Crispin struggled to rise, to help, but sank down again. In the haziness of his thoughts, he suddenly came to the disturbing acknowledgment that the men who came to the alley to fight Osbert’s men were Spanish. He did not know whether he should help them or Osbert.
Osbert came into view again, swinging his sword up at a Spaniard. The foreigner laughed and knocked his sword aside, but then he lost his own when Osbert kicked up with his boot. Their combat devolved into a fistfight. Osbert took a blow to his mouth and despite not knowing who to cheer for, Crispin felt a sense of triumph as blood spattered the knight’s chin.
Turning to watch the others, Crispin saw only shadows and silhouettes slashing with blades or punching torsos.
With a grunt, Osbert fell and skidded toward Crispin. Once more Crispin tried to rise but his dizziness would not allow it. Moonlight showered around the combatants when the clouds parted and it was enough to show clearly the blazon on Osbert’s right sleeve. Blue with a stripe of yellow and three yellow panther heads.
Osbert dived for his lost sword and closed a bloodied fist around the hilt. He jumped to his feet and shouted to his men.
By now, citizens were leaning out of their windows and yelling down to them. Some were even throwing objects. One emptied his chamber pot. The falling contents spattered Osbert’s shoulder and the stench filled the narrow space. He looked up to the window, raised his fist, and cursed the man, who closed his shutter smartly on the scene.
Looking hastily about at the other swordsmen, Osbert gathered his fellows, and with a few more wide strokes of his blade, he turned tail and ran with them out of the alley.
All fell silent. Even the citizens at their windows finally withdrew and shut them. Only the Spaniards remained. Crispin could hear their labored breaths but he could see only their silhouettes against the alley’s opening. They came closer but still their faces were lost to shadows. The moon seemed to have deserted the scene again.
Crispin braced for a blow. He’d been bracing for something similar for years. He just didn’t like the idea of being cut down in a stinking alley in the mud. He turned his face upward, willing to meet it head on. There was not even a prayer passing his lips. He steadied his gaze on the one closest, who seemed to be leaning down to peer at him.
Slowly, one by one, each man sheathed his blade.
“¿Está usted bien, Señor Guest?”
“What? I don’t understand you.”
“Forgive me,” said the man in a heavy Spanish accent. “I asked if you were well.” He held out his hand to him.
“Well enough.” He did not take the offered hand, and it was a moment longer before the man realized that Crispin would not.
He drew back and huffed a sigh. “By my Lady, but you are a stubborn man. Very well. We will leave you to it. But I would take that perro’s advice. Stay out of it. Let the others play their game, señor. It is too dangerous for you.”
“And who the hell are you? Spies?”
The man looked back at the others. One of them made a signal and he nodded. “We must go, señor. Try to stay out of trouble. Dios esté con usted.” He bowed and then they all turned and flew from the alley, leaving nothing but echoes in their wake.
Crispin leaned against the wall and pushed himself up to his feet. He stood shakily for another few heartbeats before testing his legs on their own.
Well. Now there were a few more problems. These Spaniards seemed to be multiplying. He feared their plots were being hatched in England while Lancaster was away.
But worse. Crispin had recognized the blazon on Osbert’s arm. He should have been more shocked that those arms on the shoulder of the knight were that of Michael de la Pole, earl of Suffolk.
16
JACK LET OUT AN oath when he beheld Crispin’s face. “Why does this always happen to you?”
The boy was exasperated, but beneath it, Crispin could see his worry. He shuffled to a chair and sat, his head falling back. Jack scurried to fetch cloths and poured the icy water from their bucket into a basin. While Jack ministered to him with the cold wet cloths to ease the swelling, Crispin recounted what had happened.
Jack dabbed gently at Crispin’s bruised chin with a folded rag. “Spaniards! And the earl of Suffolk. That’s who Chaucer met that first time you followed him.”
“Yes, Jack.” He pushed the cloth aside and felt his face with cautious fingertips. A little swollen around his left eye and at the right side of his jawline, but no permanent damage. His belly and lower back were sore but there were no broken ribs, praise God.
