Season of Blood

by Jeri Westerson

  A woman, round and pink-faced under her white, starched wimple, emerged from a curtained alcove with a jug in her hand. She smiled warmly at Crispin but eyed his guest with wariness. ‘Good day to you, Crispin. Ned did not say you had company but I will bring another goblet.’

  Katherine raised her hand faintly. ‘No, thank you, good woman. I would rather hear what Master Guest has to ask me with a clear head.’

  Crispin took the offering and poured himself a healthy dose of wine. ‘Thank you, Eleanor.’

  The woman moved away with a brief curtsey, looking back with a subtle shake to her head.

  Katherine laughed a light sound. ‘She does not like me.’

  ‘Eleanor is the alewife here and has succored me for many years now.’ He took a quick gulp of the wine. ‘She thinks she is protecting me.’

  ‘No doubt.’

  Taking one more drink, Crispin, thinking of Jack’s admonition to curtail his drinking, set the bowl down and looked over his client. ‘You seem in better spirits today.’

  Her eyes dimmed and her lips softened from their smile. ‘A bright morning makes the horrors of the night disappear.’

  His fingers curved around the rim of the bowl and slowly turned it. He watched the crimson liquid shimmer and reflect the hearthlight. ‘Tell me, demoiselle. Why is it that I feel you are lying to me?’

  ‘What?’ she said, flustered.

  ‘It was only last night that you were desperately afraid for your niece. You also witnessed the dread result of a murder, yet this morning all is well. Perhaps it is time to tell me the truth.’

  She leaned away from the table, arms folded. ‘That is an audacious accusation, Master Guest. Can you justify it?’

  ‘You’re not denying it.’

  She glared at him steadily. Enough time passed for Crispin to take another drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Jack be damned. He leaned back until his shoulder blades rested against the warm plaster wall. ‘Well?’

  ‘There is much I may not tell you,’ she said, mouth tight.

  ‘Ah.’ He poured more and drank again, less this time. ‘Then what can you tell me? Wait. Let’s begin with why you are not staying with kinsmen or even at court. You seem to have no lady’s maid with you. This is unthinkable. There must be some drastic reason why you travel alone. I suggest you tell me all or you can leave now.’

  The bench squealed back as she jerked to her feet. ‘Insolence!’ Turning on her heel, she was halfway to the door before he called out, ‘Demoiselle!’

  She turned. He dropped her coin pouch on the table with a clunk. ‘Take back your fee.’

  Her face twisted with rage and she stomped to the table, snatched it up and continued on her way out.

  Sighing, Crispin raised the bowl to his lips.

  ‘Crispin, Crispin.’

  Eleanor sank to the bench beside him and absently wiped the table with a rag. ‘That looked to be a very foolish thing you did.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘She looked like a courtier. Could she make trouble for you?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I think that it is she who is in trouble. She won’t tell me exactly what or the extent of it. But she’ll be back.’

  ‘Courtiers! I think they’d all be happier living simple lives as we do. Everything about them is secrets. I see it all the time. Gentlemen sitting in tight circles, whispering their plots. Delicate ladies with a sly eye. I tell you, Crispin, you are well out of it.’

  He refrained from finishing his bowl and set it down with a thump. ‘Forgive me if I cannot find the heart to agree with you.’

  She made some noncommittal noise in her throat and left him. He couldn’t resist the wine bowl’s allure and drank a bit more, thinking it might be pleasant to while away the day finishing the jug … or two, as he used to do … when he pushed the bowl away from him. Bah! This was no good. The woman had paid his debt and the money pouch he’d returned was only a small portion of it. But he knew in his gut that something was amiss, and he’d learned from many years’ experience never to ignore his gut.

  There was also the problem of a dead man.

  Rising, he stretched. He adjusted his coat and sword scabbard, looked back fondly at his wine and left the Boar’s Tusk.

  The smell of spring was far off. In its place was mildewed plaster and mud. He could recall a time when March meant the opening of spring, when hares went mad and daffodils nodded from snow-wet verges. The road to his long-lost manor house in Sheen had been lined with daffodils and then foxgloves. Hundreds of them, winding the long trail to the gatehouse, opening up to wide, green fields that surrounded the manor …

  His heart gave a stumble when remembering that it had burned to the ground five years ago.

