Season of Blood

by Jeri Westerson

  Crispin was on his feet and holding her hand before he realized it.

  She smiled. ‘You are kind and understanding. Perhaps more than I deserve.’

  ‘We cannot be blamed for the faults of our sires. But I am well familiar with shame, and I know the harm it can do.’

  ‘So you do,’ she said, eyes covertly scanning the lowly room that had never quite sloughed off the odor of chickens. She kept her hand in his. It was warm and soft.

  ‘Simon is an old family friend,’ she began. ‘We both have manors in Winchcombe. At least, I used to. I asked him to help me sell some land for much-needed funds, which he did. But as if his indiscretion with my niece were not enough, he made off with the money and has refused my letters. I have come to London at great personal cost to find her and get back what is mine. I must find him.’

  ‘I see.’ He surprised himself at his reluctance to release her hand, but he did so. He glanced once at the coin pouch on the table. ‘So you seek him to return the money he obtained for you.’

  ‘Yes. I was ashamed to add it to the humiliation he has already rained down upon us.’

  ‘Hmm. Did you know that Simon Wynchecombe is missing?’

  ‘He was not at home at his manor in Gloucestershire.’

  ‘But he has not been at his London home for some three weeks now.’

  ‘What? Where can he be?’

  ‘That is the primary question. I have another. What might he have to do with Cistercian monks?’

  ‘I have no idea. Why … why do you ask?’ But her eyes flashed in the direction of the stain still marring his floor.

  ‘Just … curious.’ He stood silently for a moment, letting the pause lengthen. He watched her under the shading locks of his hair. She did not fidget or move at all. She seemed to be waiting. Breath after gentle breath lifted the bosom of her gown, and if he weren’t careful he could find himself enchanted by the sight.

  ‘Your niece must be found. What if in so doing I cannot recover your stolen funds?’ He nodded toward the money pouch on the table. ‘Wynchecombe might very well claim he did no such thing.’

  One shoulder rose in a half-hearted shrug. ‘I don’t know. But I do know this: I am not made for a nunnery. And neither is my niece.’

  Unbidden, his eyes roved over each curve beneath her gown. No, she was not.

  ‘Why would Master Wynchecombe, a wealthy alderman in his own right, have need to steal from you?’

  She shook her head. ‘What motivates greed, Master Guest? You say you have known him. Do you think him capable? And to steal from me, why, he knows I have no recourse, no kinsmen to force him to pay it. I am helpless. As helpless as my dear niece, Sybil. Perhaps this is what motivates him the most.’

  Was Simon the sort? he wondered. The man was skilled at taking bribes and skimming the funds from Crispin’s own pocket. But was he that much of a knave as to steal a maid? Anything was possible, he supposed.

  ‘Or rather, it is the reason he is missing. Might something have happened to him along the road? Master Wynchecombe is not a man to shirk his responsibilities. He might very well be … dead.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ she said. ‘Oh, but my kinswoman, my Sybil! If something happened to him, ill might have befallen her! And that I thought such cruel and unkind things about him. Where is my charity?’

  ‘Charitable thoughts when one is so anxious? You do not travel with a maid. You can’t afford one?’

  ‘At present,’ she admitted with downcast eyes.

  Don’t be a fool, Crispin. But he was doing it anyway. He took up the coins, tipped a few into his palm and handed her the rest of them.

  Her eyes rounded first on him and then on the coins.

  ‘Take it, demoiselle. Pride does not feed our bellies. You are in sore need of it, no?’

  ‘But I would pay you your wage, good sir.’

  ‘I have enough here.’ He gestured with the coins in his hand but he well knew there were too few. He slipped them into the pouch at his belt. ‘I would have returned it all but I must have funds to search for them. And at any rate, you more than paid my wage when you paid my debts. That was a foolish thing to do on your part, under the circumstances.’

  The smile reached her eyes. She leaned over and kissed his cheek, petal soft. He felt a mortifying blush.

  ‘You are too generous, Master Guest. Far too generous.’ His own words echoed back to him. ‘You will be remembered in my prayers.’

  ‘Yes … well.’

  She rose and headed for the door. ‘I will take my leave, then. I hope you find him soon.’