“Why does the Chancellor of England want the Spear, sir?”
“Why wouldn’t he? His days are numbered. He somehow got wind of the Spear’s existence and sent his henchmen to do the dirty work.”
“Do you think they killed Roger Grey?”
“Unquestionably.”
Jack walked across the room to fetch the wine jug and poured some of the amber liquid into a bowl. “And what about them Spanish dogs, sir? What did they want?” He handed Crispin the bowl.
Crispin drank deeply, thirstily. He licked his lips and set the bowl aside. Jack made to refill it but Crispin waved him off. “It seemed that they only wanted to rescue me. And warn me, of course. I seem always to be warned to ‘stay out of it’ when it is far too late.”
“Rescue you? Are they not England’s enemies?”
“Not exactly. Not when Lancaster vies for the Spanish throne.”
“Are you sure you didn’t … imagine it? I mean, sir,” he retreated, fending off a scowl from Crispin, “you were knocked about quite a bit.”
“I know what I saw. He spoke to me. And he knew me.”
“Bless you, sir. Doesn’t that frighten you?”
“Now that you mention it, yes.”
They sat in silence. Jack sat on the stool and rustled about, finding a comfortable spot on the small seat. “I’m just glad they left you alone.”
“Likewise. But what of this other matter? The matter of the killer knights?”
“Aye,” said Jack. “I wondered, Master, why they’d bother to steal the Coterels’ rent money. Why not just kill them? Or for that matter, why did they need to bother with them at all?”
“I don’t know, Jack. Something is amiss here. Was it those men who hired Lenny? I can’t imagine it.”
“Was that bastard Lenny lying to you, sir?”
“That is certainly a possibility, but I doubt it. I gave him only a small dose of what I just got. He is not a brave man.”
“What do we do now, Master Crispin? If those men killed Roger Grey and they do not have the Spear, then where is it? Them Spaniards?”
Crispin sighed. “Why would they bother to warn me off? No, I have come to the uncomfortable conclusion that I should attempt to talk to the Lord Chancellor.”
Jack stepped back, a cloth hanging limply from his hand. “Of England?”
“Yes. All roads seem to lead to him.” With a grunt, Crispin gained his feet.
“But Master! You can’t go to court.”
“I know that!” He shuffled to the bed and sat. He bent over and started to unbuckle his boot. Jack dropped to his knees and pushed Crispin’s hands away. Lying back on his elbows and allowing Jack to do it, Crispin contemplated the rafters. “But I must. Tomorrow. After I sleep. God’s blood, but I’m weary!”
* * *
WEARY OR NO, CRISPIN’S sleep was disturbed more than once that night by dreams of enduring a thrashing. It didn’t help that his jaw and gut ached from the real beating he’d received.
Finally, at dawn, he rolled out of bed, the first to be up for a change, and knelt by the fire, rustling the flames from under the banked ashes. Jack yawned loudly from his corner straw pile. “Master Crispin? Is it morn?”
“Yes. Get up, Jack. We’re going to court.”
* * *
JACK GRUMBLED AND COMPLAINED almost all the way to Westminster: He didn’t see why Crispin kept opening himself up to risks by showing himself at
court; why did he need to prove something that was beyond his control; it wasn’t right to put himself in this position and threaten the harmony of their household.
Crispin had looked askance at Jack for that last one, but his apprentice had only rolled his eyes and flapped his arms in a gesture of surrender. “I don’t know how to convince you,” he said at last.
“Don’t try,” said Crispin with a scowl. “I’m doing what must be done.”
“But sir, how are you ever to get an audience with the chancellor? Hasn’t he got his own problems?”
He hated when Jack was right. Jaw tight, he said nothing.
They reached the outer ward at the gate and Crispin narrowed his eyes at the scene of marching men and servants scurrying. Mercifully, Jack kept silent while Crispin ran ideas through his head. He’d snuck in before, pretending to be a servant. Perhaps … no. Last time he had worn the livery of the duke of Lancaster and had stupidly thrown it away.