  ‘Seasons change like a woman’s mind,’ he muttered.

  There was no time to dwell on the past. Several problems now assailed him. One, who was that dead monk and from where did he come? Two, where did that relic come from? And three …

  ‘Simon Wynchecombe.’ What the hell was he to do about that? He had no desire to ever speak to Wynchecombe again. Too many times he’d suffered humiliation at the man’s hands, even as they’d almost seemed to come to terms with each other. The man was an enigma, to be sure. And extremely ambitious. It wouldn’t be long till he was elected Lord Mayor. If Crispin had any say in the matter, he preferred to keep out of Wynchecombe’s way.

  But that dagger spoke much and it had to be dealt with. He supposed it was time to go to Simon’s house and have a conversation. But what to say?

  He stood in the street, looking up the road. A humid mist rose from the damp streets and with it the smell of mud mixed with horse piss. A man with a dusty red tunic and a tray in his hands was calling out, ‘Sheep’s hocks! Sheep’s hocks!’ Crispin was tempted to buy one before he remembered he had given away most of his money to Katherine Woodleigh.

  He girded himself. Wynchecombe had a house in London where he conducted his business as an armorer but he knew he had lands elsewhere in another county. With any luck, he’d be at home in town. He headed down the lane toward Candlewick Ward.

  It was only a matter of less than a quarter of an hour before he stood before Wynchecombe’s place of business. He shook the dread off as he straightened his coat and adjusted his cloak. He felt better with a sword at his side, though he could not dare draw it on the man. Wynchecombe wouldn’t be any happier to see him than Crispin was to see the former sheriff but it had to be done. He strode up the flagged stone path and met a servant sweeping the front entrance. He looked up at Crispin and slowed his sweeping until he rested the broom on its bristles.

  ‘Good day to you,’ said Crispin with a nod of his head. The young man, nothing more than sticks in oversized clothes, regarded him without a sound. His dark, lank hair ruffled against his cheek from a breeze. The grip tightened on his broomstick.

  Crispin stopped a few paces from him. He squinted up the tall building, measuring the plaster and stone of its architecture, scanning the shuttered windows for signs of life. ‘Is your master at home?’

  ‘You’re Crispin Guest,’ the youth said at last.

  Crispin rested his hand on his dagger hilt more from habit than threat, or so he told himself. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why would the likes of you want to be talking to Master Wynchecombe?’

  ‘Why not? Perhaps I am in need of armor?’

  ‘Perhaps you aren’t. I know who you are. And Master Wynchecombe is not at home.’ The broom arced and he viciously swept the dew from the carved granite step directly at Crispin’s boots. Crispin looked down at the water beading on the leather and frowned. The boy’s face changed from defiance to fear and he stepped hastily back into the entryway, scrambled behind him for the latch and slid inside with a slam of the door.

  It would almost be amusing if Crispin hadn’t been so annoyed. Undeterred, he made his way to the side of the building and spied an open gate. Without a backward glance, he went through, surveying the yar
d. A maid was picking her way over the mud, a heavy basket hoisted on her shoulder. Crispin trotted to catch up to her and quickly relieved her of her burden. She seemed startled but he gave her a ready smile. ‘Forgive me for frightening you, but it looked too heavy for so fair a maid.’

  She brushed a wayward lock over her ear. The rest of her tawny hair was covered by a linen kerchief. She measured Crispin for a moment before smiling. ‘And who might you be, my lord?’

  ‘No one in particular. But I am an old acquaintance of Simon Wynchecombe. Can you tell me if he is at home?’

  Her smile vanished and her eyes held concern. ‘Oh, sir.’ They stopped before a side entrance and Crispin set the basket down. ‘I fear to tell you that Master Wynchecombe hasn’t been nigh in days. Truth to tell …’ She leaned closer and Crispin followed suit. ‘He hasn’t been seen by anyone,’ she said in a harsh whisper. Her breath smelled of ale. ‘Not for some time. They’ve even sent messengers to his manor in Winchcombe but just got word that he is not there either. The mistress is worried sick, God bless her.’

  ‘That is troubling news. But surely there is nothing sinister about it. Maybe I could speak to the mistress.’

