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

by Jeri Westerson

  “He could be any number of Stephen’s acquaintances.”

  Crispin hesitated. He needed to ask, but knew it might also put her in danger. He measured her, remembering her strength of character, her fearlessness. “Rosamunde, do you know whether Stephen knew any unusual knights? Any…Templars, for instance?”

  “Templars? There are no Templars.”

  “It was said Stephen argued with this man about something he possessed that Stephen wanted. Is any of this familiar?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing, I am sorry to say.”

  “This man also met briefly with a woman. If we could ascertain her identity it might throw light on the matter.”

  “None of these tidings mean anything to me. I wish they did.” Rosamunde rose and laid her hand on his sleeve. “I know Stephen has caused you much grief. But many years have past. And he is my brother.” Her head lowered. “I am staying at the White Hart. If you discover anything, you may send a message to me there. Please help me, Crispin.”

  She pulled the latch and passed halfway over the threshold before he asked, “And if I cannot? If he is dead? Then…what of us?”

  He cringed immediately upon saying it. He expected her expression to change, wanted dearly to see something in her face to indicate her feelings. But he saw nothing. Only an expression of duty seen often on the faces of chatelaines and obedient, submissive wives.

  “Fare well, Crispin,” was all she said. Her long fingers touched the empty spot where her necklace had been, and then she turned, her train fluttering after.

  Crispin stood in the doorway and listened to the last of her footfalls disappear before he closed the door. He glanced at the table and saw the necklace there. He scooped it up, weighed it in his hand, and tossed it on the bed.

  He sat heavily on the chair and scooted it to the table. He ran his hand up over his head and mashed down the thick tangle of black hair in an attempt to quell his many thoughts.

  The door whined open and Crispin expected Jack Tucker to be standing in the doorway twisting his tunic hem into a knot. But when he looked up it was not Tucker.

  Vivienne stood with a hand still on the door. She glanced back down the stairs at the receding Rosamunde and then lifted her chin to look down on him through her long lashes. “Is this a bad time?”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “A bad time?” He sighed. “No, of course not.”

  She walked into the room. When last she stood there the room was in chaos. At least now his lodgings were in a better state.

  At the threshold Jack poked his head in for only a moment before he sighed and pulled the door closed.

  “I tried to shadow your knight,” Crispin said, remembering his manners and rising. He wiped his face, trying to excise the emotions. “But he was not there.”

  “I am not surprised.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Things have changed.”

  “You have news then? Is there something you wish to share with me?”

  “I only wish I could. But there is much I cannot say.”

  “Because of this…object?”

  “That and more.” She stepped to the window and peered through a broken slat to the street below. When she turned to Crispin again, her face seemed paler.

  “Lady Vivienne?”

  “We must speak quickly. I fear…” She looked back at the window and then moved hastily away as if afraid of it. Her face was tight when she intoned, “The man I sent you to follow may in fact be dead.”

  “Then the situation is lost.”

  “No. There is still another man. I am certain he is now in possession of the object. You might find him at the Rose.”

  “And his name?”

  “That I still cannot say. But I can describe him. This man is tall and auburn-haired. And he has something of mine I need. It is a desperate need.” She lowered her face and whispered, “He is a dangerous man.” Her gaze darted once more toward the window. “I fear he will find me.”

  “What is it you fear?” he asked quietly.

  “He is a violent man. I know he means me harm. But this thing he has stolen from me. It could mean my own death if I do not retrieve it. You do not know, you cannot know, how helpless a woman is.”

  His gaze roved over the sensuous curves of her body and he almost smiled. Not so defenseless.

  “I suppose I must tell you who this man is. Whatever he says of me, you must not believe him.”

  “And I should believe you because you are my client?” What was left of Vivienne’s coin still rattled in his purse. “I do not enjoy being made a fool of even for coin. Your manner has been strange, my lady. You have offered nothing but obfuscation…and you have behaved most wantonly.”

