Season of Blood

by Jeri Westerson

  ‘He killed those monks because of jealousy?’

  ‘It’s possible. Men have killed for far less. He followed you back to London but encountered the other monk, Brother Ralph, who was bringing the relic to my master for safekeeping.’

  ‘But why should he kill him if his mission was for the relic?’

  ‘I know not. But he used your dagger for the purpose of incriminating you.’

  ‘The whoreson!’

  ‘And it would have worked had not my master taken it. So you have him to thank for that as well.’

  ‘And yet the sheriffs still want it.’

  Jack shifted. ‘That’s my fault. I told the sheriffs.’

  Wynchecombe raised his head.

  ‘I was angry! What is it about that office that turns them so against Master Crispin? He hasn’t done them no harm.’

  ‘I can tell you precisely why. Because an upstart like your master eclipses them. He’s too clever by far, and him in his lowly position. It’s humiliating.’

  Jack clutched at his dagger, but when he realized he was doing it, let his hand fall away. ‘You feared him.’

  ‘I still do. Crispin is … a singular man. There are not many who can stand taller than he, even in his lowly estate. And it galls, I can tell you.’

  ‘You could stand beside him. You could be his friend. Help him. He’d not turn you away.’

  Simon huffed. ‘I don’t need his friendship.’

  ‘Yet I can tell you, it is good to have it.’

  Simon grunted in reply. Why was Jack wasting his time on this? He didn’t care if Simon Wynchecombe became Master Crispin’s bosom cousin. He only wanted the truth.

  ‘So it is a monk that is after you. Someone missing from the monastery. I wonder why that abbot did not tell us of this. Oh, these secret men! I’d take an honest thief any day over them.’

  Simon offered another grim smile.

  ‘Did Katherine Woodleigh tell you for whom she was selling the relic?’

  ‘No. She never mentioned a name. But she did say … now let me think.’

  Jack waited, tapping his leg.

  ‘London. Something about London. I know not. I … I wish I could be more helpful.’

  ‘Well, then.’ Jack rose. ‘That’s not much to go on. Are you hungry? I’ll go to the hall and fetch some food for us before night falls completely. You stay here and don’t open the door for nobody.’

  ‘I assure you, I will not.’

  Jack turned to leave when Simon called out to him. ‘Tucker!’

  ‘Aye?’ He held the door open a sliver.

  ‘Is it possible to be loyal to a man who does little but shelter you? I mean … he has no riches to bestow upon you, does he?’

  ‘Riches. They come in all guises, Lord Sheriff. He taught me to read and write, taught me languages. Taught me to fight with dagger and sword. When was the last time you did the same for one of your servants?’ He turned away quickly before he was obliged to spit at him.

  It was strange, he thought as he thumped down the stairs, that a man like Wynchecombe, obviously educated, could not fathom Christian charity and kindness. He supposed many a man – even clerics – were not fit to be called Christian.

  He made his way again through the cloister-like setting of greensward, colonnade and finally into the hall. Servants were clearing the tables. He approached one and asked where the kitchen was. The boy lifted an arm and pointed, and Jack trotted forward. There was a narrow passage between the hall and the kitchens, which were warm and filled with cooking smells. It reminded him somewhat of the kitchens in Westminster Palace, though these were much smaller.

  A man with an apron peering into a large kettle hanging from an iron rod over the hearth looked up as Jack neared.

  Jack pushed back his hood and bowed to the man. ‘Good sir, might you have any victuals for a young lawyer and his servant?’

  The stocky man with hair as red as Jack’s, though not as thick, looked him over. ‘Surely you aren’t the lawyer?’

  Jack chuckled. ‘Oh, no, good master. I am just the servant of Nigellus Cobmartin.’

  ‘Cobmartin? He is always working at odd hours. Does the man ever sleep?’

  ‘Rarely, sir.’

  He grumbled, but he got a wooden tray and spooned the pottage into two bowls. He gathered the leavings of some round loaves and even found some cheese. ‘This will have to do. The day’s cooking is over.’

  ‘You are kind, sir.’

