Season of Blood

by Jeri Westerson

  Looking down at his blade, Crispin saw the foolishness of keeping it ready and sheathed it smartly. He opened his empty hands. ‘I mean you no harm, old man. Tell me. What happened to the Woodleighs?’

  ‘Such a rich house,’ he said shakily. His cloudy eyes roved wildly about the empty room. ‘Even the king stopped here once. It was a grand thing, that. King Edward. Long live the king.’

  Crispin caught Jack’s eye as he made his way into the room around its perimeter.

  ‘But the family is not here now,’ Crispin insisted. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Scattered to the wind. The scandal,’ he whispered, gesturing with a clawed hand.

  ‘Yes, there was a scandal at court. But that was over ten years ago. Where is Sybil Whitechurch? Have you seen her of late?’

  He looked at Crispin with even more confusion than he already wore. He squinted and raised those curled fingers to his face. ‘Eh? Who did you say?’

  ‘Sybil. She was the younger woman. Katherine Woodleigh’s niece.’

  The man put a hand to his cheek. ‘That must be the child, eh? Such a pretty child.’

  ‘And this is the home of Katherine Woodleigh, is it not?’

  ‘Aye. A strange and quiet mistress,’ he said vaguely. ‘She comes and she goes. All of them left, didn’t they? All the servants but myself. The Pykes, the Harkers, the Howards. All gone. Left me alone.’

  Crispin restrained his sigh. ‘But the niece, man. When was the last time you saw her?’

  ‘The niece? Dear me. The house is so quiet without the children. And the Pykes were so good with them, weren’t they? Such good company. So merry. Where have the other servants gone?’

  Stepping forward, Crispin took the man’s arm gently, walked him to a chair and carefully prodded him into it. ‘Sit, old man. Now, tell me. How long has it been since the servants left?’

  ‘Well … let me see. It was Candlemas last. Aye, Candlemas.’

  ‘Are you telling me that all the servants left last month?’

  ‘No, last February. It’s been over a year I’ve been alone, tending to the old house m’self.’

  The room was cold and dusty. It hadn’t been swept in many a day. Maybe since the servants left. Did the old man light any fires? He was wrapped in a cloak, a hood, and another wrap over that. His clawed fingers were red and raw.

  ‘Who waits on Mistress Katherine?’

  ‘She waits on herself, when she is here, which is seldom.’

  ‘And what of Mistress Sybil?’

  He dropped his forehead on his palm and rubbed. ‘I do not know that name.’

  Crispin straightened and looked down at the man, still rubbing his forehead. ‘She is the young niece of Mistress Katherine. Perhaps she did not live here in the fullness of the year, but certainly part of it.’

  Still rubbing, the old man began to hum.

  Impatient now, Crispin tapped his shoulder. ‘The girl. When was the last time you saw her?’

  ‘She never stayed long. She’d take what she could from the coffers – clothes and such – and leave. Leave me all alone.’

  And left you mad. What a wretched house this is. He felt worse than ever that he had allowed her to pay his debts when she herself was in such dire straits. But he certainly recognized the pride in her. He often wore it himself.

  He crouched beside the old man. ‘But I’m worried, you see, about the young one. The girl, Sybil. At the monastery; they said she often went there.’

  ‘Oh, no. That is not proper. That cannot be.’

  ‘And yet the monks say it is so.’

  ‘Do they? Well … she often … left.’

  ‘And the last time. Was there a man with her? Do you know Simon Wynchecombe?’

  ‘The tall one? London alderman?’

  ‘Yes, him. He was with her?’

  The man stopped rubbing and looked up, but not at Crispin, not at anything within the room. ‘Aye. Sometimes. He was here. And she without a lady’s maid.’ He ticked his head.

  ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘The ides.’

  That signifies, he thought. That would be about the right time.

  ‘What can you tell me about the girl, Sybil? Was she flirtatious? Cautious? Cunning?’

  He turned his head and looked up at Crispin, searching his face with rheumy eyes. ‘You keep saying that name and I tell you I have never heard it before.’

  ‘Then what did you call the other woman who spent time here with Mistress Katherine?’

