Season of Blood

by Jeri Westerson

  John knelt beside her and touched the chair. ‘No, my lady. Surely with your beauty a man can be found to marry you.’

  ‘Beauty is one thing, but an impoverished woman to wife? A useless ornament, I would be.’

  ‘Surely a burgess would welcome you. A pretty thing to decorate his shop. You can read and write, can you not?’

  She nodded solemnly. ‘I can. But my family history … there was a scandal at court. The taint of it runs deep.’

  John slowly rose. He unbuttoned his cloak and hung it by the door and then unbuttoned his hood and caplet, hanging that on the same peg. He removed a small bit of embroidery from his scrip, careful not to dislodge his shaving things, and sat in the chair opposite her. It was comfortable with its high back. He showed her the embroidery he had started, a series of florets weaving into a long pattern along the edge of some fabric. It was to be the hem of a woman’s chemise. ‘Well, a nunnery is no place for the likes of you. I can teach you a proper vocation. See here.’

  Katherine stood and leaned over him. She smelled faintly of gilly flower. John approved. Some women drenched themselves in odd spices and floral scents, enough to choke an animal. Her scent was subtle and appealing. He thought he’d like to try it.

  ‘What a fine hand you have, Eleanor.’

  ‘Thank you.’ His long fingers seemed suited to the needle and thread. ‘It is my other vocation … besides being a lady’s maid.’

  ‘Indeed.’ She sighed. ‘But I was never good at stitchery and I simply gave it up, except for those repairs that one must do.’

  ‘I could teach you. You would not have to choose a nunnery. A woman must be wise and wily to make her way in the world.’

  Her eyes glinted with something like rising hope. ‘You are a marvel, aren’t you? I can see why Master Guest approves of you.’ She scooted her chair closer to John and peered over his shoulder as John pressed the fine needle into the fabric and continued the stitch he had started, patiently teaching it to her.

  They had settled in. John coaxed her to talk of her troubles and her family’s past as they worked. She mentioned that a former London sheriff was mixed up in it somehow and he ticked his head at the audacity.

  He had given her a section of his cloth to work on and, even though he would have to pull the stitches out later, he felt it was worth the time to help Crispin’s client. How the nobility suffered in their ignorance! Crispin with his poor knowledge of everyday life and Kat Woodleigh (for she bid John call her so) and her poor understanding of her choices. John considered, for not the first time, that he was glad of his own status, for he seemed always to find work for himself, whether in stitchery or on his back. Though he knew that the older he got, both might not be as viable. Still, there were options. More than once he considered getting himself a husband, though that might prove a delicate prospect.

  He found, despite Kat’s dire circumstances, that she was a merry woman and even got her to admit an interest in Crispin.

  ‘He is a handsome man, true,’ she said, ‘but as poor a prospect as myself. Sixpence a day – and few scattered days they appear to be – would not sustain a wife and children.’

  ‘That may be true. But when two work it fattens the income.’

  ‘Though,’ she said, setting down her bit of cloth and gazing distantly into the corner, ‘one need not marry to, er, enjoy the company of a man.’

  John laughed and pushed at her lightly. ‘Madam, you are a “Kat” indeed!’

  ‘Confess it. You would try it with Master Guest if you could.’

  He sighed. ‘Aye, ’tis true. I would. But … I am not the kind of woman Master Guest prefers.’

  ‘Oh? And what is his preference?’

  John smiled and ducked his head beneath his veil. ‘Well, truth to tell, you are the kind to catch his eye. A clever woman with beauty seems to trap our Master Crispin more often than not.’

  ‘Listen to us. A pair of gossips. We shall have to shrive ourselves.’

  ‘Oh, lady, if I shrived m’self for all my thoughts, I’d be in the confessional still.’

  She laughed. It was a good sound. John was glad to take her from her troubles if but for a little while, for soon enough she would remember them again and her smile would fade.

  Their days moved on much like the rest. Some sewing, some taking the air in the courtyard, some drinking in the inn hall.

  When nightfall came on the fourth day, John slept fitfully on the uncomfortable cot. So it was easy for him to rise early, as was his custom, yawning, to see to the fires.

