Blood Lance: A Medieval Noir

by Jeri Westerson

  A man was waiting for him by the hearth. Lank hair streaked with gray hung to shoulders slightly bent. His face, riven with lines, drew down to a sharp chin. There was no mistaking their resemblance. His lips and eyes were very like his daughter’s.

  “Master Coterel,” said Crispin with a slight bow.

  The man bowed in return. “Robert Coterel. And you are Crispin Guest. My daughter spoke of nothing but you. She seemed to think you could help us.”

  “This is the sort of thing I do, Master Coterel. For a fee.”

  He raised his face to his daughter, who was clutching his arm. “But fees are our problem, Master Guest. We owe our landlord, but our coins have been stolen. He is not an amenable man and will surely turn us out without so much as a by your leave. I expect him here at any moment, I am afraid.”

  “Have you no way to secure temporary funds? No friends, no kin?”

  “If only we did, Master Guest.”

  “What of a client whose work you can quickly complete?”

  He shook his head, face red with mortification. “With the threat of invasion, no one seems to wish a new cotehardie or gown. They are ready to flee with the clothes on their backs rather than be burdened with new things.”

  The woman was stoic but he could well see the fear in her eyes. He knew that look. There was nothing as fearsome as the threat of losing the roof over one’s head. And with winter coming on …

  Crispin sighed deeply. “What amount did you owe?”

  “Five pence,” said the man. “We had just spent our last cache on new cloth from Italy. We were counting on a new Flemish clientele when the borders were closed. Our funds have dried up. And the rent, which was in a pouch hidden in a wall niche, was stolen.”

  “What else was taken?”

  “Nothing.”

  Crispin eyed him curiously. “Nothing else was taken?”

  “No, good sir. Just the coin pouch.”

  “The hidden coin pouch.” He looked once at Jack. The boy’s eyes were alight with ideas. Sharp lad, was Jack.

  Crispin was about to comment when the door slammed open. A red-faced man with a bald pate and long gray whiskers stomped forth. He clearly only expected to find Robert Coterel and his daughter and sputtered upon encountering Crispin and Jack. He recovered and with a hand on the hilt of his sword he pushed his way in and stood toe to toe with Coterel.

  “The time has come for you and your daughter to pack and leave, for I will not tolerate vagrants on my property.”

  “This must be the exacting landlord,” said Crispin. He folded his arms over his chest.

  The man turned, still keeping a hand on the hilt of his weapon. “This is a private affair between me and my tenant.”

  “Your tenant has hired me to find his stolen rent money.”

  The man sneered. “Stolen, eh? Is that what he told you? More likely it was spent on wine, for he dallies more in a tavern than in his shop.”

  Anabel released her father’s arm and grabbed the landlord’s, spinning him. “That is a lie!”

  “Master Coterel,” he said, grabbing her wrist tightly and tossing it away. “Try to control your daughter. It is rumored she is not easily controlled and goes about most freely.”

  She raised a hand to slap his face but Crispin grabbed it in time. He ticked his head at her before letting her go. “I don’t think you want to be doing that,” he told her, backing her away by stepping forward. He faced the landlord and his perpetual sneer. “Sir, you speak too harshly to these people. Insults are not necessary.”

  “I have drunks and whores under my roof. I would rather they were gone.”

  Coterel staggered back and sat heavily in a chair. He seemed a bit wobbly to Crispin. He could not tell if he smelled of wine because of his damnable cold, but perhaps the landlord was right on that score. Still, these people had come to him. There was murder no one wished to contemplate let alone solve, and there was the intense gaze Anabel Coterel directed his way. Her obvious charms were affecting him. The sight of a beautiful woman often did. He swore at himself for what he was about to do.

  Crispin snatched the money pouch from his belt and counted out five pence. Clenching them in his fist he thrust his hand toward the landlord. “Here is your rent money. Take it, you churl.”

  He sputtered again. “What? What are you doing?”

  “I am paying Master Coterel’s rent. Take it before I fling it into your face.”