  He leaned over to squint at Crispin. ‘But that’s what I am trying to tell you, young man. There is no other woman.’

  NINE

  For a tantalizing moment, Crispin almost believed the old servant. But spending more time with the man and questioning him proved useless. Crispin had to conclude that the man was addled and simply couldn’t answer fully even if he tried. It was maddening.

  He had taken Jack aside and sent him to make a search of the house, and his apprentice had concluded that two chambers at least showed signs of recent occupation.

  In the courtyard and mounting their horses, Crispin, even as frustrated as he was, felt a bit sorry for the old man. Perhaps he should have sent Jack to fetch the man some firewood … but no. He wasn’t paid enough for that sort of charity and he longed to leave for London again.

  ‘The man’s a fool,’ said Jack after they had ridden up the lane past the gatehouse. Once at the main road, they turned southwest toward Winchcombe.

  ‘Is he? He was addled, to be sure. But he seemed to be certain that there was no Sybil Whitechurch.’

  ‘But that cannot be, master. The monks have plainly seen her, and Katherine Woodleigh is in search of her; paid you good silver for that, and she can plainly use the coin. Add to the fact of two chambers in use …’

  ‘Yes. She is desperate, to be sure. That Wynchecombe would steal from her under these circumstances …’

  ‘He’s a cruel man,’ he said with a scowl. ‘This whole adventure leaves a bad taste in me mouth.’

  Crispin had to agree, but his thoughts kept drifting toward the monastery and the murder of one monk, a theft and then the death of another in London. What did any of that – if at all – have to do with this business? It seemed an extraordinary coincidence if they were separate affairs. And just as he thought it, Jack voiced the same concerns. The boy was quick, he’d give him that. He wondered if he could see the pride in Crispin’s face.

  ‘Why would he kill them monks? And why steal the relic?’

  ‘You think the former sheriff would steal a relic?’

  He shrugged. ‘Why not? He wasn’t put off by murder.’

  ‘But why steal it? Surely a relic such as that would be well known. How could he boast of having it in his household when all would know – his servants, his friends – what it is and from where it came? They’d know him for a thief.’

  ‘You have the right of it. That don’t make sense.’

  ‘Unless he would choose not to display it. Keep it as a secret.’

  ‘Does God bestow his gifts to those who steal them?’

  ‘As you know, Jack, that has always been my greatest argument against the power of relics; that God would not allow them to be used by the unfaithful …’

  ‘Or unrepentant,’ he said quietly.

  Crispin glanced sidelong at his apprentice and slowly nodded. ‘Perhaps. But we are moving away from the main point, that monk that went all the way to London. And another one missing about which the abbot will not speak. If Wynchecombe intended to steal the relic for whatever reason, why not take it after he stabbed the poor fellow?’

  Jack adjusted his seat and absently stroked the long mane. ‘Then did the monk steal it, or did Master Wynchecombe?’

  ‘Hmm. It would make more sense if the monk had. But why come to London? Just to see me? And to what end?’

  ‘Because the poor bastard knew Master Wynchecombe was on his trail.’

  ‘But why was he on his trail
? Because Simon was trying to recover it? But he was already stealing away with Sybil. Why would he waste precious time chasing after a thieving monk? And again, if he was close enough to stab him – in the back, mind – why not close enough to take back the relic? Yet this monk, this Brother Ralph, came to me. For protection? To protect the relic?’

  Jack shivered. ‘It’s strange, isn’t it, master? Gives me a chill to think on it.’

  Crispin rode silently for a time. Thoughts of the relic itself swirled in his head. Quietly, he asked, ‘Jack … you saw the blood flow, did you not? In the crystal.’

  Jack’s voice dropped to a solemn tenor. ‘Aye, master. As sure as I’m seeing you now. Is it true, then? The blood only flows for repentant eyes? Even … sinless?’

  ‘The abbot did not see it flow,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Odd that he would admit it to me.’

  ‘It’s your reputation, sir.’

  He twisted on the saddle to look back at the boy. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Nothing bad, Master Crispin. I meant your reputation … with relics.’

  ‘Oh.’ He turned back toward the road, curling the reins around his hand.

