Blood Lance: A Medieval Noir

by Jeri Westerson

  I can see that, mused Crispin.

  Flustered, Thomas faced him, caught again by the specter of Crispin with his head firmly on his shoulders. His hands twitched over his sword hilt, but not because he wished to draw it. Instead, they seemed to twitch from some other irritation that Crispin could not see. He was sweaty and breathing in a quickened rate, like a rabbit or a bird. His eyes would not light on any one thing, but ticked to this and that about the room, an aimless amble that made Crispin nervous.

  “I am surprised to see you, too, Sir Thomas,” Crispin said stiffly. They had been friends and he hated this formality that now they were forced into. “Not only for the years that have passed but because … well, because I expected a knight such as yourself to be in the company of the duke in Spain.”

  The man’s eyes widened, and he took a staggering step back. He whirled away with unnecessary vigor and stalked toward the window. His gloved hand found the topmost sill and grasped it. He stared down into the churning water of the Thames.

  “Have a care,” said Crispin. “Master Grey met his doom out that selfsame window.”

  “Did he?” came the soft reply. Thomas did not move but continued to stare down, enchanted by the sight of water and foam surging past the piers and arches, of the boats doing their best to navigate those treacherous waters, for few dared shoot through the bridge when the tide was high.

  Crispin cautiously approached and stood behind him only a few feet away. “Yes. They said it was suicide but I have since discovered it was murder.”

  Thomas’s spine stiffened to hear Crispin’s words so close to him. Still, he did not turn. “And what are you now? The sheriff?”

  “No. They call me the Tracker. I sometimes get called upon to solve the occasional murder.”

  “By God. You’re the Tracker? That wily fellow one hears no end about? Well, I should say I am not surprised. You were always a clever man, Crispin. A clever man. You even slipped the noose. How clever must a man be to escape death when he has committed treason?” The last was said with a bit more fire than his other words, and Crispin could tell the man’s body was tense and winding tighter. “So clever. You’re laughing at them all, I suppose. So many other knights, good men, were executed. How is it you were spared?”

  Crispin felt a sharp spasm of remorse wash through him. Yes, many had died, and he often asked himself why Lancaster chose to spare him alone. Of course he knew the answer. The duke was like a father to him, and he a surrogate son. If any were to be spared it would have been him. But it didn’t lessen the guilt.

  Thomas answered his own query. “How like Lancaster to spare you. How many times had he pulled your hide from the nettles, eh? Isn’t this just once more?”

  The irate tone and the sneer on his face were peculiar for the man Crispin had known. But nine years had passed since Crispin’s disgrace and he realized he didn’t truly know Thomas Saunfayl any longer.

  He lowered his head. “You may be right. I certainly didn’t deserve it. But each day I pay my penance in my way.” He stepped closer and said in a quiet voice, “I should have listened to you. You told me not to follow the conspirators. You tried to warn me. I owe you for that, my lord.”

  Thomas began to laugh, a high-pitched, raw sound that had little to do with humor. “‘My lord,’ you call me. Ah, Crispin, I remember well my calling you by that title. How many times?”

  There was nothing to say. Crispin felt the words scrape over him like nails over naked flesh.

  They both stood immobile for too long before Thomas surged away again, marching through the room, looking again for … something.

  “What can I help you with, Sir Thomas?”

  “It’s none of your affair, Guest.”

  “Forgive me, my lord, but it is very much my affair. I have been charged with discovering the murderer and this is the scene of that crime.” It wasn’t strictly true that he was “charged” with finding the murderer, but the sheriffs would be amused that he should try, and when pressed they would agree, he was certain. Partially certain.

  Thomas grimaced over his shoulder at him, one canine tooth digging into his lip. “You are the devil, Guest. You were always getting into affairs that were none of your business. So you make a living at it now, eh? Well.”

  “Yes. A living. I get paid my fee for discovering that which is secret and unknown. Being hired makes it my business. Sometimes unpleasant truths are uncovered. Sometimes secrets must be revealed. For instance. You are here in England when the rest of the chivalry are with my lord of Gaunt. I wonder why.”