  The man reddened even further, and he looked first to Coterel and then at Crispin. “This is absurd! You can’t mean to lend this man money. You will lose your funds, for he will never return them.”

  Hadn’t Crispin been in similar straits for years and years? What a pleasure it was to finally be on the other end of it for a change. His lips pulled back in a mockery of a smile. “I said take it or I shall shove it down your throat.” Crispin took a step forward and the man held up his hands in defense. Crispin grabbed one of them and slapped the coins into his palm, closing his fingers over it and shoving his hand away. “You’ve been paid. Now get out.”

  He merely stared but Crispin made a false leap at him and the man turned so swiftly he almost tripped on his cloak. He stumbled once as he made for the door. Safely outside he turned and shook the fist with the coins in it. “Threats! I will see the law on you.”

  “Begone, you tiresome man,” said Crispin, and slammed the door. Very satisfying. He even smiled at Jack, who was looking back at him with an exasperated expression.

  Robert Coterel got unsteadily to his feet, shaking his head. “He is a foul man. But in this instance, at least, he speaks the truth. I am a drunkard.”

  “Father,” said the girl. But she did not contradict him.

  “You know it is true, my dear. But I did not spend our rent on drink. I swear by the Rood I did not.” His glossy eyes looked up at Crispin. “I cannot pay your fee nor return your five pence, sir. You have done a noble thing, but a foolish one, I fear.”

  “Nonsense. You will make it up to me.” He grabbed Jack by the shoulders and thrust him toward the man. “You will make a fine cotehardie, two shirts, and a pair of stockings for this young knave. And use the best material a shilling will buy. That will cover the five pence and my fee.”

  “Master Crispin,” Jack muttered, struggling to pull away.

  “Take your measurements, sir,” he said to the tailor. “In the meantime, I have some investigating to do.”

  Jack was still arguing when Crispin opened the door and stepped out onto the bridge’s street. He didn’t get very far before Anabel accosted him, pulling her cloak about her. The wind caught the hem of it and billowed it up until she captured it with a wind-chapped hand. “That was a fine thing you did, sir. My father and I are grateful for your honorable deed.”

  “It is more that I hate greedy landlords. Were you much in arrears?”

  “No, Master Guest. In fact, he had never been so impatient before. We were only two days late and he threatened to turn us out. Well, you saw for yourself. He has never been so insistent before.”

  “Yes, he did seem anxious.” The street was busy now with carts and drovers, tapping at the heels of sheep with sticks to move them along toward Southwark. Young girls were weighted down with heavy bougets of water from the cisterns in London proper and they hurried up the street as fast as their heavy burdens would allow. The smells of cooking meats rolled down the avenue as sellers with carts with songbirds on sticks called out to buyers. Shopkeepers and apprentices hustled along the single avenue, setting up their folding shopfronts and laying out their wares, though few were buying in these uncertain times.

  “Is it true about your father? Does he overindulge?” Even as he asked it he felt a twinge of guilt. He was one to talk, for he overindulged plenty. And he had the overdue bills at the Boar’s Tusk to prove it.

  She swiped at the air and rubbed her elbow distractedly. “Perhaps he does. What of it? It doesn’t affect us. He gets the job done. There is always food on the tab
le.”

  “And what of you?”

  Her bright eyes caught his. “What of me?”

  He wanted to ask if what the landlord said of her was also true, but her steady gaze and squared shoulders gave him pause. He offered a crooked smile instead. “Never mind. I … God’s blood.” His eye caught a spectacle he had no desire to see. Down the street on their fine horses dressed in silky trappers, simply waiting in the shadows, were the sheriffs. When they saw Crispin their faces broke into large grins and they trotted their mounts forward.

  “You see,” said William Staundon. Their horses suddenly flanked Crispin, hemming him in. “I told you he would be here.”

  “I told you that!” said William More indignantly.

  Good Christ. Crispin sighed and gave an apologetic shoulder lift to Anabel. “And so you find me, my lords. What do London’s sheriffs need with me?”

  “Oh, nothing,” said Sheriff Staundon airily. “Nothing at all.” He gave a conspiratorial smile to Sheriff More. “But we seldom find you at your leisure, especially out of the Shambles, Master Guest. Might you be doing a share of … investigating?”