  ‘He knows – as does anyone – that these relics seem to come into your hands, and that you are faithful to them. God trusts you.’

  Crispin snorted. He had burned one, and let others fall out of his hands whether knowingly or by those deceiving him. And faithful? He wore about him a healthy cloak of skepticism where they were concerned. Too many false relics had crossed his path to believe in every one of them. And yet … He touched his scrip. He kept a certain thorn within, and though he tried not to think about it too often he still felt a strange sense of peace that it was on his person.

  ‘But that is a long way to go to keep it safe,’ said Crispin. ‘All the way to London. Surely there are others in the district the monk could have gone to for succor.’

  ‘To one like Master Wynchecombe, you mean?’

  ‘You make a compelling argument, Jack.’

  Jack drew his cloak about him. ‘Travel is interesting, master, but I don’t like being so far from home, so far from familiar surroundings.’

  ‘You miss your betrothed, eh? It won’t be long now. We’ll have gleaned all the information we can, and then get back to London as soon as we might. I should like to know about that missing monk, though. No one will say. Perhaps I have gotten it wrong. Perhaps it was merely the slip of the abbot’s tongue.’

  ‘It may be so, sir.’

  A scattering of houses appeared between the hills and copses. He could hear church bells. Probably the abbey of Winchcombe. He trotted forward anxiously, wanting to get to the former sheriff’s estate and get this business over with. He was feeling his years because, like Jack, these days he longed for the comfort of home, such as it was. A real home and hearth was something he now had, for his circumstances had changed for the better only last year. And though not anywhere near what he used to enjoy on his own estates, having more than one room seemed a luxury, something that he never could have imagined for himself just a few scant years ago. A man in disgrace as he was, who had lost all, had no right to be particular. But old habits – and desires – died hard.

  He crossed himself, thinking on it, before trotting his mount toward the first house and to the man in the garden, tending to it with his hoe.

  ‘You there, man!’ he said in a tone he had always used as a lord. ‘Can you tell me which is the house of Simon Wynchecombe, late of London?’

  The man looked up. His hood shaded his eyes though little he needed it on so cloudy an afternoon. ‘This is Master Wynchecombe’s house, m’lord.’

  Crispin raised his eyes to the decidedly humble dwelling. It was nothing like Simon’s grand house in London. Wynchecombe seemed to have come from modest beginnings … and promptly forgot them. Well, a house was a house, and Crispin gave another thought to the derelict Woodleigh estates.

  ‘Is Master Wynchecombe at home?’

  The man set one end of the hoe in the dirt and leaned on it. ‘Master Wynchecombe has not been at home here, sir, since a sennight. Maybe more.’

  ‘When he is at home, does he make many journeys to Hailes?’

  ‘Aye, sir. That is usually his destination … when he is alone.’

  ‘Meaning, when his wife does not accompany him?’

  The man licked his lips anxiously, nodding. He glanced over his shoulder toward the direction of Hailes. ‘He … he is a patron of the abbey.’

  ‘Of course. Does he … is he accompanied by anyone else when he returns here?’

  The man suddenly looked Crispin over. ‘Begging your mercy, m’lord, but who are you to enquire?’

  ‘I am of London myself. I am an old acquaintance of Master Wynchecombe’s, in the days he was sheriff.’

  ‘I see.’ He scratched his head through his hood. ‘Well, sir, he … he sometimes had someone with him.’

  ‘A woman?’

  The man looked around and slowly nodded.

  ‘Was the woman Sybil Whitechurch?’

  He looked at Crispin sidelong and shook his head. ‘It was that Woodleigh woman, sir.’

  ‘I see. Well, thank you.’

  But before Crispin could turn his horse, the man called out: ‘Would you have word of Master Wynchecombe, sir? His wife has sent a missive. He isn’t in London.’

  ‘No. In fact, I have been looking for him myself. Is it strange his disappearing?’

  The man picked up his hoe and shrugged. ‘I only tend to him here, sir. I don’t know his London habits. But when he is not here with his wife, he is often gone on some errand. The house is seldom occupied. His son, Sir John, is said to be taking over here soon.’