  A hit. The knight’s face darkened. He strode up to Crispin and sunk a fist into his coat, hauling him forward an inch from his face. Harsh breath rasped over his cheek. “Who do you think you are talking to? Some lackey? I am a knight of the realm! And what are you?”

  “At your mercy,” said Crispin simply.

  All at once the man deflated. He released Crispin and stepped back. Passing a hand over his face he breathed in short, halting breaths. “I don’t know why I did that. F-forgive me, Crispin.” When he looked up again his gaze swept once over the woman and a feral expression overtook his face again. “What do you want?”

  “I … I have hired Master Guest.”

  He threw back his head and howled a laugh. “Indeed. Wenches hire you now, do they?”

  “I earn my coin where I may. Honestly.”

  “Honestly? A traitor’s honesty.” The remorseful expression was gone and he took on the cloak of a demon again. Crispin found it difficult to keep pace.

  Thomas gestured toward the woman. “I don’t want her here, Guest. Send her away.”

  Crispin hesitated. After all, he needed the woman in order to do his investigating. But looking at the man’s face and the struggle within him, he did not think he could argue. Before he had a chance to say anything, Thomas lunged at her.

  She let out a yelp as he closed his hands over her arm and thrust her toward the door. “Get out, wench! Out!” He kicked at her, and she sobbed on her way through the entry, hurt eyes meeting Crispin’s once before she was gone.

  Thomas slammed the door and stared at it, breathing hard before his shoulders sagged again. He scrubbed at his face. “I never meant to do that.”

  Crispin glanced once at Jack cringing against the wall. “For God’s sake, Thomas! What ails you? I have never seen you behave so. What has happened to you?”

  He bobbed his head in what Crispin took for a nod. “Very well. I … I must tell you, then. I must.”

  6

  SIR THOMAS LOWERED TO a stool, clutching his hands together over his thighs. Crispin made a gesture to Jack which the boy miraculously understood, and he fetched ale from a jug and poured it into a metal goblet he found on the floor. He handed it to Crispin and Crispin handed it to Thomas.

  The man didn’t even look at it before he drank, swallowing with long rolls of his throat and spilling some down his cheek and whiskered chin. He wiped at it with his hand and heaved a sigh.

  “You were right. I was in Spain. With the duke’s army.”

  Crispin watched him. His fingers traced over the florid patterns etched into the goblet until he let his hand drop between his legs. The cup was empty and he swung it dazedly from his fingers.

  “You should sit, too. God’s eyes, I’m sorry for my words, Crispin.”

  Crispin waited a moment before he grasped another stool overturned on the floor, set it upright, and sat. One hand rested on the hilt of his dagger.

  “And so. I was with Lancaster’s army. Of course I was! I am a knight of the realm, am I not? All the valiant knights have marched to war in Spain. All of us.” His sneer was hidden by the lifted goblet, but he seemed surprised to find it empty.

  Jack scrambled forward and poured more in. Thomas smiled at him briefly.

  “This your boy?”

  “This is Jack Tucker, my apprentice.”

  “Apprentice? Oh, for this tracking you do. Very good, very good.” He took a long quaf
f and smacked his lips.

  Crispin was losing patience. “Thomas, you said you’d explain…”

  “Yes.” He would not look at Crispin. In fact his gaze would not rest anywhere. “We were in Spain. There were some skirmishes when we disembarked at the harbor. We hacked our way forward and Spaniards dropped before us, the dirty dogs. We were barely scratched.”

  A tremor began in the man’s hands and he cast the goblet aside. It skidded across the floor and slammed into a discarded sabaton. He gripped his hand to hide the tremor. The muscles at his jaw tightened. “They fell like threshing in our path. And at one point, I found myself in the thick of it, unhorsed, and surrounded. But I acquitted myself well. Many Spaniards fell from my sword, I assure you.”

  “I’m certain they did. I remember well fighting alongside you, Thomas. I look back on those days fondly.”