  Kat was softly breathing in her bed when he checked on her. He felt his chin and secretly took up his shaving kit, retreating to the secrecy of the privy to shave in the dark as he did every day, once in the morning and once at night, so as to leave no stubble at all. He did so slowly to avoid nicking himself, but used careful fingers to search out the stubble and smite them with his sharp blade. Satisfied, he tucked blade and soap in his scrip, washed his face in the trough and begged porridge and bread from the innkeeper. He waited for the tray and shared a cup of ale with the innkeeper while the man’s wife fetched the food. The man smiled and winked at John enough for him to catch the innkeeper’s meaning, but he didn’t know if he could reasonably get away from Kat and still act as her protector.

  He began to plot just how he could do that when the innkeeper’s wife arrived and elbowed her husband. He abruptly moved away and John thanked them both, took up the tray and climbed the stairs.

  He shouldered his way into the room and set the tray on the table. Taking up the poker, he urged the fire again and turned to the bed – but she wasn’t there. ‘Must be at the privy,’ he mused, and went to the window to have a look.

  She was not at the privy but on her way down the road, heading west.

  ‘What, by all the saints! I’m supposed to be protecting you, lass.’

  He grabbed his cloak and hurried down the steps after her. But even as he trotted to catch up, he slowly hung back. ‘Now what would Crispin do?’ he murmured to himself, sidestepping a sway-backed mule drawing a cart.

  The working day had begun but the market bell had not yet rung for business to commence. The sun had barely risen, casting golden light on the shops and houses. Prime had rung in the nearby churches an hour ago at least. Too early for shopping. Where was she bound?

  He decided to hang back and merely follow her to see. He was certain this was the correct course.

  She disappeared and emerged from the shadows of the towering shops, winding down the crooked streets of London. She never stopped or lingered anywhere, for her destination was clear – wherever that was. John kept her in his sight and stayed back as far as he dared. Though shops weren’t open yet, shoppers awaited them and apprentices were busy sweeping steps, fetching piggins and fuel. Street peddlers were milling, calling out their wares, usually food. Many partook of the warm meat pies, skewered meats and ale. John would have stopped, too, but his quarry was moving ahead of him too swiftly.

  It was only when she passed through Ludgate that he was certain she was bound for Westminster. At least, it was the only destination he could reckon.

  Now it was a little more treacherous keeping out of her sight as there were fewer along the road, but once they reached Charing Cross he could hide himself among the throng. Relieved she didn’t enter the palace – for he could not have followed her there – he watched her reach the cloister gate at Westminster Abbey.

  He hid himself around the corner of a shop, its rough plaster tugging at the threads of his cloak. At length, a monk arrived at the gate, looked hastily about and unlocked it. He grabbed her hand and tugged her inside, disappearing into the shadows.

  ‘God’s nails,’ he muttered. What mischief was here? A secret meeting in the cloister? A woman? With a monk? Well, he’d certainly trafficked enough himself in cloisters, with monks, priests and nuns paying for his services. The clerical class kept him fed and housed, to be sure.

  But she did not seem
to be the sort. Still, a woman had to use every wile she had to make her way in the world.

  He shook his head. ‘Hush, John,’ he admonished himself. Perhaps it was perfectly innocent. She might know this monk. He might be kin. Surely she needed advice on these dread matters. But why didn’t she wait for John to escort her? After all, that was why Crispin hired him. But he saw how wily Master Guest was, for perhaps he wasn’t hired so much to escort and protect her but to keep an eye on her.

  What was he to do now? Wait, he supposed. And so he did. He leaned against the wall, getting as comfortable as he might while keeping an eye on the cloister gate.

  His stomach growled after not too much time had passed, but finally he saw her approach again and he slid into the shadows until only a sliver of him might be visible.

  The monk bowed to her once he closed the gate behind her and walked away. She made no backward glance as she hurried toward London. John kept pace behind her, wondering if she would make any other stops. Once they passed again through Ludgate and it didn’t look as if she were going to stop, he realized he had to get back to the Unicorn before she did.

