Cup of Blood: A Medieval Noir: A Crispin Guest Medieval Noir Prequel

by Jeri Westerson

  The lowly were always making more of such events than were called for, he decided. A physician’s remedy somehow becomes a miracle. The simple truth of it, Crispin knew, was that the body healed on its own. He himself sustained many a battle wound, some horrendous. Nasty gashes from swords; blows from maces that dented his helm. But he recovered each time, some under a physician’s art and some simply because of his own obstinacy.

  He walked on, thinking of Man’s folly, of his own, and even of revenge. “Living on revenge,” he muttered, considering Eleanor’s words. He had not liked those words when she spoke them, but now he could not erase them from his mind. They rang in his ear, punctuated by each of his plodding steps. They prevented him from immediately noticing Jack Tucker standing in his path until he nearly ran him down.

  Crispin stopped and looked up. “My shadow,” he said with a frown.

  “Aye, sir. A good servant knows what his master is about.”

  Crispin felt in no mood for the “not my servant” roundelay, so he said nothing and side-stepped him.

  “The sheriffs are awaiting you at your lodgings, Master,” Jack said to Crispin’s retreating back.

  Crispin took one more step then stopped. He raised his head and stared up into the raining sky. It misted his cold cheeks with the patter of drops. “Of course they are,” he muttered defeated. “Then I must see them at once, no?”

  “They are not patient men.”

  Crispin yanked his cloak across his chest and cursed under his breath. “Neither am I.”

  Crispin found Sheriff Wynchecombe and Sheriff John More staring at his meager hearth flames when he entered. Jack took up a post in a corner of the small room. Crispin nearly told him to be off but at the last moment decided against it. He turned to Wynchecombe and More and bowed. “Welcome, my lords,” he said without a shred of welcome in his voice. He strode past the sheriffs to stoke the fire.

  “So these are your lodgings.” Wynchecombe looked about with distaste. His gaze swept over Jack but there did not appear to be any recognition in his eyes.

  “What would you expect?” said More. He was a shorter, rounder man than Wynchecombe, appearing his opposite in every way. Where Wynchecombe was dark, More was light with sandy blond hair. And where Wynchecombe sported beard and mustache, More was clean-shaven like Crispin. His houppelande was scarlet with small pearls sewn onto the chest. He chuckled and placed his thumbs in his wide belt. “For my part,” he went on, “it appears better than I anticipated.”

  Wynchecombe scowled. London well knew that he did not approve of his partner being elected to the post of sheriff and in fact, More was more absent in most proceedings than not. He sniffed, ignoring More. “Why London, Crispin? One would think you would hide yourself far from here.”

  “A man can lose himself in London. Or at least…” He set the poker aside and faced them both. “He can try.” He felt a wave of uneasiness with the sheriffs standing in his place of safe and private surroundings. “My lords, to what do I owe—?”

  Wynchecombe looked at More before answering. “The body is gone.”

  Crispin raised a brow. “Indeed.”

  More shook himself. “Is that all you can say?”

  “What would you have me say, Lord Sheriff?”

  “Damn you, Guest,” said Wynchecombe. “You couldn’t let it go, could you? Couldn’t let me hang that useless cutpurse who now seems to be your lap dog. Now it’s missing Templars and dark mysteries. I want none of it, I tell you.”

  “You have a sworn duty—”

  Without warning, Wynchecombe slammed his forearm into Crispin’s chest and pinned him against the wall. Jack made a half-hearted lurch forward, but truly, what could he do?

  More stood beside the fire uncomfortably, shuffling from foot to foot.

  Inhaling a sharp breath through his teeth, Crispin swore softly. The freshening pain of his wounds smarted. “Don’t tell me my duty,” Wynchecombe spat at Crispin’s cheek. “I know it right well.” The sheriff waited, but Crispin said nothing. Wynchecombe snorted. He held Crispin one moment more before releasing him. He paced, as if nothing had happened between them. “But this,” he said. “This is beyond me. Templars. Bah! I tell you I know not what to do.” He snarled in Jack’s direction and the boy cringed. There was a pause and Crispin waited for whatever pronouncement Wynchecombe would surely hurl at him. Instead, he was surprised by Jack scurrying around them offering bowls of wine. Wynchecombe took one, looked into his bowl, but did not drink. More refused the offer, lifting his face in disdain.