  “I, too,” he said quietly. “But those were long-ago days.” He jolted to his feet so suddenly Crispin startled back. He paced, kicking up the fallen ashes. “I … was sent back to England. There was something I needed to do. And while I was here, I came to this armorer. I paid a great deal of money for something special that would make me unbeatable in battle and on the lists. I paid that whoreson a king’s ransom for this object and now you tell me he is dead?” He kicked a piece of armor—a besague—and watched it spin away. “I need that object!”

  He whipped around so quickly his surcote spun around his legs before settling. “Crispin. You must find it. You are this Tracker. Surely you can find this for me.” His face suddenly brightened. “I’ll hire you!”

  God’s blood. When it rains it pours. “Thomas…”

  “No. This is perfect. You can find it for me. Perhaps it is here? But no. He would not have left it here in the open.”

  “Well, what is it, for God’s sake?”

  His hollowed eyes drooped. “A relic.”

  Crispin’s gut twisted. “A relic, you say. What sort of relic?”

  “A relic suitable for a knight. Find it, Crispin. I’ll pay you.” Thomas fumbled at his scrip, untying laces, and plunged his hand within. He drew out a pouch and began counting out coins. “How much? What is your fee?”

  Fisting a flush of humiliation, Crispin leaned forward, closing his hand over Thomas’s. “Hold, Sir Thomas. Let us first discuss that which you would have me find. Then we can discuss fees.”

  “There’s no time. Here. Take it!”

  Crispin had no choice but to catch the falling coins. Far too many.

  “It’s too much, Thomas.”

  “I don’t care. Take it and find that relic. Promise me you will. Swear to me.”

  “You must tell me what it is and I shall.”

  “What difference does it make? It is a relic, suitable for a knight.”

  “How can I even begin to look for it if I don’t know what it is?”

  “You’ll know it when you see it, I assure you.” He jolted to his feet. Though his movements were still hasty, he seemed much calmer. “I have faith in you, Crispin. Swear to me. I will believe your oath.”

  He shook his head. “Thomas…”

  “Crispin.”

  Sighing, he nodded. “Very well, Thomas. I so swear. As you looked out for me so I shall look out for you. But—”

  “Good! When you discover something, meet me at the Falconer’s Inn on Knightrider Street. I am taking accommodations there.”

  “Thomas.” Crispin strode with him to the door. “I need more than that to do you justice. Why can you not tell me?”

  “I’ve told you what I could. Grey explained what it was, what it looked like. But I don’t see anything like it here now.”

  “Thomas! I must insist.”

  He shook his head. “I cannot say. I can only trust you so much, Crispin. I fear … if you know all, you might … but no.” His eyes were a glittering pool of confusion. “If anyone can find it, it will be you. In two days, come to me at the Falconer.”

  “But Thomas—” Too late. The man was gone. Crispin followed him outside, watched him mount. He turned once, waving gravely at Crispin, before he kicked in his spurs and galloped his beast toward London.

  He felt Jack come up beside him. “How, by God’s breath, are we to find a relic where we have no inkling of what it is?”

  Crispin sighed, coughed, and sighed again. “I was wondering that myself.”

  * * *

  THEY RETURNED TO THE Shambles with a full pouch but also with lots of questions. When Jack had stoked the fire and did his best to brew some Flemish broth, Crispin settled in his bed, boots and belt discarded on the floor, and his cloak and blanket wrapped about him. His back lay against the cold plaster and he drowsily watched the single candle flame flickering from its dish on the table.

  “This is a puzzle right enough,” muttered Jack. He stirred the eggs into the broth with a wooden spoon and allowed it to bubble into thickness. He stuck a finger in to see if it was hot enough. Satisfied, he sucked his finger, took the pot off the trivet, and poured the broth into a bowl in which he had crumbled some old bread. He put the wooden spoon in the bowl and handed it to Crispin. “There you are, sir. That will have you feeling your old self in no time.”

  “Much thanks, Jack.” He dipped the spoon in the bowl and brought up the soggy bread, slurping it into his mouth. The heat soothed his aching throat and sinuses, and he sat back against the wall with a sigh, eyes closed. He brought the steaming bowl close to his face and inhaled as best he could, scooping the liquid and sops into his mouth with the spoon. He ate until the bowl was empty. Jack offered him more, but he declined and set the bowl aside, closing his eyes.