  No use trying to hide it. “Just as you suspected. There is murder here.”

  Their squeals of delight turned his stomach.

  Staundon leaned down from the saddle. “Pray, Master Guest. Can you tell us?”

  “Do you intend to inform the coroner’s jury so that justice will be served, for I could not convince Charneye even though the evidence was there.”

  He exchanged a look with Sheriff More and sighed. “Alas. It is the jury that will decide if it was not an accident.”

  “Even given new evidence?”

  “And what new evidence is there?”

  Jack had just come out of the tailor’s buttoning his coat when Crispin called him over. The boy bowed curtly to each sheriff. “Master Tucker will show you. Be so kind as to take the sheriffs into the armorer’s and explain it, Jack.”

  “What? Me?”

  Out of the side of his mouth Crispin said, “You’re the apprentice Tracker. Go ahead and track.”

  “God blind me,” Jack murmured before turning a stern expression toward the far too jubilant sheriffs. “Right this way, my lords,” he said solemnly. “If you will follow.”

  They dismounted and tied their horses to posts before gleefully following the lad into the shop.

  “Bloodthirsty devils,” Crispin muttered. He took Anabel’s arm and hastily pulled her away. She made only a small noise in protest as he held fast and pulled her under the shadow of an eave. The shop had not yet opened and he pushed her against the shuttered window. “And now. I would speak plainly with you. If you would have me find your betrothed’s killer and discover who stole your money then I ask you, Is there something you are not telling me?”

  She turned her face away but Crispin tightened his grip. It must have been painful, for she winced, but would not face him.

  “Damosel, I know you are lying to me. About what, I am uncertain. And why.”

  She bit her lower lip, causing its already rosy color to blush to red. Her wide eyes fastened on him, searching his face. There were no tears there. Only questions. Her beauty gave him pause. She was like a stone statue, skin so smooth and white. It was far too distracting. Her eyes seemed to look deeper into his, sensing his interest. “I … have nothing to tell you,” she said at last, and finally cast those eyes downward.

  With a frown he released her arm. Though he knew she wanted to, she did not rub the soreness. “Very well. I can’t force you. Much as I want to.” He stepped away from her and walked in a circle before coming to a stop. “But I warn you, if either Master Tucker or I are in danger because of your reticence, there will be hell to pay.”

  She raised her chin in answer. He gave up. He took the rag from his belt and blew his runny nose and coughed up a ball of phlegm, spitting it into the street. In the old days he could take to his bed with servants attending him with hot broth and warmed wine. Not now. Oh how he wished he could.

  They returned to the armorer’s in time to greet the sheriffs coming out the door. They seemed impressed by Jack’s demonstration. “Well?” said Crispin without preamble. “Are you convinced?”

  “Your boy here is very precise. You have taught him well, Master Guest.”

  Jack’s face was almost as red as his hair.

  “That wasn’t the question, my lord. Have we convinced you that murders have been committed?”

  Sheriff More pinched his lip with long fingers. If they conceded the point then they would have to go to the coroner’s jury to plead the case, and it only meant more work for all of them. But there might be fines to exact where there were none before, and he knew that this was also going through their greedy little minds.

  Sheriff Staundon put his arm over Sheriff More’s shoulder. “I believe there is more to think about, certainly.” Diplomatic. They were going that route to hedge their bets. He couldn’t blame them. “In the meantime…” The sheriff adjusted his coat and then his bejeweled sword hilt. “I think we should talk to the families of these apprentices. What do you plan to do now, Master Guest?”

  Both sets of excited eyes were on him. For the love of … “I plan to go back to my bed and mend this illness. My lords.”

  They were disappointed, damn them. He wanted nothing more than to thwart their voracious curiosity that was mostly in the way. He stood fast, doing nothing but glare at them. Finally they got the hint. He told them that Anabel could direct them to the family of the missing apprentices, and they listened to her explain it. Finally, untying their horses, they mounted and turned the beasts away. “We will do our best with the coroner, Master Guest,” said More over his shoulder. Crispin knew those were empty words. He doubted they intended to do much. They’d rather wait to see what he would do … and likely follow him around like lapdogs, frustrating his every move.