  He bounded forward and opened the door for her.

  ‘Oh. By the way.’ She glanced at him over her shoulder. ‘Whatever became of that relic?’

  ‘I’m keeping it safe,’ he said.

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Some saint’s blood, I think.’

  ‘May I … may I see it again? I have seldom been so close to one.’

  He shrugged and trudged upstairs. He retrieved it from under his mattress and came back downstairs. Carefully, he placed it on the table. The blood oozed from side to side in its beryl monstrance.

  She reached forward and touched it with a tentative finger before pulling back. ‘Curious,’ she whispered. ‘So precious a thing. You must shield it away again, Master Guest. Until you find the place it belongs.’

  He scooped it up and closed it in his fist.

  She nodded and smiled. ‘It is in good hands. God keep you, Master Guest.’

  ‘Crispin. Call me … Crispin.’ As soon as the words left his lips he felt like falling on his blade. What the hell was he doing?

  Her smile broadened and she offered him a curtsey. He hadn’t been offered that particular gesture in many a day. It felt good.

  Once she passed over the threshold he watched her make her way across the lane. But he sobered when he spotted a lone, hunched figure saluting him. He waited for her to disappear before he waved Lenny forward.

  Lenny’s smell preceded him. It was rancid sweat, old dirt and urine tinged with a touch of cautious anxiety. The man licked his lips. Rat-like eyes darted here and there. There was nothing for him to steal so Crispin relaxed and sat. Lenny caught sight of the wine bowl and gave Crispin a hopeful look. Crispin scowled.

  ‘Well, then,’ said Lenny. ‘I followed the lady like you said.’ He paused.

  Crispin waited. ‘Get on with it.’

  ‘I don’t have me farthing yet, do I.’

  Sighing, Crispin reached in his pouch and withdrew the quartered coin. Lenny made to grab it but Crispin held it out of his reach. ‘Information first, then the farthing.’

  Lenny growled. ‘Farthing first and then the information. Curse you.’

  Crispin chuckled and tossed the quartered coin. Lenny caught it deftly in his knobby fingers. ‘Right then. I followed the lady to Westminster. And she was alone, I might add.’

  ‘So …?’

  ‘I’m getting to it.’ He smacked his lips again. ‘Good master, you wouldn’t be having a drop of ale or so for old Len, now, would you? It’s rough and thirsty work following a soul all over England.’

  Crispin frowned. ‘No.’

  ‘So it’s like that,’ he grunted, taking his time securing his farthing in the folds of his grimy coat. When he was satisfied it was safe, he continued. ‘She left London for Westminster, then she made heel for the abbey. She talked to one of them monks for a bit, and then she left the church to a courtyard nigh the abbey, and after returned to the Unicorn.’

  ‘She went to this courtyard, did she? Into the abbey? And whom did she meet?’

  ‘Aye. I’m getting to that. Sure you won’t spare a small draught of ale?’

  ‘I’m positive. Get on with it.’

  ‘Very well. She met a monk. And spent far too much time alone with him.’

  FIVE

  After Lenny left him, Crispin secured the relic and considered. Why would a monk allow her in the cloi
ster and spend so much time with her? Did she know him? Her situation was grave, to be sure. The monk might have counseled her on a fitting nunnery, though the thought sat sour in his belly like stale beer.

  He stared at the dark patch still staining his floorboards and thought a trip to Newgate was called for. He dreaded talking with the sheriffs but it had to be done.

  A scramble at the threshold made him grab for his sword hilt but it was only Jack. ‘Well now! Back so soon? We’ll talk as we go.’

  ‘Go? Go where?’

  ‘Newgate.’

  Jack stumbled. Crispin knew the boy hated the prison. He wasn’t fond of it, either. But Jack recovered and followed hard on Crispin’s heels. The boy refrained from asking, but he could almost feel him straining not to say anything.

  They walked in silence up Newgate Market to the looming tower with its arch and portcullis, now raised, poised like teeth waiting to bite down. Crispin didn’t cringe while passing below it, but only just managed.

