Blood Lance: A Medieval Noir

by Jeri Westerson

  “You’ve truly done it this time, Crispin.” The words were as hollow as they sounded, echoing back to him within the metal helm.

  A hand touching his leg startled him. He jerked back. Looking down, he saw the young squire. “Sir Thomas? Are you ready, my lord?”

  Looking into the young man’s eyes suddenly made Crispin angry. Why had Crispin allowed himself to be a party to this deception? Shouldn’t he have allowed Thomas to take his own lumps? Or his life, if he was so willing to throw it away? Crispin wanted to warn this youth to waste no more time in the service of this unworthy knight. It was the least he could do, for the boy would learn it soon enough. But Crispin’s promise to his old friend stopped him. He could not go back on his oath. He had sworn to help. If he opened his mouth, he and Thomas would both die.

  He nodded to the squire and raised his head, surveying the tiltyard through the helm’s eye slits. Osbert waited on the other end of the lists, his horse stamping the ground as impatiently as surely the knight was himself. Crispin checked the angle of the sun. They had only tilted twice. And the combat was to go on till sunset or until there was a victor, whichever came first. How were the two of them to proceed for six more hours?

  Strange, again, that Crispin wasn’t the least bit tired.

  He urged his horse forward. The destrier was as anxious as his comrade across the yard and trotted forth, throwing his head and snorting. Crispin encouraged the stallion by patting his neck. “You’re a good fellow, though I do not know your name. If you continue to carry me well, I promise to reward you.”

  There he went promising again.

  The herald had been standing at the barrier, almost leaning against it, when he noticed Crispin getting into position. He snapped to attention and stood, holding his banner high. With a swish of the staff, the banner came down and he ran like the Devil was after him out of the way.

  The destrier didn’t even need Crispin’s spurs. They lurched forward, man and horse moving as one. Crispin fisted the lance. This was not just some knight facing him in a contest. This was a murderer. A man incapable of mercy, who had killed innocent apprentices just to do the bidding of his master. It was he who should be defending himself, not Crispin. No more. If fight to the bitter end this was, then it was time to end it.

  He leaned forward, lance still high. Osbert’s horse grimaced over his bit, head bobbing with each hard step. His hooves cast the imported soil into the air, creating a cloud of dust behind him. Osbert seemed intent over the horse, his left hand curled over the reins.

  Crispin suddenly felt so light it was as if he were flying on a winged beast. The hoofbeats became his own heart’s tempo. He leaned even farther forward, urging the beast on with his own anticipation.

  Osbert neared. His lance lowered. Crispin lowered his own. He let his instinct guide him, not even thinking about directing the lance.

  When it hit Osbert’s shield, the crack was like the gates of Hell splintering open. Osbert popped upward out of his saddle, legs wide, head thrown back. Only at the last moment did he let go of his lance. It speared forward under its own power like a deadly projectile shot from a ballista.

  Right at Crispin.

  He took it in the chest. He did not register the pain at first. Nor the fact that he, too, burst out of his saddle. All he saw was the horse galloping away beneath him, heard rather than felt the whoosh of air expel from his lungs as he slammed onto his back and skidded along the bridge’s unforgiving span.

  Only when he stopped moving did the pain explode in his breast, his back, his head. His whole body was on fire with it and for a horrifying moment he thought he might be on fire. Stars danced in his vision and he saw sky through the slits and nothing else. He tried to take a breath and found that he couldn’t. He tried again and began to panic.

  He attempted rolling upon his side. His hand scrabbled over his chest and felt the deep indentation now decorating the breastplate. It was cove in so deeply it pressed into his chest, preventing him taking a breath. Was he to die like this, like a turtle on its back?

  Hands reached for him. He gasped and turned his eyes toward the squire, kneeling over him. “Sir Knight! I must remove the breast armor.”

  Crispin nodded as best he could. The boy was nimble and attended to the straps quickly and efficiently. He pulled it loose and Crispin sucked in a lungful of air.