  ‘Here. Take this.’ He slammed a crockery of ale on the tray and waved his hand. ‘Take it to Cobmartin with my blessings. He’ll need to mark this on his accountings. I fear he hasn’t paid in some time.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll have the funds soon,’ Jack said with a bow. Even if I have to squeeze Wynchecombe like a turnip to get it, he thought to himself.

  He grasped the sides of the tray and walked carefully back through the hall, through the colonnade and up the rickety steps when he heard a shout and a clamor within the room. ‘God’s blood!’ He kicked the door open and stilled as he beheld what was happening within.

  A man in a gown – no, a cassock – was assaulting Simon Wynchecombe. They struggled with Wynchecombe below and the man above with a dagger. Jack cast the tray aside on the landing, spilling ale and pottage all over the stairs, and jumped onto the man’s back. With both hands, he wrestled the arm with the dagger down until he twisted the weapon from his hand. He tossed it behind him and clamped his arm around the man’s neck.

  The monk struggled. Jack yanked back and the man had no choice but to follow. Simon snapped to his feet and slammed his fist into the man’s face. He fell limp in Jack’s arms and Jack let the monk slide to the floor, unconscious.

  He glared at Wynchecombe. ‘Didn’t I tell you not to open the door?’

  TWENTY

  The man slowly regained his senses. Jack had tied him securely to a chair. The blood from his face had smeared the front of his white cassock. He lifted his head and came back to himself. Yanking on his bindings, he scowled at Jack.

  ‘You’re that monk that came to me and Master Crispin at Hailes Abbey. Does your abbot know what you’ve been about, wandering all over England and murdering his monks?’

  ‘I curse you, minion of Wynchecombe! You are nothing more than his tool.’

  Jack postured before him. ‘Say that again and you’ll get another fist in the face.’

  Simon rose and stood over the monk. ‘Why have you been after me?’

  ‘Because … because of her. You don’t deserve her love.’

  ‘Oh, God’s teeth!’ cried Wynchecombe. ‘You jackass! You killed for a woman?’

  ‘Not just any woman,’ he said miserably.

  ‘But you gone and told my master and me what a witch she was,’ said Jack.

  ‘She is a witch. She bewitched me. And now I have sinned.’

  Jack nodded. ‘All the way, you have, brother. Here. What’s your name?’

  ‘Brother Fulk.’

  ‘Well, Brother Fulk. Did you kill the monk at Hailes, there in its cloister? Brother Edwin?’

  ‘No. God help me, but I only killed Brother Ralph here in London.’

  ‘You killed him with Master Wynchecombe’s dagger?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I wanted you blamed for it,’ he sneered, pulling on his bindings toward Wynchecombe. ‘If I couldn’t get you myself, then the law would.’

  Simon stepped closer. His anger reddened his face. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you didn’t deserve her. You wouldn’t do as she bid.’

  ‘And steal the relic? Are you mad? What am I saying? Of course you are!’

  ‘And did you steal it, Brother Fulk?’ said Jack, trying to edge Simon out of the way.

  ‘I tried. But I was caught. Brother Ralph caught me. And then he took it away, all the way to London. But I followed. And then I encountered him.’ He spat at Wynchecombe’s feet.

  ‘Here, now!’ squealed Jack, stepping out of the way. ‘So you were after Wynchec
ombe but you found Brother Ralph instead?’

  ‘She wanted the relic. I tried to get it for her since I had failed before.’

  ‘And you tried to kill the sheriff.’

  Simon shook out his mane of a head. ‘He’s already said that, Tucker.’

  ‘But why did you have to kill your fellow monk?’

  ‘Because he desired her, too. And I couldn’t have that.’

  Jack scratched at his beard. ‘Then what of Brother Edwin? You claim you didn’t kill him.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I found him and told the others.’

  ‘Then who killed him?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe he did,’ and he jerked his head toward Simon.

  Jack looked up at Wynchecombe.

  ‘Of course I didn’t,’ rasped Simon. ‘Why are you listening to this madman?’

  Exasperated, Jack jerked away from Wynchecombe to face Fulk again. ‘Did you kill the Cistercian at Westminster Abbey?’

  ‘What? What are you talking about?’

