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

by Jeri Westerson

  Tossing the tapestry aside, Crispin scanned the dark storeroom. Something caught the candlelight. Crispin took a step but instinct made him pause.

  A shelf tilted forward. Crispin barely had time to lurch out of the way before jars and canisters exploded on the floor. They blocked Crispin’s path but he caught sight of a dark, hooded figure opening the rear door before escaping into the alley.

  He pushed back through the curtain, tripped over the apothecary’s body, ran into Jack running in, and staggered over broken pottery littering the threshold. He looked out to the deserted street and swore.

  The sheriff paced across the apothecary shop, stepping over the body on the floor. “He gave no name, no description?”

  “No,” said Crispin. “He was killed before he could say.” He looked up the street for Tucker who hid in the shadows as far away from the sheriff as he could get.

  Wynchecombe frowned at the bloodstain oozing under the corpse. Its irregular shape took on the appearance of a skull. “How do we know this is the only seller of such a poison? There could be others.”

  “Why else was he killed?” They both stared at the body. “But if you doubt it, send your bailiff to question the others.”

  “I shall.”

  Crispin sighed. The sun had only just set, and weariness etched the marrow in his bones. He wanted to sleep for a long time but knew he had too much to do.

  Wynchecombe’s shadow fell across Crispin’s chest. “And you say you saw the murderer?”

  Crispin shook his head. “Not exactly, my lord. Only a shadowy glimpse.”

  “Anyone you recognized?”

  He frowned. “No.”

  “So you say.”

  “My lord, I would tell you if I knew anything.”

  Wynchecombe scowled. “If you are lying to me…”

  “No, my lord. What cause would I have to lie?”

  “The more I know you the less I believe I can trust you.”

  “The curse of being an enigma. May I go now, Lord Sheriff? I must continue pursuing Sir Stephen.”

  Wynchecombe knelt and grabbed the corpse’s hair and raised his head. “What of this? You said he was stabbed in the back. What about this on his throat?”

  “That?” Crispin brushed a bit of straw from his coat. “He fell against my dagger.”

  “An accident, eh?”

  “Yes. I am certain you have similar accidents when you question a man.”

  Wynchecombe smiled. “Yes. Accidents do occur.” The sheriff waved him off. “Go on, then.”

  Crispin looked back. The shop with its swarm of sheriff’s men receded behind him. It was just as well. Let the sheriff deal with the body and let Crispin deal with the murderer. Someone plainly did not want there to be witnesses. A dagger was something Stephen would be more familiar with, not this business of poisons. And speaking of poisons…

  He checked the street for Jack Tucker, but the boy was nowhere to be found.

  Crispin trudged wearily up the stairs to his lodgings. When he looked up, he saw the young cutpurse crouched by the door on the landing. Jack raised his head.

  “I suppose I should not be surprised to find you here. Why did you run?”

  “I was afraid the sheriff would question me again.”

  “I see. And why sit in the dark?”

  “I can better see who approaches without their seeing me, Master.”

  Crispin nodded. “You know this business well.”

  Jack frowned. “Not as well as you.” He stayed in his huddled position and hugged himself tighter. “Is this what you do with your time? Get yourself involved in murders?”

  Crispin chuckled gravely and pulled the key from his pouch. “It does seem to consume my days and nights. Why? Does it trouble you?”

  “God’s teeth,” said Jack, shaking his head. “That’s no work for a gentleman.”

  “In case you have not noticed, Jack, I am no longer a gentleman. A fact I weary of repeating. But what is it to you? This is my business not yours.”

  Jack sighed through his blunted nose but said no more. He shivered and pulled his meager cloak tight over his chest.

  Crispin held the key near the lock. “Is this where you intend to sleep?”

  The boy shrugged. “It isn’t bad. It’s dry.”

  “Where do you usually sleep?”

  “Anywhere I can. But, being your servant now, I’d thought I’d be hard by.”