  He was happy to see them ride away back toward London and little noticed anything else. “Jack, I am weary and need to rest. This illness will be the death of me.”

  But before he could quit himself of Anabel Coterel and of the bridge, a knight, in surcote and greaves, dismounted near the armorer and strode into the ransacked shop before they could call out to him.

  “What, by God, has happened?” they heard him cry. He came running out again, stopped on the threshold and looked right, then left … and spotted Crispin. Crispin startled upon seeing his face and the knight did likewise.

  “Holy Virgin! Crispin Guest?”

  5

  HIS FACE WAS WINDBLOWN, lined, and tanned. He looked older than his thirty or so years. There was even gray at his temples, but he was still as trim as Crispin remembered him. His clothes were as fine, too, and his horse, a sturdy chestnut stallion. He wore his surcote over his clothes, the green and white colors bright, even with mud speckling it. And though the greaves covering his shins were mud-spattered and dented, parts of them still had a silvery gleam. It looked as if the man’s fortunes had not changed as severely as Crispin’s. And why should they have?

  “Thomas,” said Crispin without thinking. When his mind caught up, he found, to his shame, that he was obliged to bow. Bow to a man who had sometimes been his equal on the lists and in battle. But a man who had not been his equal in social standing. If anything, he had been lower than Crispin. Yet now it was Crispin who bowed, and not Sir Thomas.

  Sir Thomas’s face showed that he recognized the irony, too. He simply stood, staring at his onetime friend, unable to say anything for his surprise.

  Jack and Anabel stood off to the side, silent.

  Crispin cleared his throat. “Jack, may I present Sir Thomas Saunfayl.” Jack bowed low and remained quiet. He seemed to sense Crispin’s mood. He was good at that after three years of knowing him.

  The knight made a cursory glance at Jack but fixed his eyes again on Crispin, scouring him with his gaze. Slowly he approached, lifted his arms, and grasped Crispin tightly at his shoulders. “Crispin
, Crispin. My God. I thought you were dead.”

  He barked a laugh, enduring the grasp. “Not dead. Not yet.”

  “But…” Sir Thomas looked him over from head to foot. At least his coat was only a year old now, not the beaten and patched cotehardie he had worn for years. But his stockings had seen better days and the soles of his shoes were loose and flapping. He wore only a dagger at his side, not a sword, not as Sir Thomas sported, hanging from its frog at the stout leather belt.

  Crispin was starkly aware of his only ornament, the signet ring upon his finger, a bauble he had denied himself for too many years. But the Guest arms belonged to him and, now more than ever, he felt the need to display them, if not on a surcote then at least on his family ring.

  Thomas shook his head. “I thought … when we’d heard you were convicted of treason…”

  He offered a smile he did not feel. “His grace the duke spoke for me. He saved my life but little else.”

  Thomas whistled low. He could not seem to tear his eyes away from Crispin’s face. But his stare was becoming uncomfortable and Crispin moved out of his grasp and toward the armorer’s shop to redirect the conversation if not the man’s gaze. “Were you a patron of Roger Grey’s?”

  That seemed to snap him out of it and he straightened his surcote. “I … yes. But … there seems to be some devilry here.”

  “Indeed.” Crispin’s eyes caught on Anabel, who had not moved and looked on with a tight expression. “Master Grey was murdered last night.”

  “No! No, that can’t be!” He rushed into the shop again. Crispin and Jack followed.

  Thomas tore about the room, tossing blankets and benches aside. “Where is it?”

  Anabel entered, still silent. She merely blinked at Crispin and accepted the knight’s intrusion without comment.

  Folding his arms across his chest, Crispin watched the further destruction of the room for a few moments more before asking, “Where is what, Sir Thomas?”

  Bending over a box of kindling the man suddenly froze. He straightened and squared his shoulders. “I am brokenhearted over these tidings of Master Grey.”