  ‘Another monk from Hailes – a Brother James – brought the relic back to London for safekeeping … and he was killed.’

  ‘I know nothing of that.’

  Jack threw up his arms. ‘I give up.’

  ‘You give up too easily, Tucker. You beat the truth out of him.’

  ‘I won’t, and neither will you. We’ll take him to the sheriffs and then we can quit each other.’

  ‘The first sensible thing you’ve said.’

  Jack untied the bonds from the chair but kept them tight on the man’s wrists behind his back. ‘Up, then,’ he told the monk, and helped by yanking him by his hands to his feet. He pushed him toward the door.

  The monk stopped and dug his feet in. ‘But what will become of Katherine?’

  ‘No doubt she’ll hang … for something.’

  ‘But she is innocent of all. Innocent except in her bewitching character. Oh, would that I had never set eyes on her!’

  ‘Amen, brother,’ muttered Wynchecombe.

  Jack nudged him out of the door and Wynchecombe followed. None of them spoke as they marched into the falling mist back to Newgate. The portcullis was down but the porter recognized Wynchecombe and turned the wheel to raise it. He sent a page to bring the sheriffs’ men back to the tower gate and led the three up to the sheriffs’ cold and empty chamber to await them.

  The monk seemed quiet, even for a Cistercian. Perhaps he was resigned to his fate. As much time as Jack spent in their company – and it had been far too much, he admitted to himself – he would never understand the ways of a cleric, especially a cloistered one. Though this one didn’t seem to feel the need to be all that cloistered.

  A rumbling at the stairs had him standing at attention and holding tight to the man’s bonds.

  The sheriffs arrived and looked aghast at the specter of Simon Wynchecombe. Jack had forgotten that the man was in virtual rags and as disheveled as any London citizen had ever seen him. John Walcote took his place behind the desk and John Loveney stood beside him. ‘Master Wynchecombe,’ said Walcote, fidgeting with his hands and finally settling them, clasped, on top of the table. ‘What are you doing here and in this state … and with Jack Tucker?’

  ‘So you know him,’ grumbled Wynchecombe. ‘I should have known. My lords, I have a tale to tell. And this monk,’ he gestured behind him toward the sagging cleric, ‘is at the heart of it.’

  It wasn’t the monk they stared at, but at Jack. He tried to stand still and raised his chin to look them in the eye as Master Crispin had taught him.

  Wynchecombe told his tale – abbreviating his association with the woman but making it plain what he meant – and then fell to silence.

  ‘Well, brother,’ said Walcote to the monk after he’d recovered from a long moment of shock. ‘What have you to say for yourself?’

  ‘God will judge me,’ said Fulk with a whimper.

  ‘But first, the king’s justice will do so. What have you to say?’

  He began to weep in earnest. ‘My only crime is in loving the spawn of Eve. I succumbed to the Devil’s own curse of lust and covetousness.’

  ‘Did you kill this Brother Ralph who came to London?’

  He nodded.

  ‘God’s wounds,’ Walcote gasped.

  Their clerk, Hamo Eckington, recorded the pertinent facts before they had the monk taken away to the cells. Jack saw his moment to take his leave. The sheriffs were busy talking in low tones to Wynchecombe, and since Simon was no longer in danger, Jack could be well rid of him.

  But there was a rushing at the stairs and Jack scrambled out of the way as another page hastened up to the sheriffs.

  ‘There’s been a murder at Westminster Abbey. Crispin Guest is calling for you to come at once.’

  ‘Guest!’ the three sheriffs sneered at the same time.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Crispin kept himself by himself, away from the monks praying, the monks rushing about, the monks trying to care for the body and at the same time trying to leave it alone until the coroner or at least the sheriffs arrived.

  Instead, he studied the room dispassionately, taking in the fact that the dead monk was still warm and the blood flowed. He was freshly killed, right under their very noses. In fact, any one of the monks currently making a nuisance of himself could very well be the murderer, hiding amidst the crowd. His gaze took in their shrouded faces of cowled, severe expressions. How many of them did he know? So many faces of men of whom he had no inkling, no point of reference. And why should any of them kill the man? Well, to steal the relic, of course, and conceal their crime. But which crime was the greater? He knew that men obsessed could find a way to justify anything: murder, theft, war … treason.