  ‘I see. Thank you.’ He would have offered the man a coin for his time but he had so few of them in his purse. He scolded himself for feeling guilty about it. Instead, he aimed his horse back toward Hailes.

  ‘Are we leaving then?’ asked Jack once they turned back up the road.

  ‘Yes, Jack. I would see the relic once more and the place where the monk was killed. And then we can be on our way.’

  Jack seemed to trot his mount faster and it was Crispin who had to keep up with him.

  When they reached the monastery, Crispin thanked the stableman for taking their horses and moved immediately toward the cloister. Though the monks glared at him with disapproving eyes, none said a word. Crispin had never been so happy for a vow of silence.

  He strode to the place the monk was said to have been killed. Stabbed in the belly. It was between two carrels in view of the cloister’s greensward. The flagged stone walkway had been scrubbed clean of his blood. But no one had seen anything. It had been right before the Divine Office of sext and most of the monks had already made their way to the quire. Clearly, whoever had done it had chosen a perfect time when they would not be noticed … or it was an extraordinary coincidence.

  Crispin didn’t believe in those.

  A cold wind swept through, shuddering the budding trees and herb garden. The grass was wet, as was the flagged stone of the cloister walk from a sprinkling rain. It smelled of damp tombstones.

  Brother Edwin would have been unarmed. Even if he meant to attack, a man skilled in fighting, as Wynchecombe likely was, could have fended him off. Why kill him? And why say nothing? He could simply claim it was self-defense, and as a wealthy patron and alderman of London, he would surely be believed.

  If Wynchecombe had killed him, there was more to it than this.

  A shadow fell over the shiny wet floor. ‘Let us see the relic one last time,’ he said to Jack, ‘and then bid our farewells to the abbot.’

  Jack followed as they made their way back into a side door of the church, up the nave, around the quire and to the apse. The candles standing in their floor sconces flickered with a draft. The only other light came from a tall window with glass, painted with a Christ figure. The chevet was cold like stone, permeating the wool of his cote-hardie and his cloak. His
gaze traveled up the spiring shrine to the very top where the monstrance stood pride of place. The gold cross atop it gleamed, and the blood, that he could barely see from his position below it, sat as a sluggish deep russet liquid at the bottom of the beryl crystal.

  Crispin stared at it, as he had stared at many a relic, wishing it to reveal itself simply by the power of his observation. But was he not already seeing it for what it was? For it was liquid he saw, not the rusty stain Abbot Robert intimated he observed.

  His shoulders convulsed with a chill. The place was cold, after all.

  Turning abruptly, he spat out a, ‘Come, Jack,’ and headed toward the abbot’s chamber while he instructed Jack to see to their things in their lodgings.

  The abbot mumbled his muted gratitude again to Crispin but did not escort him to the door, nor did he call for any of his monks to do so. That satisfied, for there was always something uncomfortable about the celibate. Oh, he liked Brother Eric from Westminster Abbey well enough. Years of acquaintance had brushed away his discomfort. And Abbot William de Colchester was growing on him, just as Crispin, apparently, was growing on the staid and serious abbot. But there was a reason that walls surrounded a monastery. Their ways, though pious and humble, were not for everyone.

  Crispin drew his cloak about him as he walked through the cloister arcade, out of the arch and toward the gate. He waited there for Jack, and when he heard a step behind him, he turned, expecting his apprentice. Instead, it was a monk in his white habit, head bowed, cowl covering his features.

  ‘You are Crispin Guest,’ he said, speaking in a breathy voice and standing some few yards away.

  ‘Yes.’

  The monk glanced cautiously over his shoulder but did not approach any closer. ‘Then you know of Sybil Whitechurch.’

  Crispin moved toward the monk but stopped when the monk took a step back. ‘What do you know of her, brother?’

  He sighed and looked down, hiding his face completely. ‘A Jezebel. A temptress.’

  ‘Yes, I’m getting that impression.’

  Suddenly the man looked up. The reflection of the weakened sun on the wet walkway flashed across his face. A young face. Smooth with eyes full of innocence and youth. ‘Then you’ve talked to the others.’