  Instead of the contrition he expected, she gave a wry smile. “Other women find their comfort in prayers and solitude. But mine has always been in the company of men. Their attention, whatever form it takes, gives me solace. Have you ever felt alone and frightened?” She laughed carelessly. “Of course not. How foolish of me. You’re a man.”

  “There are times,” he said, voice husky, “that I feel alone.”

  “How brave of you to say. It makes me think…” The tip of her pink tongue pressed against small teeth. “No. That, too, is foolish.” She toyed with the brooch. “Have I spoiled your trust in me because of our kiss?”

  Crispin clasped his hands together. “Not exactly. I was surprised, to be sure. But I know what manner of woman you are.”

  “Oh. I see.” She threw back her head, but instead of laughing she heaved a sigh.

  Crispin’s attention drew to her shoulders and neck, and then down to her neckline moving in rhythm to her breaths.

  “A young woman marries the wealthy old man,” she said. “The butt of many jests. Certainly ambition plays its role at court. But you must remember it was not by my choice I married, but by my uncle’s. A woman is always at the mercy of her kin, unless she be an orphan. And if she were, she had better be a rich one.”

  He gazed into her brown eyes but thought instead of green. “Yes. I know well how a woman is not her own master.”

  “Just so.”

  “Then who is the man you fear?”

  “Stephen St Albans.”

  Crispin heard the timbers crack in the walls, until he realized it was not the walls but his teeth clenched in his jaw. “Stephen?” he asked calmly.

  “Yes,” said Vivienne. “I think you know him.”

  His jaw would not loosen. “Yes.”

  “Then you know he is dangerous as well as heartless. The object he has belongs to me. Well, if not to me, at least it will keep me safe.”

  He fisted his hands, not knowing whether he should curse or punch the wall. Shuddering to control himself, he stared at her, unsure of himself in the veil of her vulnerability. “Whatever this object,” he said cagily, “I will see it returned to its rightful owner.”

  “Good. But I wonder,” she said, eyes downcast artfully, “what his sister was doing here.”

  “You know Lady Rosamunde?”

  “Only by sight.”

  A heartsore sensation lingered in Crispin’s chest when he mentioned Rosamunde’s name. “You have nothing to fear from her. It is…other business.”

  She smiled. “I trust you. You are all that they say about you. No matter what the king did, you remain a knight in my eyes.” She breathed a sigh. “How clever you are. Such an interesting life you lead. It makes a woman jealous of her own drear life in the quiet of solars. You must discover some thrilling mysteries. Interesting objects. Any of late you would tell me of? It is only that my own life is so sheltered. Your antics are like those of a minstrel’s song.”

  He doubted very much that her life could be all that sheltered, but he shook his head. This was the second time she asked this. “Nothing, I fear, that would interest you and your…sheltered life.” He stepped closer to her, painfully aware of the scent of her and that red mouth. He remembered kissing her before. “What
am I looking for?” he whispered. It seemed to be many questions at once. He wanted a kind of certainty from Vivienne, some clue that he pursued something tangible and real. The grail was a dream, part of the ethereal mist of Camelot. Rosamunde, too, was unreal, like a dream. He needed something to grasp, something substantial to believe in.

  She slanted forward and touched her lips to his, and whispered, “You will know when you find it.”

  He had more questions but he couldn’t seem to grasp them from his foggy mind. His mouth joined to hers and he kissed her deeply, like he had wanted to before.

  She did not caress or pull him into an embrace. Instead, she clutched wildly at his clothing and yanked open the collar.

  He hauled up the folds of her skirts and shoved her hard against the door.

  Jack Tucker spent the night on the cold landing after all.

  Vivienne left before Crispin arose. Amazingly, the boy was still on the landing. Crispin let him in to warm himself by the fire and offered him some cheese and a heel of bread. While he shaved, he endured Jack’s quiet scrutiny, and then shook his head at himself as he left the boy alone in his lodgings in order to search for Stephen St Albans at last.

