughly appealing the idea of a jug of wine was. Wearier than he’d ever been, he pushed on, allowing Jack to make a path for them among the crowd. He heard snatches of conversation, many speaking of the combat they had just witnessed. He blushed to hear the praise of the mysterious Sir Thomas and how absurd had been the charge of cowardice, and hadn’t the king more to worry over than frivolous jousts? Crispin allowed himself to wonder at the fate of his friend—former friend, he corrected. Sir Thomas, stealing away with a precious relic, was certainly welcome to it. He wanted nothing more than to forget it all. Except that the throbbing pain in his arm from the sword hit would not allow it. He grabbed at the bicep and kneaded it, but that ministration did little good. The arm still felt leaden at his side.
They could not seem to escape the milling people still discussing the joust. But at least more were dispersing. The king and his entourage had long ago departed, probably not long after Crispin had crept away himself.
Jack walked close to Crispin, likely to catch him if he dropped from exhaustion.
“It will be a miracle if she is still here.”
“She might have been trapped with the crowd,” said Crispin.
They spilled out at the edge of the throng and Crispin trotted toward the tailor shop. When he neared he slowed and edged toward the open shutter and peered around it. Dark. No sign of— Wait. He heard the rafters creak above and he wasted no time in climbing in. Turning to Jack, he put a finger to his lips and crept toward the stairs. There was no sense in going up the stairs and risking that they would squeak and give him away. So he waited below, trying to keep his breathing under control. Slowly, he drew his dagger. There would be no mistakes this time. If she didn’t go quietly he was prepared to subdue her.
A step. Someone was coming down the staircase. Each tread creaked with the weight of a foot descending. Once they reached the floor, Crispin darted from beneath the stairs and grabbed her. But it was not Anabel.
He held them at arm’s length. “Master Coterel! Forgive me. I thought you were … someone else.” He sheathed his dagger.
The tailor swayed from surprise and, with a sniff, Crispin could tell it was also from drunkenness. “What … what…?”
Crispin pulled the nervous man toward a chair and sat him down. A flame flared behind him and Jack set the candle on the table.
“Master Crispin? What are you doing here in the dark?”
“I was looking for you. And your daughter.”
“She is awaiting me. We are leaving London. She said she cannot abide the sorrows we have seen. I was just gathering the last of our things.” He gestured toward the small coffer in his lap.
“Where is she, Master Coterel?”
“She’s not far. We are anxious to be on our way.”
“Master Coterel, I must … speak with her.”
The tailor’s yellowed eyes darted from Crispin’s face to Jack’s. “Why ever for?”
“The tragedy that has befallen these two houses, that of Master Grey and this one, has been great. The death of two young apprentices and of Roger Grey himself. These are foul deeds. And now Lucas Stotley. Do you not see how they tie together, Master Coterel?”
Still bewildered, the tailor looked from one to the other. He touched a quivering finger to his lips. “But how can that be?”
“I … some people do these deeds to … to help their household. I think that perhaps Roger Grey was killed for his money. To help the two of you.”
Coterel shook his head, fingers still dragging against his lips. “But how can that be? He was going to marry her. He was going to—” His glossy eyes looked up. “He was going to marry her and leave London, such an evil place.”
“Well, that may be so. But it does not change the fact that … he was killed. And others.”
“What will become of my Anabel? She is so innocent.”
This was damnable. The man was in his cups and unable to comprehend what Crispin was saying. He dared not say more. He could see the bewilderment still on Coterel’s face. “Can you tell me where she is? I must fetch her myself.”
The door burst open and Anabel stood in the doorway. She had lost her veil and her hair was unbound, hanging in wild curls about her face and neck. Those full lips that had tasted him hung open in fear. “What are you doing?”
Crispin wasn’t certain whether she was talking to him or her father, but he straightened and stood. “Anabel Coterel, you must accompany me to Newgate on the charge of murder.”
She stared at him, green eyes wide, dark lashes fanning outward like an opening flower. She stared at him for a long moment. Until she laughed. Not a pleasant tinkling sound
.
“You are charging me with murder?”
“The time for games is done. You must submit.” He moved his hand over his dagger but did not draw it. She saw the movement and her eyes stayed wide and rounded.