  The porter regarded him with drooping lids. ‘Master Guest. Come to see the sheriffs?’ As if there was any other reason. He nodded anyway, and the slump-shouldered porter nabbed a page who had been drifting off to sleep. ‘Here, Rafe,’ said the porter. ‘Take Master Guest up to the sheriffs. And be quick about it.’

  Rafe, a boy with dirty blond hair down to his collar, didn’t wait to see if Crispin followed him. Crispin watched the point of his hood sway back and forth across his shoulders as they made their way up a narrow staircase and to the outer chamber to the sheriff’s workroom. He knocked, waited a moment and entered, announcing Crispin and Jack.

  John Walcote stood. His eyes narrowed. John Loveney turned from his place by the fire. He, too, seemed displeased to see Crispin.

  ‘Well, Master Guest!’ said Walcote, coming round the table, a folded parchment in his hand. ‘And his young apprentice, Jack Tucker.’ He said the last as if reading it from a tax roll.

  Jack shuffled his feet and looked at the floor. ‘Aye, my lord.’

  Walcote shook the parchment. ‘You’ll never guess what this is, Master Guest.’

  ‘No, he never will,’ said Loveney.

  Crispin looked from one to the other. His temple began to throb. ‘Don’t keep me in suspense.’

  ‘And so!’ Walcote straightened it and held it under the candlelit corona hanging from a chain above their heads. ‘I have here—’

  ‘We have!’ said Loveney.

  ‘Yes, yes. We have here a missive from the abbot of St Mary Graces. Would you like to know what it says?’

  Crispin bit down on what he truly wanted to say. ‘My lords, if I can be of service then it is best to bring all information into the light of day.’

  Sheriff Loveney elbowed Jack, who had been trying to stay back behind Crispin. ‘Your master. He’s an impatient fellow, is he not?’

  ‘Impatient and anxious to solve this wretched crime against one of God’s own, my lords,’ said Crispin, keeping his voice as even as he could.

  Loveney drew back with a frown. He urged Walcote on with a wave of his hand.

  ‘It is from Abbot William de Warden, who says he received a letter himself the very next day after Master Crispin arrived at their abbey. The letter was from Abbot Robert at Hailes Abbey in Gloucestershire. One of their brothers went missing and they are greatly troubled because, only a sennight before, another of the monks was found dead. What do you make of that?’

  Staring at the stone arch of the window behind the sheriff, Crispin considered. ‘It seems we have found the identity of our dead monk.’

  ‘Yes, but it still does not tell us who murdered him.’

  ‘No, but …’ Crispin rubbed his clean-shaven chin and only subtly noticed that everyone had leaned forward with parted lips to listen to his pronouncement as if he were the pope. God’s blood! ‘I have no magical answers for you, good sirs,’ he said sternly. ‘But it is clear someone must go to Hailes.’

  He waited. The sheriffs blinked stupidly at him. He sighed. ‘I will go, naturally.’

  ‘Oh, excellent!’ Sheriff Walcote clapped his hands together and rubbed. ‘We shall, of course, supply you with a horse. No, two! One for young Master Tucker, here.’ Jack seemed to swell at that. ‘And you must write to us at once upon reaching Hailes, Master Crispin. We are most anxious to hear your tidings.’

  ‘Most anxious,’ said an equally excited John Loveney.

  God help me. Crispin sighed.

  There was a spring in Jack’s step as they led their newly acquired horses from Newgate. ‘How about that, Master Crispin!’ said Jack, winding the horse’s lead over his hand. ‘They went and offered a horse to me. Called me “Master Tucker.” I never thought I’d see the day when a sheriff of London gave me any attention but bad.’

  ‘Yes, it’s all very invigorating.’

  Jack couldn’t seem to help but trot this way and that before him. ‘But Master Crispin, it’s a golden day. I never in me life been treated so respectful. It’s a new day indeed.’

  Crispin smiled. How could he begrudge Jack his first taste of it? Due respect had long ago been yanked from Crispin’s grasp. He’d earned it back, in a way, from the merchants and waifs of London’s streets, but it certainly wasn’t the same as he had enjoyed in his former circles at court.