  “Perhaps…we might work together on this,” offered More.

  The wine proved interesting again to Wynchecombe, but only to look at. “Eh? What is it, John?”

  “Well, might I suggest, just this once, mind you, that Master Guest…I mean him with his history as a knight and us with… with…”

  “With the might of the king’s majesty?” said Crispin.

  Wynchecombe nodded abruptly. “Yes. Yes, to be sure. Am I right in assuming you mean to hire this churl, John?”

  “It is just that he has inconvenienced us, has he not? With his distractions of cutpurses and Templars. We must be about the king’s business, not this nonsense.”

  Wynchecombe smiled, though not a pleasant one. “So? What say you, Guest?”

  Their mummery was good, he mused. Not as practiced as it could have been, but good enough. “‘Evil draws men together’,” he muttered.

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing. Pardon my asking, but what do I gain from this extraordinary partnership?”

  More stuttered.

  “What?” cried Wynchecombe. “You mean pay you? Ha!” He finally drank and then grimaced, looking quizzically into the bowl. He handed it off to Jack who took it and sniffed its contents, shaking his head.

  “My wages are sixpence a day,” said Crispin.

  Wynchecombe laughed. “Sixpence? I pay my archers as much and they work harder.”

  “Sixpence is my fee, archer or no. And more often than not, I hit the mark.”

  Jack snorted a laugh but quickly suppressed it when both sheriffs eyed him with twin scowls.

  “Yes,” said Wynchecombe. “I do recall something a year ago about your finding Westminster Abbey’s missing altar goods. They were returned forthwith.”

  “Not so forthwith,” said Crispin, shying from the warmth of flattery. “A fortnight, perhaps.”

  Wynchecombe pushed More aside to glare hard at Crispin. “You think yourself very clever.”

  “As long as I am clever, my lord, I eat.”

  Wynchecombe smirked. His dark mustache framed his white teeth. “You were fortunate they did not execute you for treason.” The low growl of his words reassured them both of their status with one another.

  Jack froze while setting the empty bowl back on the shelf.

  “Was I?”

  “Come, Crispin,” Wynchecombe said, magnanimous again. “You live.” He glanced about the dingy room. “Such as it is.”

  “My title, my lands all taken with my knighthood,” he managed to say without gritting his teeth. “Yes. I live. Such as it is.”

  More snorted and clutched his gloved hand on his sword hilt. “By God! The gall. You were a traitor, sir! Conspiring with other traitors to put Lancaster on the throne over King Richard, the rightful heir.”

  Wynchecombe leaned against the wall, his arms folded in front of him. “You do not think you deserved to lose your knighthood over that? Better your knighthood than your head, eh?”

  Crispin eyed their swords still in their sheaths before flicking his gaze away. “I know not. In similar circumstances, I, too, might have cast my vote to degrade such a knight. But when it is oneself, the circumstances seem…unjustified.” The flames caught his attention and he shook his head. “Richard is king now. There is nothing to be done. But ‘they should rule who are able to rule best’. I stand by that now as then.”

  Wynchecombe laughed. “Still quoting that pagan Ar
istotle? No wonder you are without your sword.”

  “And without food. Do you pay my wage or not?”

  Wynchecombe frowned. “Yes. I agree to your fee.”

  “Now wait a moment…” said More.

  “Be still, John,” Wynchecombe said wearily. “These matters are best left to me, are they not?” More scowled deeply. It was true that Crispin rarely saw More in these duties except to take his place of pride in processions and other high profile events. Still, for Wynchecombe to rub his face in it…

  “Though I may not need to pay it,” the sheriff went on. “I know now who killed our missing knight, and it may cheer your heart to hear it.”

  Crispin nodded. “Stephen St Albans.”

  “How the hell—? Oh! That wench at the Boar’s Tusk.”