  Crispin stood outside the Rose a long time before going in. The innkeeper spied him first and raised his arms in greeting. “Sir Crispin! My lord, it has been many a day since you have graced my humble establishment.”

  Crispin cringed. Jesu. He hurried to meet the innkeeper, stifling the next declaration by laying a hand on his shoulder. “A long time indeed. But as you well know, Brian,” he said, lowering the volume of his voice, “I am no longer ‘Sir’ Crispin. Nor am I ‘Lord’ Crispin.”

  Brian’s merry demeanor melted, replaced by a humiliated mask. “Forgive me, my lord…I mean, Master Crispin. I would not wish to harm you with my words any more than…”

  “Peace, Brian,” he said reflexively, patting the man’s arm and maneuvering him to a bench. How many times over the years had he played out this scenario with others? No wonder King Richard thought it a fine Hell for him. A never-ending ritual of mortification and dishonor.

  “I have only come this morning to ask you some questions.”

  “Anything for you, Master Crispin.”

  “Thank you, old friend. I seek Stephen St Albans. Has he been here?”

  “That whoreson.” Brian spat and folded his arms over his chest. His pale freckled face pouted, wrinkling forehead up to his receding hairline.

  “Now Brian. I would not have you disparage one of your loyal patrons.”

  “Now, Master. It was he—”

  “I know well what he did. It is important I find him.”

  “If it is so, then I will help you. But alas, we have seen nothing of him for days.”

  “Has anyone seen him in, say, a sennight?”

  “Here!” Brian called to a servant. “Rolf, bring Master Crispin some wine. And then tell us if you have seen hide or hair of Sir Stephen St Albans?”

  Rolf’s face broke into a smile. “Master Crispin!”

  Crispin raised his hand in an attempt to stave off another scene. “Rolf. It is good to see you, too. But I must not delay. Can you tell me about Sir Stephen?”

  Rolf scratched his head and pushed a cup in front of Crispin. He poured wine from a leather jug. “Aye,” he answered. “He hasn’t come in for at least two days. And him coming regular all these years. Mayhap he’s off to France.”

  Crispin leaned in. “Why would you say that?”

  “Oh, often he’d talk to his fellows about France and his business there.”

  “Did you happen to hear the nature of that business?”

  “I know not. As soon as I come with the jug they’d all commence to talk that French talk.”

  “Who were these fellows of his?”

  “Lords, I suppose. Men from court. Serious men. They came to talk and did very little drinking.”

  “Did they arrive together?”

  “No. They’d meet here and depart separately.”

  Crispin tapped his fingers on his wine bowl and scowled into the ruby liquid. “Is there anything more you can tell me, Rolf?”

  “No. That is all. Except for Lady Rothwell.”

  “Lady Rothwell came here?”

  “Aye.”

  “How often?”

  “In the last week, almost all the days he came.”

  “How about two days ago?”

  “Aye. She was here.”

  He made a sound much like a growl deep in his throat. “Did they lapse into French when you approached?”

  “Aye. That they did.”

  He thanked Rolf and Brian and took his leave, promising to return, though when he scanned the room and the darkly shadowed faces of squires who looked down their noses at him, and at knights who scowled and jabbed each other in the ribs when he passed, he knew he would not come again.

  Like a spirit, Crispin traversed London, stopping only occasionally to partake of food from a purveyor of meat pies, or of roasted meat on sticks. He did what he should have done days ago, and slipped into the alleys to question those who knew the man, who had dealt with him, but his meticulous inquiries yielded nothing.

  He rubbed the back of his neck as night fell, realizing with some dejection that he had been at it all day with little to show for it.

  Clouds covered the oncoming stars but a cresset burned nearby and cast irregular shadows along the empty road. The wood in the cresset’s iron cage crackled and snapped, flinging a bright ember into the air. For a moment, it illuminated a dark doorway. He saw a tall, slim shape of a man with a cloak and a sword.

  Crispin studied the figure before the ember died and slipped the doorway back into thick shadow. He strained to see into the portico, but only velvety darkness engulfed the avenue and swallowed all but the faintest of details.