“You would truly haul me to the sheriffs? You’d see me hang?”
Her father shot to his feet. “No, Anabel!”
“It’s all right, Father.” She went to him and closed her arms about him. But in a flash, she had grabbed the knife from his belt and spun, holding the blade toward Crispin. “My father and I are leaving London. We shall not return.”
“I am afraid I cannot permit that.”
“Will you stop me?” She reached blindly for her father’s arm but he had stepped back. “You, who shared my bed?”
“Anabel.” Crispin lowered his head but did not take his eyes from her. “You deceived me. No more.”
She shook her head, still reaching for her father without looking. Her attention was focused solely on Crispin. “I have shared many beds and deceived many men. What is one more?”
“My daughter!” She spared her father a glance and stopped in her tracks. The tailor held a mace in his unsteady hands and had backed Jack into a wall threateningly. “You should not tell such lies to this man. He’s trying to help.”
“Father…” Her dagger lowered. Crispin swept in and grabbed her, wrestling the knife from her hand. “No!”
But now the situation was worse, for the tailor had not backed away from Jack. He seemed even more determined to hold him at bay. Jack did not seem to know what to do. Each time he reached for his own dagger, the man moved the mace toward his moving hand.
“Master Coterel,” said Crispin, still holding Anabel’s wrist. “Put the mace down.”
“I cannot do that, young man. My daughter is an innocent maid. All these men are taking advantage of her. Roger Grey did. He said he would marry her, but I could see that he was preparing to leave the city, and he made no mention of taking us with him. He said some very bad things.”
Desperately, Anabel raised a pleading hand to her father. “Father, don’t. Don’t say another word. I beg you!”
Coterel’s face darkened. “He said some very bad things, indeed. I came to talk to him that night, to tell him to stay away from my daughter. He was not there, but his apprentices were.”
“Father, be still. For the love of God!”
Crispin felt a sickening thud in his gut. He’d been wrong again. He released her wrist.
“They tried to restrain me,” said the tailor. “Me! I was a tailor on this bridge long before they were ever born. I merely meant to throw them off. This was sitting on the table.” He lifted the mace with a much surer hand. “But I never meant to … meant to truly harm them.” Crispin itched to get to Jack, but he stood too many feet away. Edging closer, he tried to placate with an open hand. It wasn’t at all what he had thought and Jack, too, was coming to that realization. Fear froze his face.
Coterel licked his lips. “They were good boys,” he said wistfully. “I did not realize…” He shrugged. “When they were quite still I … I threw them both out the window. I had to.” He turned toward the shuttered window and seemed perplexed that it was a different one. “When Grey arrived he told me to get out but I accused him of immorality and breach of promise. He lied and said he had never promised to marry my daughter.”
“Oh, Father.” Anabel broke down. She covered her face with her hands and wept great sobs.
“I hit him with my fist and bloodied his nose. We fought. He tried to grab me and then I hit him with this!” He lifted the mace. “That stopped him. I threw him in the Thames as well.”
“And you killed Lucas Stotley,” said Crispin.
Anabel gasped.
“He was a liar. He said very bad things about my daughter. It is a sin to lie. I took my scissors and stabbed him to silence his lies. It was a very good scissors.”
“Master Coterel,” said Crispin carefully. “Please. Give me the mace.”
“And now you are saying lies about my daughter as well. There are very few things that a man can do to protect his daughter from false rumors and the lust of unworthy men. But I know what I can do.”
He turned from Jack and took a step toward Crispin. And just as he raised the mace, Jack grabbed a stool and struck his arm. The mace clattered to the ground, and Jack tackled him. They both fell heavily and slammed against a table. Anabel screamed and Crispin moved in and yanked the man to his feet by the collar.
“There will be no more lies,” said Crispin. “And no more deaths.” He looked toward Anabel’s face, a ruin of tears.
26
CRISPIN BROODED BEFORE HIS fire, stabbing his knife tip into the arm of his chair, pulling it out, and stabbing again in a mindless repetition of movement.
Jack stood to the side, close enough for comfort but not so close as to annoy. “So she lied to protect him,” he said quietly.
“Yes. Unstable from drink, he committed these horrific murders without so much as batting an eye. He believed he was protecting her. She, of course, was using her body and her wiles to maintain a living.”