  Crispin tapped his finger on the key. He called himself three kinds of fools before he spoke quietly into the wood of the door. “It is warmer inside.”

  “Oh no, Master,” he said shaking his head, all the while rising and drawing near the door. “What, me? Sleep by a fire?” Jack’s face brightened with hope.

  Crispin smiled. He turned the key and pushed open the door. “Go on in, you fool. And you are not my servant!”

  Jack moved forward but stopped abruptly halfway over the threshold.

  Beyond him, a feminine shape sauntered forward. The glow from the hearth embers painted only a golden line down the curves of one side of her silhouette. Until she reached the doorway and stepped out of the shadows.

  Crispin staggered back as if struck by an arrow. His chest contracted with an old and unpleasant twinge. His voice was rough when he could speak at last. “My God. Rosamunde.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  She was the very image of the Holy Virgin: genteel, enigmatic, and distant. Her light green gown, modest at the neck, draped in generous folds to the floor, revealing only the long tips of her shoes. A fur-trimmed cloak covered her shoulders clasped by an agrafe with the ivory image of a crane. Full lips opened, prepared to speak or breathe, to admonish as much as to bless. Her face, shaped like a heart with its wide, pale forehead and small chin, emphasized round eyes, green as England’s pastures. Green as Crispin remembered them. Nothing about her seemed to have changed—except for the gold band on her left ring finger.

  Gone were all thoughts of dead Templars, apothecaries, and poison. He cleared his throat but did not step inside. Jack’s body blocked the threshold.

  “Rosamunde…I mean…Lady Rothwell.” His mouth twisted on the last.

  She breathed and formed one word: “Crispin.”

  Crispin looked away yet the gesture failed to stop the stabbing pains in his chest. “Madam. I am more than surprised to see you here. And after all these years. In fact…” He glanced into the landing. Jack tried to make himself as small as possible. Crispin leaned further. Her manservant Jenkyn was sure to be somewhere nearby. “You should not be here at all.”

  “Crispin.” She said it sadly. With regret? Perhaps it was with the more unromantic sound of pity.

  Her gaze hovered on his face but slipped to his stained coat and threadbare cloak. “It has been a long time.”

  “Seven years,” he said tight-lipped.

  Neither spoke for several heartbeats. Crispin vaguely wondered if he were dreaming, especially with the familiar fragrant cloud of roses about her.

  “Shall I tell her to leave, Master Crispin?”

  Crispin stared at Jack with growing unease. Jack swallowed. “Or…maybe I should leave.” The boy backed out of the door and looked once at Rosamunde and once at Crispin before he made himself scarce in the shadows of the stairwell.

  “What are you doing here, Rosamunde?” asked Crispin.

  “I will explain.”

  “This is entirely improper.”

  She flashed a brutal smile. “When did that ever trouble you?”

  “How did you get in?”

  “Your landlord was most gracious. But it has been an hour at least.” She found the courtesy not to wince at the surroundings. Her soft skirts followed demurely like servants, and she sat in the only chair.

  He stood awkwardly in the doorway, trying to recall courtly manners he hadn’t used in seven years. He didn’t think he had any wine. There was no food to offer, save for some of Jack’s day old stew.

  A draft churned up from the
stairwell and he shivered, glanced once at Jack, and closed the door. He advanced on the hearth to stoke the embers, taking his time with the poker, and he carefully laid the last square of peat on the awakening flames. Another long moment passed before he tore his gaze from the fire, took a breath, and turned.

  It was a mistake. The fire threw gold onto her smooth features, emblazoning her round cheeks with a blush of rose.

  “Crispin,” she said again, her voice tender.

  “My lady.” He bowed. “How did you find me?”

  “I am not so sheltered that I do not follow such tidings. It is known where you live.”

  He grunted. “I do not know if I am consoled by this information.” He stepped away from the fire to the low coffer by the door and gingerly sat. “Still. It does nothing to explain your presence.”

  She smiled playfully. “No words of greeting? No ‘how have you fared, Rosamunde?’”