  He picked up his skirts and ran. Ducking up Old Dean’s Lane to Paternoster Row, he ran hard along West Cheap toward Mercery. He ignored the stares and oaths as he pushed past people hawking their wares for sale. The market bell had finally rung and shops had opened their window shutters, their little stalls open for business. John skirted past a fat priest and his dogs held on a short leash by a retainer, begging their mercy as he went. He cut down a lane to Watling and scurried up the muddy row to the Unicorn. Shoes now muddy, he stomped up the stairs, skirts lifted high, got to the door and flung it open. Out of breath, he slid out of his shoes, had just enough time to scrape the mud off them out of the window, arranged himself in a chair before the fire and controlled his heavy breathing just as the door opened.

  He stood, putting on a face of exasperation. ‘My lady! How am I to serve as your escort when you go out of your way to elude me?’

  ‘Oh. I am sorry, Eleanor. I beg your mercy. But … there was simply something I had to do and it could not wait.’

  ‘Truly? You were gone for hours.’

  ‘Not hours, surely.’

  ‘Well, nearly so. I was worried. Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, I am. Don’t fret, Eleanor. I will not do it again, I vow it.’

  ‘Good. Well, there lies your mixtum. It is cold now.’

  ‘Forgive me, again.’

  ‘I’ll fetch you warm pottage, shall I?’

  ‘Please don’t bother. I’ll just take the bread and ale.’

  John grumbled as he set the board before her, pouring the ale from the jug into a dented metal goblet.

  He set to his chores, until later in the day when they ventured downstairs to take the air and perhaps the news from the inn’s occupants in the great hall.

  Later, as the noon bells rung for sext, they sat in their room, John at his sewing and Kat trying out a stitch on one of her old gowns. The warm room shuttered John’s eyes. He let his head fall forward once before jerking it up to rouse himself. But it was of no use. Sleep overtook him and his head drooped.

  The scream awoke him. He was nearly to his feet when he heard Kat scream a second time. He tried to turn but a suffocating bag dropped over his head. He struggled when a gag wound round the bag and over his mouth. He yanked at the bag but a rope yanked his arms to his sides against the chair. He struggled, kicking, twisting, but he could do nothing while he listened helplessly to the sounds of Kat fighting and crying out, and finally being smuggled out of the room to a dread fate.

  EIGHT

  ‘Haven’t we done what we came to do?’ said Jack. Crispin was aware that the boy had been watching him a long time as he contemplated the high arches of the apse, the shadows, the entrances. ‘Can’t we go home now?’

  ‘You, who are ever anxious to travel and see the world, would leave this place?’

  ‘Monasteries,’ Jack snorted. ‘They make me skittery. Monks creeping about, quiet as shadows. It isn’t natural.’

  ‘To pray is to work, and to work is to pray, Jack. There is a purpose in it. Do you mean to say that you would not desire to be a corrodian in a monastery?’

  ‘When I retire, I hope that my children will care for me.’

  ‘And so they shall. May you have many.’

  Jack always brightened at talk of his betrothed. But that brightness was brief. ‘We returned the relic.’

  ‘But have not yet talked to this Sybil Whitechurch. Nor found a reason why Brother Edwin was killed. Or that another monk went missing but the abbot and none of the monks will reveal who.’

  ‘Brother Edwin was killed because whoever wanted to steal the relic caught him there. He encountered the thief, is all.’

  ‘So why was he killed in the cloister and not at the shrine?’

  ‘He staggered there.’

  ‘Leaving no trail of blood.’

  ‘You’ve only their word there was no blood trail.’

  ‘Why, Jack! So suspicious of holy brothers?’

  He pulled himself up and raised his chin. ‘Like you, sir, I suspect everyone.’

  Crispin nodded. ‘It is best to do so. You will find yourself less disappointed later.’ Crispin glanced over his shoulder but didn’t find any brothers lingering in the shadows. ‘We must go to the Woodleigh estates and talk with Sybil’s servants. Perhaps they have some idea where she might have gone.’