  The mattress settled beside him and he cracked open an eye to spy Jack making himself comfortable on Crispin’s bed. He sat cross-legged facing him. “So the problems, as I see it,” he began, “are threefold. One, there is the matter of Roger Grey’s murderer.” He stuck up a thumb and counted them down on his fingers. “And two, the matter of the stolen rent money, though I doubt we shall be able to find so obscure a culprit. A pouch of coins is such a wayward thing—”

  “This from the expertise of a cutpurse?”

  Jack did not seem discomfited in the least discussing his erstwhile profession. “Aye, Master, that is the truth. A purse of coins is scattered quickly with meat being bought here and ale bought there. It disperses like smoke.”

  “Indeed. And three?”

  “Three is this business of a relic.” He shook his head. “Blind me, Master Crispin. How they do follow you.”

  “It is perplexing and maddening. But I think perhaps that we have two problems, not three.”

  “Eh? Which then?”

  Crispin lay back again and closed his eyes. “Do you recall the missing object from the armorer’s? A box, perhaps?”

  “Aye. Wait. You don’t mean to say—”

  “That is merely a guess, Jack. And I don’t like guessing.”

  “The relic, then. Stolen from Master Grey.”

  “And not easily. He died for it.”

  “Good Christ.” He crossed himself. “Then what do we concentrate on first?”

  “A murderer, of course. He must not be allowed to take another life. He’d already taken three in his pursuit of this object, something that he wanted badly. Well, he seems to have it now. Perhaps he will be easier to find because of it.”

  “Or she,” said Jack.

  “What?”

  “She. You keep saying ‘he’ when you talk of the murderer. But haven’t we been acquainted enough with women who are devilish enough to do the deed?”

  He recognized Jack’s solemn expression but made no comment on it. “I see your point. I am always loath to first believe that a maiden is so capable of dealing death, but that is merely hope over experience. Very well, whosoever killed Master Grey has the object we seek. Find them and we find both relic and murderer.”

  “Aye, Master.”

  “But for now, a little sleep.” He eased down the wall to settle on
his bed properly and Jack took the bowl away and pulled the blanket over him.

  Crispin drifted for a while, listening to the fire crackle and to Jack moving about the small room, splashing water into a pot, breaking sticks over his knee to add to the small fire, and humming tunelessly to himself.

  Crispin had just reached a state where he could easily fall asleep when all hell broke loose outside.

  He sat up, blinking. The woolliness in his head kept him immobile for a moment before he leaned over and opened the shutters. The blast of cold air took his breath away and caused his nose to run, but he wiped at it with his blanket and leaned out.

  The street erupted with men shouting. Men on horses trapped between the hordes tried to rein in their crazed mounts. Fistfights broke out in their midst and there was a general shoving and disorderliness that rankled Crispin’s senses.

  “Jack, go out and see what the problem is.”

  “Aye, sir.” He rushed for the door and grabbed his cloak from the peg.

  “Be careful, Jack.”

  Jack nodded, lifted the latch, and disappeared out the door. Crispin listened for the thud of his feet down the stairs and saw him join the melee a moment later. Jack was jumping to see over the heads of the rabble but he was soon being swept up in the tide, all heading toward Newgate. Crispin leaned farther out but Jack quickly disappeared. He hoped the boy would be all right.

  He lay back. He tried to relax, tried to sleep, but the noise and his worry over Jack would not allow it.

  “God’s blood!” Whipping the blanket away he threw his legs over the side of the bed, looking for his boots. He grabbed his belt with the dagger sheath still attached and secured it around his waist as he headed toward the door. He fastened the last few buttons on his cloak and grabbed the door latch when it suddenly swung open.

  Jack was breathing hard and was startled upon seeing Crispin in the doorway.

  “Master! Get back to bed at once.” Before Crispin could speak, the boy had grabbed him and was ushering him back to the bed. He twisted him around, unloosed his belt, and shoved him back. He fell onto his lumpy mattress.