  He glanced away. “I should think that when my sword was broken before your eyes and my blazon torn from my surcote that there were no words left.”

  She squared her shoulders and drew her lips into a brooding frown. “And you blame me.”

  Crispin leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Why are you here?”

  “You blame me for your dishonor? I say again, as I said seven years ago, I had nothing to do with it.”

  “No. Your brother saw to everything. My dishonor, the seizing of my titles and lands, and the end of our betrothal.”

  “How could I go against my brother, my only kinsman?”

  He snapped to his feet. “I was to be your husband! I would have defended you to the death had your honor been questioned!”

  “It wasn’t a question of honor!” She bit off the rest of her words and shook her head. “You know very well,” she said quietly, “it was a question of treason.”

  Crispin stiffened. “Why are you here? I have nothing to offer now. But riches were important to you then, weren’t they? Is that why you married only a fortnight after our betrothal ended?”

  Rosamunde tilted her head but otherwise did not move. He fully expected her to stalk away, silent and enraged as she had done so many times before. He well knew her moods and the performances that accompanied them. He waited for her to cast her skirts aside, flash her teeth in a grimace of disgust, and stomp away, whereupon he was to follow behind and plead an apology.

  No more. Those refined games were long over.

  At last she rose, head bowed, hands fumbling at the pin of her cloak. “I need your help.”

  He laughed, an unfamiliar sound. “That is doubtful.”

  “No. It is the truth.”

  He strode to the door and pulled it open. The draft gusted the hearth smoke and it rolled out of the fireplace, across the room, and over the threshold.

  “Please. There is no one who can help me.”

  “What of your husband, Madam?”

  She sighed and lowered her eyes. “He is dead, Crispin. More than a year now.”

  Widowed? It took a monumental effort to keep his face impassive. “Indeed.”

  “Yes. I am alone.”

  He almost spat the words but checked himself. “Your brother, then.”

  “But Stephen is missing. I need you to find him.”

  Stephen missing. Of course. Committing a murder. He better damn well be missing. He longed to say it aloud, but held his tongue.

  Her gown rustled when she came up behind him. “A woman needs the protection of her kinsman. The lands…” She drew back and he watched the shadow of her gown move across the floor. “There were no children from this marriage to Lord Rothwell. Had there been an heir, I might be in a better position now. But as it is…”

  He listened to his own breathing a long time before his hand of its own accord closed and latched the door. The same hand rested against the door’s worn surface before he turned again. She stood only an arm’s length away. With one bold step, she crossed the space between them, forcing Crispin’s back against the door.

  He took a breath and then another. Rasping, he said, “Of all people, why me? You know what he did to me. To us.”

  “There is no soul I trust more.”

  He lifted his hands and reached for her shoulders. He felt her warmth, her nearness. It had been a long time. Too long.

  After only a moment, he dropped his hands limply to his sides. Leaning forward slightly he stood almost close enough to kiss. “If I find him for you…”

  “No, Crispin. When you find him.”

  “When I find him, then. What is there for me?”

  She drew back. “I will be grateful.”

  His flesh warmed. He remembered such gratitude. “Is that all?”

  She took another step back. “What do you want?”

  “Can’t you guess?”

  “Your knighthood?”

  He leaned back and rested his head against the doorframe. “King Richard will not restore my shield. And there is little you could do on that account, at any rate.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  His tongue slid over a tangle of desires, but he could not speak any of them. The next thing that came to mind crossed his lips, but he never meant to say those words either. “I am paid to find things. It is now my sole means of living.”

  Her face hardened. For a moment, Crispin expected her to slap his cheek. It would be better than that coldness with which she regarded him.

  She moved her hands, but not to slap. Instead, she reached up behind her neck and released the clasp to the gold chain at her throat and thrust the bauble toward him.

  “Your payment, Master Guest. If this is what is required for you to do a lady a courtesy, then so be it.”