  ‘Oh, sir, if you are a friend that could put her poor heart at ease, you are welcome. Come inside.’

  Crispin followed her into a dark corridor that led to a parlor flooded with light from tall reticulated glass windows. ‘Wait here. I’ll get Madam Alice.’

  It was a small deception, he reminded himself as the girl scurried off. He’d made many over the years. One more wouldn’t hurt.

  He glanced about. It wasn’t the first time he had been in Wynchecombe’s home but that last time he had been rushed, in a panic. He hadn’t had the opportunity to size up the room and its wealth. He knew the former sheriff was well-heeled but he never knew the extent of it until now. Candlesticks of silver sporting beeswax candles. An expensive-looking tapestry hanging on one wall over a sideboard of rich wood and intricate carvings. The glass in the windows was relatively smooth and cut in diamond panes, with heavy, rich drapery hanging on either side of them. The chairs had ornate wooden legs and their cushions were bright with embroidery. Yes, the man had done well over the years with his armor business, being an alderman, as well as the bribes he took as sheriff. Along with a modest estate in Winchcombe, it seemed he would never starve, which reminded Crispin of the many times the man had managed to pry Crispin’s hard-earned wage from him. He scowled. The rich stayed that way not by the grace of God but by commonplace greed.

  The door swung open and Madam Wynchecombe entered, followed by the maid. The lady was slight with a somewhat plain face and a severe chin. Her eyes were gray and they moved over Crispin with agility. Her hands held tight over a rosary. ‘My maid said you were a friend.’ She studied Crispin’s clothes. Though they weren’t the rags he used to wear, they were merely serviceable, not tailored from rich fabric. Surely not the clothes of any acquaintance Wynchecombe might have known, though the sight of the sword served to confuse.

  She stepped closer. Her face was rigid. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Forgive me, madam,’ he said with his lowest courtly bow. ‘I am Crispin Guest.’

  The maid gasped and threw her hand over her mouth. ‘Madam, have mercy on me. I did not know that this was Crispin Guest. I never would have allowed him in. Oh, curse it. Curse you, sir, for your trickery!’

  ‘I ask your forgiveness, too, good maid. But it is important that I speak with your mistress.’

  Madam Wynchecombe turned to her maid. ‘Call the steward.’

  ‘In all haste!’ she cried and left in a rush.

  The lady turned slowly to Crispin. ‘You are known here, Master Guest.’

  ‘I can well see that,’ he said with a flush.

  ‘Will you leave on your own or must my man throw you out?’

  ‘Just a moment of your time is all I crave, madam. Is it true that your husband is missing?’

  For a moment, she seemed to have forgotten that they were enemies. Hope flamed in her eyes and she lurched forward, grabbing his arm. ‘Have you heard from him? Is that why you are here? Simon told me that you investigated things. Have you found him?’

  ‘I …’ Feel like a knave, he thought. She truly was worried and he had buoyed her hopes without cause. ‘I was merely looking to speak with him. I did not know he was … missing.’

  Her hand fell away and she moved from him, shoulders slumping. With her back turned, it looked as if she wiped at her eyes. When she spun to face him again her anger had returned and she shook her rosary. ‘If you are here to cause trouble, Master Guest, you will feel his wrath. For when my husband returns he will see that you are punished for trespassing where you are definitely not wanted.’

  ‘I ask forgiveness again, madam. I meant no disrespect to you or … or to your husband. But I must know. How long has he been gone?’

  She sniffled, her eyes glancing away. ‘Three weeks with not one word. He is not in London and not in the village.’

  ‘The village? You mean Winchcombe in Gloucestershire?’

  A step in the doorway made him turn. It was the servant from the front entrance. His mouth was gnarled in a scowl. But it was no broom he brandished this time; it was a club. And he wasn’t alone. There were two other men beside him and they each had clubs. ‘Our mistress bid you leave, knave,’ said the youth.

  Crispin wondered if that meant before or after a beating.

  He wanted to ask her about any of Wynchecombe’s dalliances but didn’t think it wise under the circumstances. Maybe under any circumstances. Could Wynchecombe be missing because he was in hiding with Katherine Woodleigh’s niece?