His gaze snagged on a familiar servant, bearing the king’s livery. Bill Wodecock, steward of the lower servants, was wagging a finger at a servant boy with sagging stockings. He was speaking low but sternly to the boy, who looked as if he would burst into tears at any moment.
“Master Wodecock!” he called.
The man turned. His round face squinted, brown eyes searching for the voice. When he found it, he looked none too pleased. But he sent the servant boy on and made his way to the gate, standing with fists at his hips. He was a broad fellow, almost as stout as he was tall, but Crispin had seen him hurry throughout the palace. His girth did not seem to impede his pace.
A tight cap on his head made his face all the more round and his upturned nose gave a sniff of impatience. “Master Guest,” he said quietly. He tilted his chin down in disapproval. “What is it?”
Crispin bowed. “Good sir. I find I have need to get into the palace today.”
“Have you now? And I’d like a good reason to allow it.”
“I am … tracking.”
“I know your vocation, Master Crispin. I also know your history. My head would be in a noose if I let you in.”
Pressed against the wall as close as the guards would allow, Crispin spoke quietly. “You must know it is no mere whim that brings me here. I would speak to his grace the earl of Suffolk.”
“Ha! A good one, Master Crispin. But I am not in the mood today.” He turned on his heel.
“Master Wodecock!” he hissed. But the man would not return. “Dammit!”
“You can’t blame him, Master.”
“Be still,” he growled. Hated, hated when Jack was right.
Crispin glanced at the guard, who had never stopped eyeing him, and pushed away from the gate with a muttered oath. De la Pole would never see him, of course, but he had to try. Even if he could somehow get a message to him … No, that was foolish. A message could be ignored and at any rate, who would take it in? Maybe he could question one of Suffolk’s servants … bah! There didn’t seem any point in staying. And yet he didn’t move.
“Master,” said Jack quietly, careful not to touch him. “Master?”
“I know.” Yet still he stood, staring at the courtyard mere steps beyond him. It might as well have been the gates of Paradise, equally closed to him. “Perhaps the kitchens, Jack. Onslow Blunt, the head cook, would allow me to—”
“You took a chance at that before. And look where it got you. You were accused of trying to kill the king.”
Barred, every way he could think of.
Behind him was the clatter of horses and he reckoned that a lord and his retinue were heading toward court. Reluctantly, he stepped out of the way, pulling Jack with him. He raised his head and saw the bright trappers and lurched in surprise. House of Lancaster? But the duke was in Spain.
On the white horse in the lead of the retinue sat a young man with a pale auburn mustache and beard. He wore the Lancastrian colors and surveyed the crowd with a faintly amused air. Until his eyes fell on Crispin.
He yanked on the reins and startled his horse, which whirled once and nearly reared. The stocky young man pulled hard on the reins again and the horse’s head curled downward. The stallion calmed enough for him to slide off the saddle.
“Your grace!” complained his companions, but he didn’t heed them as he made straight for Crispin, who sunk down on one knee.
“Crispin Guest! Good Christ! I would know you anywhere though I have not seen you in … bless me, how long now?”
Crispin felt Jack sink to the ground beside him. “I know not, your grace. Well over a decade, I imagine.”
He took Crispin’s shoulders and pulled him to his feet in remarkably strong hands. The young man shook his head slowly, searching his face with softened eyes. “Let me look at you. Crispin, Crispin.” He ticked his head at the bruises he saw. “How I’ve missed you!” Suddenly, Crispin found himself embraced by the duke of Lancaster’s son, Henry, earl of Derby.
“I’ve missed you, too,” he said gently into the familiar auburn curls.
Henry pushed him back but kept hold of his upper arms. He scanned Crispin’s bruised face. “Still getting into fights? You shouldn’t, you know. You’re getting old, Crispin.” He laughed and turned to encourage his companions to join in his humor. The others, seeming to know well who Crispin was, did not appear to have as positive a reaction as the young lord. Henry was Richard’s cousin and only a year older. Crispin wondered if they were still on as good terms as they had been as children.