  The chain, a thumb-width of gold filigree in clever knots, boasted a pendant with a ruby the size of a sheep’s eye surrounded by white fresh-water pearls.

  Far too much. He wanted to refuse it, but her tone urged his hand upward and the metal pooled in his cupped palm. It was still warm.

  “I see these years have caused your memory to lapse on courtly manners.”

  His fist closed over the gem and he lowered it to his side. “Honor does not fill the larder.” She said nothing. He felt the necklace in his hand grow cold. Breathing deeply, he wondered what more to say when he suddenly blurted, “Stephen is accused of murder. A man at the Boar’s Tusk. Perhaps that is why he is missing.”

  “Murder? How can the sheriff accuse Stephen?”

  Slightly ashamed of himself for the relish with which he told Rosamunde, Crispin stood stiff as a reed. He wanted to go to her and enfold her in his arms. But to tell her what? ‘Sweeting, once your brother is hanged, we are free to marry. Does that not cheer your heart?’ If Stephen died, Crispin’s vengeance would be paid in full, and one part of him wanted to caper about the small room.

  The sober part of him, the part whose pride kept him within the nimbus of Westminster Palace and its court, kept harrying the facts like a child poking a badger’s warren.

  “Circumstances point in his direction,” he answered, “but we must discover the entire truth.”

  Her eyes shined with a veil of unshed tears but her lips pressed tightly with a surge of pride. “You do not believe it?”

  “I did not say that. But I still must find him.”

  Rosamunde strode across the room and before he could react, she took his face in her hands, brought it down to hers, and kissed him.

  She meant the gesture to be a short kiss of gratitude, and Crispin knew it for what it was once his initial shock wore off. But her nearness and her touch destroyed any scrap of sense. Still clutching the necklace, he grasped her shoulders and crushed her small frame to his chest. He deepened the kiss, savoring her lips, her taste, her tongue.

  It lasted only a moment more until, reluctantly, he withdrew from her.

  “Rosamunde,” he whispered, still clutching her arms, caressing her forehead with his own. “After all this time, do you still love me?” He drew
back and searched her face. “For God sake, at least lie to me!”

  “Which lie do you desire?” she asked, her breath steaming on his lips. “The lie that says I feel nothing, or the lie that says I do?”

  “Seven years have passed and I burn for you still!”

  “You should have wed by now.”

  “How could I, with thoughts of you smoldering in my heart?”

  “And still you would defend Stephen’s innocence?”

  Stephen. The name cooled his flesh and he released her. “You put words in my mouth. If he is guilty, then I know my duty.”

  She inhaled a trembling breath. Tears quivered on the tips of her lashes but never fell. “But I came here to tell you he has been abducted. I want to hire you to find him.”

  “The sheriff has already hired me to find him.”

  “But Crispin, you can’t—”

  He took her hand and slapped the necklace into it. “Take it back. When I search for Stephen it shall be under the auspices of the sheriff.”

  She stared at him, eyes wide and dark. She did not put the necklace back around her slender neck. Instead, she clutched it in a trembling hand she kept close to her thigh. “I tell you he’s been abducted.”

  “How long since you last saw him?”

  “A sennight. Surely a ransom would have been demanded by now?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “A sennight? Are you certain?”

  She looked at him with hollow eyes, shook her head, and sank to the chair. “I’m not certain of anything anymore.”

  Walking to the window he took a deep breath. The cold air seeped in through the cracks in the shutters and he inhaled it, though it was filled with the stench of the meat markets below.

  “Whom do I trust, Rosamunde? You—whom I have heard no word from in seven years—or my good and honest friends?”

  She raised her eyes. “Why did he go to such a place as the Boar’s Tusk? It was far outside his usual havens.” She blushed when she said it. She must have realized it was now Crispin’s favorite refuge. “Was he meeting someone?”

  “Yes. He did meet someone. The man he killed.”

  She raised her chin defiantly and he backed down.

  “Rosamunde, could this man be someone you knew?”