  “It is well after compline, man.”

  Crispin spun.

  The Watch, a man in hauberk and conical helm behind him, gestured with the torch. “The curfew is in force,” he said.

  “Yes,” said Crispin. “I forgot the time.”

  The Watch studied him, stood stiffly, clutching the staff with its burning cage of coals dropping embers into the mud, and watched steadily as Crispin trudged away.

  Crispin turned as he passed the doorway but the man had vanished. He blew a disappointed cloud of breath into the damp air and rested his hand on the butt of his dagger.

  The anti-pope’s man? The thought made him consider France and Stephen. “Now what, pray, were you doing in France, Sir Stephen?” he muttered. “Was your business in Avignon, perhaps?”

  Hurrying back to his lodgings, Crispin became aware of another figure ahead of him in the misty night. A woman. He hung back, not wishing to alarm her, since by her cloak she appeared to be a highborn lady. He thought of waiting for her to pass completely since she happened to be going in the same direction, but the air was damp and he longed for his own hearth. He followed her for some time until she stopped at a tavern door. Crispin fell back into the shadows and watched as the door opened, throwing light onto her face.

  Vivienne! Why was she abroad at this hour?

  He moved forward to ask just as the door closed behind her. He reached for the door but thought better of it. Instead, he crept to the shuttered window and peered through the slats. He saw her sit at a table opposite a tall, hooded man with his back to Crispin. He could not hear their words but she was speaking to him in a forceful manner. The man merely shook his head. She insisted, slamming her hand to the table but the man leaned back, his shoulders moving as if he were laughing. She sneered, grabbed his beaker of ale, and tossed it into his face. The man shot to his feet and grasped her wrist. The few men in the tavern turned to them, but they were rougher men and knew they could not interfere with those of higher rank.

  Crispin had almost decided to go in when the man released her. She rubbed her wrist but instead of the indignant anger he expected of any woman in such a situation, V
ivienne’s face softened. Her lips drew into a pout and an expression of coquetry washed over her features.

  “God’s blood,” he whispered. “An accomplished wanton indeed.” He left the tavern’s window and trudged his way back to his lodgings.

  He was strangely relieved to find Jack there, especially since the boy had gotten a warm fire glowing in the hearth.

  “Are you still here?” he asked, removing his cloak and hood and hanging them on a peg by the door.

  Jack jabbed the poker at the peat and then stood uneasily before it. He looked to Crispin as if he wanted to speak. At last, he took a breath and said, “I am no varlet, sir, as well you know. Maybe I’m not good for much. Maybe I’m only good for thieving. But I can fetch things for you and open doors and do your bidding. I’m a smart lad, I am.” He twisted his tunic in his fingers before realizing he was doing it and dropped the ragged cloth.

  Crispin sat in the chair before the fire and studied the lad. Young, half-starved, dirty. Pale cheeks overrun with freckles and wild ginger hair atop his head. He looked more like a creature from the forest than a boy. Crispin leaned back. “Where do you come from, boy? Who is your master?”

  “I have no master,” he said, chin raised defiantly. “Leastways, not no more. And I come from London.”

  “What do you mean you no longer have a master?”

  “He was me mother’s master. She served him down on Old Fish Street. And when she died he took me on…for a bit. But he didn’t want me. And I didn’t want him. So I left.”

  There was a smudge on that obstinate nose, which only made him look more rebellious. Crispin’s gaze traversed his face and his earnest expression. His voice softened when he asked, “And when was that?”

  “When me mother died?” He becrossed himself. “Four winters it is now.”

  “And how old are you, boy?”

  Jack licked his lips and stared up into the rafters. “I reckon…’bout eleven or so.”

  Crispin let out a breath. The boy was orphaned and on his own at eight years old? How had he managed? How was it possible? He had learned the fine art of thieving, that was certain. Enough to keep himself alive, at any rate. Crispin well knew that men, under dire circumstances, could make themselves survive on will alone. He had done it. And Jack had, too, apparently.