“Crispin here was something of a companion when I was a child,” said Henry in explanation to his mounted friends. “He was my father’s protégé and we spent many an hour getting into trouble, didn’t we, Crispin?”
“Er … yes, my lord. Much to the duke’s chagrin.”
Henry laughed, throwing his head back. “By my Lady, I remember this one time—”
“Your grace,” said one of his knights. “Hadn’t we best get to the palace?”
Henry’s face fell. He spoke quietly to Crispin but not too quietly that the knights nearest him couldn’t hear. He kept his arm slung over Crispin’s shoulder. “He is trying to remind me how unwise it is acknowledging your presence in public so close to the palace.”
Crispin bowed his head. “It … might be best for you to take that advice, my lord.”
“Nonsense.” He looked back at the retinue of footmen and mounted household knights. “Go on, then,” he said, gesturing toward the gate. “I will be in presently.”
The knights exchanged glances. “Your grace?”
“I said go on. All will be well. I would speak with this old friend.”
The knights were reluctant to leave Derby alone but the young lord stood his ground and his face took on a glower that made him look exactly like the duke.
Finally, they moved their horses forward under the arch of the gate, glancing back as they passed through the shadows.
Henry sighed.
“They are only trying to protect you, your grace.”
“Henry, Crispin. You used to call me Henry.”
“I do not think it wise that I do so now. Under the circumstances.”
Derby scoffed and rested his gloved hand on his sword hilt. And then he noticed Jack. He smiled. “Crispin, you have a son?”
Grinning, Crispin spared a look back at the stunned servant. “No. This is my apprentice, Jack Tucker.”
Jack had the presence of mind to bow low. “Y-your grace.”
“Apprentice? Oh yes! You have that very provocative moniker, do you not? The Tracker!”
“Yes, my lord. It is better than some of the other names I have been called.”
Henry laughed again. “Indeed! And so. Is it a mere coincidence finding you here in Westminster, or are you performing your new vocation?”
Unaccountably embarrassed, Crispin looked down and nervously shuffled. “Well, I was attempting it, yes.”
“Attempting it?”
“It is nothing, my lord.”
“Now
come. I know my father helps you from time to time. And while he is out of the country, I suppose, it is up to me. And that’s as I would have it, Crispin. Verily, I have missed your presence in my life. And though I cannot sanction what you did all those years ago, I know that your heart was in the right place.”
His speech did nothing to sweep away Crispin’s embarrassment. In truth, it only made his cheeks warm.
“How can I help you, Crispin? I know that you do not do anything without good cause.”
“I fear you will not wish to help after you know my mission.”
“Try me.”
This was Lancaster as a young man, true enough. He wore the same gleam in his eye when he saw a challenge. But he was the same lad Crispin had known, too, for Henry of Bolingbroke did not seem to fear anything that might spoil his fun.
“Very well,” he said with a shake of his head. “I was trying to devise a way into the palace—”
“Ah! I will let you accompany me!”
“To see the Lord Chancellor.”
Henry’s radiant face fell. “Oh.”
“Oh, indeed.”
A mischievous smile returned. “I should like to see that. I have been in many talks concerning the earl of Suffolk. Yes, let’s go.”
“What?”
“Come, Crispin. Don’t dally.” He threw the reins over his shoulder toward Jack and, even though surprised, Jack deftly caught them.
Henry tugged him along, but Crispin balked. “My lord, this is not a good idea.”
“But you wish to talk with him. And I wish to see you talk with him. Come now.”
There was no backing out. Crispin allowed the young lord to pull him along. Jack followed, cautiously leading the horse.
“May I know the subject of this talk?” Henry asked as they climbed the steps to the great hall. Jack left the horse with a groom and scrambled to follow close on Crispin’s heels.
Blood Lance: A Medieval Noir Page 17