  The sheriffs seemed only too glad to send Crispin and Jack away. What was on their minds? Was it only to distract him, get him out of the way? Or were they genuinely interested? No. That seemed out of character. Nevertheless, it was an opportunity and he needed to snatch those when they presented themselves.

  Jack swung his arm – the one leading the horse – and Crispin had to stop him before he wrenched out the bit. They tied the beasts to a post at their threshold. There was not much to pack but the only thing on Crispin’s mind was the relic, and that he wrapped carefully and stuffed in a saddle bag. Once it was safely secured, his thoughts fell on Katherine Woodleigh. She would have to be informed that he was leaving London for a sennight at least. He scanned the street of patrons, horses and carts and honking geese. Where was Lenny when he needed him? But a tall woman caught his eye, tall and broad-shouldered with a long, purposeful stride. She walked alongside a man who was taking furtive glances before they both ducked into a dark alley.

  ‘Wait here, Jack.’ Crispin hurried to the alley and crossed his arms, leaning his shoulder into the damp plaster. ‘John,’ he said.

  The man looked up and hastily pulled his braies back into place. With head bowed, he quickly shouldered by Crispin without so much as a by-your-leave. Crispin quirked a brow at the disgruntled woman.

  ‘Crispin, by God, you have got to stop doing that! But at least I got my coin first.’ She tossed it once in the air and caught it with a long-fingered hand.

  ‘Master Rykener. Whoring under the eye of Newgate? Aren’t you tempting fate a little too much?’

  John Rykener, in his woman’s clothes, sidled close to Crispin and grinned at him. His cote-hardie buttoned down the front all the way to the hem at his feet. His figure mimicked that of a woman, even with curves in the right places, though less so at his chest. ‘Well, Crispin, you know me. A maid’s got to do what a maid’s got to do.’

  ‘Except you are no maid.’

  He snorted and smoothed out his skirts. ‘That is a certainty!’

  Crispin blushed. ‘That is not what I meant.’ He spun but John grabbed his arm. ‘Tut, Master Guest. You did not frighten off my client just for the purpose of a lecture, for you know far better than that. What is it?’

  ‘Well, I was thinking—’ He looked the man over, from the plucked brows down his slim form in its woman’s gown to his pointed shoes. He might dress as a woman and play the mare for other men but he was a man and Crispin knew him to be a strong individual, hearty of both body and mind. Yes, it was an even better idea than he had at first thought. ‘John,’ he said, his voice low and keeping his eyes on the street. ‘I wish to hire you.’

  Rykener’s mouth fell open. ‘
You do?’

  Feeling his face heat again, Crispin quickly slid away from the man. ‘Not like that! God’s blood, John!’

  Rykener shook his head, the looped braids at his temples swaying under the kerchief. ‘For a moment, I—’ He laughed. ‘You should have seen the look on your face.’

  ‘Yes, very funny.’

  ‘Oh, it was, it was!’ He clapped his hands and pressed his fingertips to his smiling lips.

  Crispin felt like melting into the wall. If only he could. ‘Do you wish the job or not?’

  ‘Coin is coin, Crispin. What is it?’

  ‘I should like you to continue to play “Eleanor”. You work as a seamstress, do you not?’

  ‘Embroideress. And a good one, too.’

  ‘Then I should like you to work as a … a lady’s maid.’

  John blinked. ‘To a … a lady?’

  ‘Yes, to a lady! To whom else would you be a lady’s maid?’

  ‘Well, I have played such games before—’

  ‘And I have no desire to hear about them.’ Crispin peeked around the corner at Jack, who was stomping the mud next to the horses. The boy was anxious to get going and so was Crispin. ‘A lady’s maid, John. And also a protector. Such a combination is unique but necessary.’

  ‘A client of yours, Crispin?’

  ‘Yes. The lady in question is staying at the Unicorn Inn on Watling Street. Her name is Katherine Woodleigh.’ He reached into his pouch and withdrew some coins, handing them to Rykener only after he was certain no one had noticed them talking. ‘Here is your partial fee. I’m afraid it’s all I can give you now.’ At least he had bargained traveling money and horses from the sheriffs so he and Jack wouldn’t starve along the way. ‘Watch her well and tell her I sent you. But don’t tell her you are a man.’