  ‘And then to Wynchecombe’s estates?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Crispin was forced to find a monk who could point out the directions to the Woodleigh manor and he and Jack saddled their horses and set out.

  It was only a few miles up the northern road, and so they allowed the horses to amble along. Jack was relaxed on the saddle, body rolling gently with the horse’s gait. ‘Master Crispin, do you think that Master Wynchecombe is not guilty of murdering them monks?’

  Crispin shook his head and urged his horse down the left fork as instructed. He could see a manor house just beyond the hedgerows but no smoke lingered near its chimneys. ‘That, Jack, I have not yet concluded. There isn’t enough evidence either way. It’s certainly possible, I suppose. Anyone can become angry and Wynchecombe can be baited so easily. But a judicious man stops before he does true harm in his rage. It is the mark of an intelligent man. Honors and rewards fall to those who show their good qualities in action.’

  ‘Aristotle,’ Jack muttered.

  ‘Yes. Wynchecombe is a man of business. A respected alderman and armorer.’

  ‘Other respected men have been murderers before.’

  ‘True enough.’ He fell silent as they crested the last rise of the road that led down to the porter’s gate of the Woodleigh estates. The arched stone gateway stood solitary and quiet. No man stood guard there. Crispin proceeded down the lane toward the modest structure. Certainly much smaller than Crispin’s own lost estates in Sheen, the whole compound was surrounded by a wall whose gate hung open and broken. A cobblestone courtyard separated the house from the stables. Their horses clattered through the open gate but no one came to greet them.

  Jack hopped down from his mount and took both horses’ leads. Dismounting, Crispin stood by the well before the house and scanned upward toward the higher storey with its shutters closed tight. There were two chimneys, one at each end of the house. A stone foundation, dark timbers and aged daub between. There was no sound from the structure, no animal in the courtyard.

  ‘I don’t like the looks of this, sir,’ said Jack.

  ‘Nor do I.’ Jack led the horses to a post and wrapped the reins around it. He joined Crispin at the front door. Crispin glanced once at the anxious face of his apprentice before he reached up and knocked.

  The hollow sound rang out but even after waiting a respectful time there was no answering sound. He knocked again, louder, but the result was the same. He took hold of the latch and pushed. The door opened easily.

 
; ‘Careful, sir.’

  In answer, Crispin drew his sword. He pushed the door open, letting it swing on its own as he stood poised in the doorway, sword held aloft. ‘Hello! Is anyone there?’

  The place smelled musty, closed, unused. And was. The floor was covered in dust and what scant furniture there was also lay under a powdering. Even dried leaves were strewn about and there were bird skeletons lying scattered in the fireplace where they had, no doubt, fallen in from the chimney.

  He moved forward toward the dark hearth. Touching the stones of the fireplace arch, he could tell they had been cold for some time.

  ‘What is this?’

  Katherine Woodleigh had said they were without means but this was more extreme than he had bargained for. No wonder she was so anxious to find Wynchecombe if he had stolen from her. But that made little sense either. Why would he have need to steal from her? Though, if she owed him money, he could well see Wynchecombe exacting his payment in so callous a manner, especially if he harbored a grudge against the family. But surely stealing away her niece would negate such extreme measures, wouldn’t it? And what did he expect to do with this niece? He could not offer her the sanctity of marriage, for he was already married. Keep her? But where? Winchcombe, he supposed. Such things were done by noblemen. He had known them. But Wynchecombe was not so wealthy that he could afford to keep both houses running at once.

  Crispin moved into the room and stopped. The joists above his head creaked. The glance back at Jack was unnecessary. The boy was at his heels as Crispin made for the stairs. He took them two at a time, stopping at the top to listen. Tilting his head, he heard the floor creak again and moved quickly to the room in question. Casting open the door, he presented the sword first.

  An old man, ragged and crooked, screamed and cowered back. Crispin immediately lowered the blade but didn’t sheath it. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘An old man. A servant here.’

  ‘Where has everyone gone?’

  When it didn’t look as if Crispin would strike, the old man lowered his hands but still took a shuffling step back. ‘Peace, good sir. Mercy.’