  The men with the clubs took a step into the parlor. It was definitely time for Crispin to depart.

  The way was blocked. Nothing for it but to walk through them.

  He put his hand on his sword – this time unquestionably in warning – and stepped forward. Miraculously, they stepped aside. Before he reached the entry, he stopped, turned back to the lady with a courteous bow and proceeded to the front entrance. More male servants stood nearby. All looked ready to pounce. Crispin swallowed and strode swiftly through the door and up the lane. He felt the men follow behind him. He kept his pace swift and steady when his foot touched the road. He didn’t stop, didn’t look back for many yards. When he no longer heard heavy steps behind him, he finally stopped and looked back.

  They had gathered at the end of the lane by a stone wall, shaking their clubs in his direction and urging him on with obscene gestures.

  Crispin straightened his coat again, nodded politely to the men and hurried on his way.

  And so, Wynchecombe was not in London. Not even on his estates in Gloucestershire. Where the hell was he?

  Once he was farther away from the manor, Crispin glanced over his shoulder again. The men were still there but now there was some distance and many more people between them. He released the breath he was holding. Close. Too close.

  What was he to do with this information? If Wynchecombe had this young niece, where could he hide her? And what was his knife doing in the back of a monk from a cloistered order very far from home? Which posed the question again of the identity of this monk. If the monastery in London wasn’t missing a monk, then which one was? Where was the closest Cistercian house? Perhaps that would require another journey to Smithfield to talk to the abbot there. No, the abbot had assured him he would send a missive to the other houses to ascertain who had a missing brother. A dark cloud hovered over this. Killing a monk, stealing an innocent maid, a married Simon Wynchecombe.

  And the relic.

  None of it boded well.

  Crispin walked slowly back to the Shambles. As he placed a foot on the step of his threshold, his stomach growled. Why had he been so foolish as to give back that money? So noble! When was he going to learn that he could not afford to be so high-handed?

  He pushed open the door. ‘Jack?’ Nothing. What a surprise. He only hoped the b
oy was out searching, begging … hell, stealing something to eat. ‘Have I sunk so low?’ he muttered. His stomach growled again in answer.

  Staring at the empty table did little good. He thought of examining the bloody dagger again but he already knew to whom it belonged.

  But that relic. Where did it belong? He didn’t recall seeing it before.

  He climbed the stairs and headed for his chamber. Kneeling by his bed, he reached under the straw-stuffed mattress for the crystal monstrance when a knock at the door below startled him. He abandoned the mattress, descended the stairs and went to the door.

  Katherine Woodleigh blinked up at him, eyes shining with grave sincerity.

  ‘May I come in?’

  Crispin stepped aside. She brushed passed him and he inhaled her scent again, vague with blossoms and woman.

  Her steps were tentative. Fingers trailed along his table and she sank gingerly onto the chair. She pushed the pouch before her across the table’s surface and left it in the center. ‘I have come to ask your forgiveness,’ she said.

  Crispin hesitated before moving to stand above her. ‘What for?’

  ‘For my treatment of you. For … my own high-handedness.’ She chuckled unpleasantly and gestured to herself. ‘As you see, I can ill afford it. Surely you can understand, with your own history, how it is with a person who has been a wealthy courtier and now has nothing.’

  ‘Nothing? Did you pay the innkeeper with pebbles?’

  ‘I paid him with coin I could ill afford to give. But pride is a sore thing.’

  Crispin acknowledged it with the drooping of his head. ‘Indeed, it is.’

  ‘I told you before, my father was Thomas Woodleigh.’ She waited until the name sank in. It took a moment for Crispin to catch up.

  ‘Thomas Woodleigh? I seem to recall a scandal associated with the name. Something was stolen and then a murder?’

  ‘Yes. To our very great regret. My father was accused … but admitted no wrongdoing. It ruined us. He died two years ago, leaving me alone and nearly a pauper. The king graciously granted a stipend to sustain me until I could be wed but because of the scandal and the gambled-away dower, even the king’s intercession could provide no offers.’ She pushed away from the table and paced. ‘And now even that has come to a trickle. It is my shame to bear now. I do not know what will become of me. A nunnery, I suppose.’ She held her head up. Though her eyes glistened, her will alone seemed to hold back the tears.