“But if she told Lucas Stotley where the money was hidden so he could steal it, why’d she hire you?”
“To throw me off the scent. She never believed I would make so obscure a connection as Lucas to Lenny. Of course, she couldn’t have known that I was already well acquainted with our thief. She wanted me close to make certain I followed the wrong leads, accused the wrong men, since I didn’t believe Grey had killed himself.”
Jack smoothed down the breast of his new coat with a hesitant hand. “He is a fine tailor, sir.” He was wearing the coat made by a murderer. But he and Jack were pragmatic men. Neither could afford to dispose of it.
Crispin nodded. “But perhaps he did not work as often as he let on. His drunkenness prevented that.”
“She lay with those men for money, sir?”
“A person will commit many unspeakable acts to stay alive.”
They both fell silent, thinking privately of their own dark pasts.
A knock on the door broke the reverie. With a questioning look toward Crispin, Jack made to open it, but Crispin stopped him. He went instead, drawing his dagger. The hour was late and a visitor did not bode well.
He unbolted the door and pulled, letting it fall open. A figure stood on the landing and remained in the shadows until finally stepping forward.
“Geoffrey!”
Chaucer, followed by the three Spaniards, walked over the threshold. Crispin eyed them all once before he turned his back on them and returned to the fire. “Close the door on your way out,” he said, and sat.
The others hung back but Geoffrey stood beside Crispin almost at the same spot Jack had stood. “I thought you might like to know that Sir Thomas has redeemed himself and all charges have been dropped.”
“That is good news. Now good night.”
“But it seems that after the match he has disappeared. His squires, his pages, none of his household know where he has gone.”
“And neither do I. Is that what you came for? That is your answer. You can go now.”
“Cris, Sir Thomas is still to return to his grace’s army. But there appears to be no sign of him. Or of the Spear.”
“How astute of you. He clearly has it and has made off. I am not pleased with the situation either. He owes me my fee.”
“Are you not going to pursue him?”
“No. Frankly, I’ve had enough of this affair. And if you are wise you, too, will forget it. He is long gone. Gone from London, I should imagine. It shall be impossible to track him now.”
He heard the squeak of leather and clank of armor as the others turned to one another. Clearly, this was not good news.
Chaucer took a step and grabbed the stool, placed it beside Crispin, and sat. He leaned over his thighs and warmed his hands before the meager flames. “I hear you caught your murderer,” he said softly. “Well done.”
“It was very ill done! This conversation is over. Will you leave?” He rubbed at his sore arm and Chaucer stared at it.
“How did you hurt your arm, Cris?”
“I was careless.” He rubbed it harder. It was less numb than it had been but it still ached with every movement.
“Very careless. Letting the sword strike you like that.”
His kneading stopped. Crispin kept his gaze steady on the hearth. “I do not know what you are talking about.”
Chaucer leaned in and said quietly, “You think I can’t recognize you? Me? How many years did we fight together, side by side? Dammit, Cris, what the hell were you doing?”
“As I said.” He turned to face his friend. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
Chaucer slapped his thigh and stood. “Very well. You don’t know where Sir Thomas is?”
“No. And I have no intention of going after him. Good riddance.”
“And the Spear?”
“He’ll never use it in battle. I am satisfied.”
“But Cris!”
“He said he’s satisfied,” said Jack, emerging from the shadows. “My lord,” he added perfunctorily.
Chaucer released a long sigh. He looked at his companions, but they were silent. “Then, I must be content as well. It was good to see you again, Crispin. I’m sure we will cross paths.”
“London is a big town. We might not.”
“No, you are wrong. It is a very small town. Very small indeed. Take care of yourself. God keep you. I do mean it.”
Crispin nodded. “I know. You, too.”
Chaucer jerked his head and the others followed. They left, silently closing the door behind them.
Jack blew out a relieved breath. “S’trooth! I’m glad to see the backside of them!”
* * *
ALL WAS BACK TO normal. A murderer was brought to justice, a relic had disappeared once more, a man’s honor was preserved, and Crispin was left alone again, even if his money pouch was, for once, full.
Blood Lance: A Medieval Noir Page 26