  He crossed his arms. His cloak fell over him, like a cocoon. It took a while, but Abbot William finally made his way toward him.

  ‘You are studying the room,’ said the abbot. He had regained his composure but Crispin could tell that his calm was thin.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And this is what you do … how you do it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I will pray for you, Crispin,’ he said with a harsh rasp to his voice, as if by the force of his will – or his prayers – he could suddenly conjure the truth. Oh, how Crispin wished it were only that easy.

  He eliminated Kat. It simply couldn’t have been her. The timing was all wrong. She would have to have known already where the relic was and she simply could not have known.

  What of this other that was after Wynchecombe? A possibility. Though if it were a monk as Crispin suspected it was, he would be a white sheep among the black; another Cistercian among a herd of black Benedictines. Not exactly stealthy. He hoped John had gotten his message to Jack in time to save Wynchecombe. Not that he cared if the former Lord Sheriff lived or died … but the man had more answers to give, of that he was certain.

  Who, then? Why? If to steal the relic, he knew why, but who would kill for the relic, and what would they do with it?

  ‘You are far away.’ The abbot’s face was blank but his concern was discernable in those cloudy blue eyes.

  ‘I am following the trail of a crime … and know not the end point of it. Where is the relic? Who wanted it this badly?’

  ‘Did you … did you know it was in danger here?’

  He shook his head. ‘I thought this would be the safest place. I was wrong.’

  ‘God forgives mistakes, Crispin.’

  ‘But I do not forgive myself.’

  ‘You are less generous than God? Surely you can see—’

  ‘Forgive me, my lord, but I must excuse myself.’ He pushed past the abbot without further comment. It was useless to argue the point. Crispin knew his own limits. He knew his own guilt.

  He spotted Brother Eric looking somewhat lost. He couldn’t help but sidle up to his old friend. ‘Is all well?’

  Eric sighed deeply. ‘I don’t think anything will ever be well again.’

  ‘It can feel that way. But I
assure you, from personal experience, that it will.’

  Eric looked still older to him then. He’d known the monk since before his disgrace, though never had occasion to speak to him as much as he had after the unfortunate circumstances of his banishment. His face was often shadowed by his cowl, but now Crispin could plainly see in the firelight that it was scored by the fine lines of time. He had never known Eric’s history; who he truly was, his family, the reason for his vocation. And he realized that he knew few men’s histories. There were far too few men whom he could call his friend.

  ‘Will word have to get out, I wonder?’ said the monk in a scratchy voice. ‘The abbey … there must not be scandal.’

  ‘I’m afraid that cat is very much out of the bag.’

  He closed his eyes, murmuring a prayer. ‘But the abbey is a symbol of God’s greatness. London has St Paul’s but this is the seat of the king. Westminster’s spiritual home is here. It must always be perceived as the greatest, without blemish.’

  ‘Well … I shouldn’t think this will change anything.’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘God knows what is His, Brother Eric. He decides what is great and what is not.’

  Eric frowned. ‘You, who hate His relics, can say this.’

  Surprised at the monk’s sudden emotion, Crispin studied the dark monk. ‘I have never professed to hate His relics. Only to doubt them.’

  ‘It is much the same.’

  ‘I don’t see it that way. But as you can now see, Man cannot be trusted with their guardianship if murder is the result.’

  ‘Perhaps the … the killer was protecting it.’

  ‘And was not Brother James doing that service?’

  Eric wrestled his hands beneath his scapular. ‘He was hiding it. A relic should never be hidden. It should be out where all can see, in a mighty place of honor.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘Will you search for it?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  Monks moving side by side approached and Brother Eric bowed to Crispin. ‘I must go. God keep you, Crispin.’

  ‘And you.’

  But the monk was already moving away with his brethren. Crispin watched him go. Abbots he had known. Seldom had they been changed by their office, for they had prepared, had groomed themselves for it in most situations. But the monks themselves … It was a harsh life to accustom oneself to, he supposed.