  “You forget. She is my friend.” Crispin took two steps to the fire and warmed his knuckles near the blaze. Behind him, rain drizzled against the half-closed shutters and misted the floorboards. “Will you arrest him?” The idea tingled Crispin’s neck, coursing an energized sensation throughout his gut.

  He did not even look at More. “Yes. Unless you have a better idea.”

  “My better idea isn’t exactly legal.” He twisted back to look at both sheriffs. “You do not seem as concerned as one would expect that your corpse has vanished.”

  More waved his hand in dismissal. “We no longer need the corpse to know he is dead. It is the same as if he were buried.”

  Crispin turned. “But he is not buried! He is stolen. Do you make nothing of that?”

  More moved as if to speak but Wynchecombe cut him off. “I do not care.”

  “We do not need the body,” assured More, face glowering comically.

  Crispin chuckled. “The Templars are now out of your hair, eh? One problem solved.”

  “That is not your concern. Your concern is only to help me find Stephen St Albans.”

  “You forget, Wynchecombe. The body must be produced for a trial.”

  “I can get round that, never you fear.” He huffed at More and turned back to the fire to warm his hands. “What troubles you? I would have thought nothing would please you more than to put that particular man on the gallows.”

  Wynchecombe was right. Nothing could possibly please Crispin more except to drop the rope over Stephen’s neck himself. But something about Stephen’s guilt gnawed at him. He worried at it, like a widow at her rosary.

  “Yes,” was all he said. Stephen a poisoner. Crispin hated him with all his being, but was Stephen dishonorable enough to use poison? It was mostly that thought that kept him silent when he and Jack followed the sheriffs out to the street and watched them and their entourage of horses and men finally depart up the avenue back toward Newgate.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Stephen St Albans. Was there a day gone by where Crispin had not thought of him? It was he who revealed the conspiracy that felled many a knight and threw Crispin into the poverty he now suffered. Stephen. Rosamunde’s guardian.

  Standing in the street, his mind flitted unbidden to the image of Rosamunde. She had been the most beautiful creature he had ever set eyes on. Did love still haunt him, or was she only one of many objects wrapped in his past like hurts and dashed dreams?

  He remembered her pale face on that day when they cut his scabbard and unsheathed the sword. Though all of court watched, only she had mattered. They smashed the blade against the stone floor, but it was well made and expensive, and refused to break. It took three such blows to finally knick the tip. Then they cut his family arms from his surcote, tore off the whole garment, and broke his spurs. Left with nothing but the clothes on his back, the whole court turned away from him. Humiliated, he dared not look at Rosamunde. Did she turn her back, too? Even now he couldn’t decide what was worse: his complete degradation and dispossession, or his loss of her.

  She never even fought it. She never stood up to Stephen and came to me. I thought she might. But what woman would have done? Willingly become a pauper and the laughing stock of court, all for him? How could he blame her? Yet he did. A year earlier they had both signed the betrothal contracts and the families thought it a fine match. But something happened between the contracts and the courtship: Crispin fell in love.

  How could I not? She was so beautiful. There were many days they would steal away, leaving her maidservants behind. They would kiss and touch and whisper those silly phrases only spoken in romances and love songs. And though he loved and desired her, often raining kisses along her throat, he would go no further. A proper courtier was he.

  A proper fool!

  Only a mere fortnight after his disgrace, another man conquered that virginity which should have been his. It was that pain that pierced him the most, that could not be undone.

  He looked at Jack standing in the tinker’s doorway, waiting for orders. What was he to do with the boy? Jack was like a stray dog that would not leave, even when kicked. “Tucker, I appreciate your loyalty, but this has to end. Now. When I get back, I do not expect to find you here.”

  “But Master…”

  “I am not your master. You must leave.” He turned on his heel, uncertain where he was going. Did it matter? He needed to think, but it was difficult with a headache pounding between his temples.

  He turned up the street to Gutter Lane—walking toward the Boar’s Tusk—when he saw it. A man in a long, dark robe, hood up over his head, standing under the eave of a shop across the way. He merely looked in Crispin’s direction, or at least his covered head and shadowed face was turned toward him.

  A fleeting sense of recognition propelled Crispin toward the man, but the man abruptly turned and dashed up the lane.

  Crispin paused before he leaped forward, sprinting after the man.

  The robed man flew ahead, dodging stalls and townsfolk.

  Crispin ran hard. His feet sucked and slapped the mud, pounding the lane, swerving to avoid people and wandering dogs.

  The man looked back once but kept going. Crispin cursed. He still could not see his face. But his legs were visible as they pumped. He was wearing mail chausses and boots with spurs. He wore no weapon, but scabbard frogs flapped from the belt as if he had only just divested himself of a sword.

  Flying down the lane, Crispin caught only a glimpse of the man. Pushing himself harder, Crispin panted, rushing forward. If only he could cut him off. Was it possible? The man was heading up Monkwell toward Cripplegate. If he got past the gate, he could disappear into the marshland.

  The man neared a cart full of bundled firewood. He leapt up and ran over the laden cart and jumped off the end. He whirled, grabbed the cart, and upended it, filling the street with scattered sticks and cordwood. Then he lit off.

  The merchant howled his protest. Crispin’s momentum hurled him forward. He spun and tumbled backwards, rolling over the bundles. It smarted, but he bolted upright and leapt free of the debris. But it only propelled him awkwardly, stumbling over the cart’s handles. He flew into the air, flopped on his belly, and skidded forward several feet before he came to a stop. His sore chest flamed with pain and he was covered face to chest in mud.

  There was no need to look. He knew the man was gone.

  Slowly he picked himself up amid raucous guffaws and curses. He stood and looked down. Mud everywhere. He ran his hands down his coat and scraped some of it off, did the same to his face. He took the end of his cloak and wiped his eyes and lips. Saying nothing to the cart owner or the crowd, he limped back toward the Shambles, thinking of little but to wash his face and clothes. The robed man was now long gone, whoever he was. It galled that these men continued to shadow Crispin, leaving him cryptic parchments and no other clues. If he and his ilk wanted this object so badly why not just come out with it and say what it was? Was he not the Tracker? Did he not find lost articles for a living? Surely they knew that by now.

  He got to the tinker shop and trudged up the stairs, flicking the mud from his hand to retrieve the key from his pouch. He put the key to the
lock but the door swung open freely. He dropped the key, grabbed his dagger, and shouldered the door wider.

  The room lay in disarray. The table, the chair and stool were all cast aside. His bedding had been tossed about with some of the hay from the ripped mattress making a long trail across the floor. His bowls and spoons were scattered as well as his basin and water jug which sat in a pool of rippling water under the far window.

  His first thoughts were of Jack Tucker, and a very descriptive curse left his lips. But when he made a circuit of the room he found his family rings scattered on the floor, thrown from their hiding place. If Tucker had ransacked his room, these prizes would not have been left behind.

  The chase. It had been a ruse. But what were they looking for?

  He stood with shoulders sagged for a few moments, simply surveying the carnage. Then he knelt by the overturned chest and picked up his spare pair of underbraies that had been cast from the coffer.

  The floor behind him creaked and he whirled, drawn dagger in one hand, underbraies in the other.

  The woman stared at him, her perfect brows arched in surprise.

  “Are you Crispin Guest?” she asked. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “I am Crispin Guest.” He felt warmth spreading throughout his muddied cheeks. Trying not to look at the garment in his hand, he sheathed the knife and struggled to his feet. He stood in the center of his shambles of a room, mud on his clothes, and a jagged smile slashed across his face. “I fear you have not caught me at my best.”

  She returned his smile with a rueful wince. “I should hope not.”

  He tossed the underbraies under the bed and lifted a chair upright. Stooping to raise the table he found the wayward candle stub and set it in the center of the nicked wood. “I…er…seem to have had unwanted visitors. Please.” He gestured to the chair but she did not sit.

  Her dark eyes studied him suspiciously, eyes as dark as her hair braided into two plaits and framing her head in tightly wound buns. A ring of pearls ran across her forehead matching a pearl necklace at her throat that led Crispin’s eye to a neckline cut in the French fashion and to breasts mounding the brushed wool of her gown. “I have heard how you helped others find lost things…lost people,” she said and strolled into the room, glancing at his few possessions sprinkled about the floor.