  The squire sat back on his backside in relief, cradling the ruined armor. He was panting from the effort and staring into the eye slits of the helm. Between gasps, he said quietly, “I do not know who you are, but I thank you for my master’s sake.”

  Crispin gave the youth his full attention.

  “I have never seen my master fight as you did today,” he said in harsh whispers. “I knew it could not have been him. You are trying to save him, and I thank you for it. No one has been able to talk to him.”

  There was much of Jack Tucker in that youth’s eyes; the look of a young man old beyond his years. Crispin reached out and closed his hand gratefully over the boy’s wrist.

  “I swore an oath,” said Crispin.

  The squire nodded. “I thought as much.”

  “Take that armor to the pavilion and give it to the boy you will find there, a boy with ginger hair. His name is Jack Tucker. Tell him to guard that armor well for it contains that which we have sought. He will know the answer to that riddle.”

  The squire nodded again.

  “Does Osbert live?”

  The boy turned and looked. He nodded and turned back. “You will have to continue the battle on foot.”

  “I was afraid of that.” And without the Spear. If it had given him an advantage it was gone now. “Help me up.”

  Geoffrey had moved back toward the center of the action and was making some announcement, no doubt explaining how the combat would continue. Crispin couldn’t spare the energy to listen. He needed his strength to stand and to catch his breath. For it seemed that without that breastplate his vitality had fled.

  His shield was broken in two and he left it where it lay. Shieldless, vulnerable, he staggered forward, feeling suddenly very weary, and drew his sword.

  24

  IT WAS AS IF he had forgotten everything he learned, as if the Spear had allowed his muscles to recall how to behave. For now, he was like a schoolboy all over again. Yes, he had trained with Jack Tucker only a few short days ago, but that was nothing like training with another tested knight. Nor was it anything like fighting for his life.

  Osbert approached. The tautness of his body indicated his anger. Well, he wasn’t the only one.

  Crispin moved his hand over the grip and flexed his sword arm. They began to circle each other. They were close enough to see each other’s eyes through their visors and Osbert squinted at Crispin. No doubt, he was wondering if the hit had muddled his brain enough to trick his sight into seeing gray eyes where he expected to see brown.

  Osbert didn’t wait. He snapped the blade forward, aiming to slash Crispin’s shoulder. Crispin’s instincts kicked in and he ducked out of the way, catching the blade with his own and forcing Osbert’s out of the way. Sidestepping, he swung a vertical swipe up toward the man’s torso but Osbert’s blade was already there, deflecting Crispin’s aside. This was not to be an easy defeat.

  Crispin readjusted his grip and scooted to the side, one foot at a time, dragging the dirt with his sabatons. Osbert lurched forward and swung at Crispin’s shins. Crispin leapt out of the way, bringing his sword around. It clanged against Osbert’s on the upswing and for a moment they were helm to helm, their pointed metal snouts nearly touching. Osbert’s eyes widened. “You are not Sir Thomas. Who the hell are you?” he cried through the visor.

  “Your worst enemy,” he replied, and with a grunt, Crispin threw him back. He had only a moment to roll his shoulders before Osbert came at him again.

  I must get on the offensive, he thought between deflections. And when Osbert stepped back, he saw his chance. With a cry, Crispin charged him with furi
ous swings over his head, aiming for shoulder, neck, head. Osbert’s blade met them each time but now it was on the defensive. Even when he tried to bring up his sword, Crispin ducked under it, pushed the man’s arm up and out of the way, and then bent to get his shoulder under the man’s hip. Rising, he lifted him up and tossed him over his shoulder. Crispin was vaguely aware of the cheering in the background.

  Osbert hit the dirt on his back but he didn’t stay there long. Rolling away, he quickly righted himself before Crispin could stab at him. Osbert grabbed his own sword by the blade and used the hilt to hook Crispin’s ankle. Before he knew what had happened, Crispin slammed to the ground on his backside. Through the narrow slits, he saw Osbert’s sword coming at him, not with the sharp end but with the heavy pommel. Crispin rolled to one side as the heavy rouelle slammed the ground right where his head had been. He rolled again to the other side when it hit the ground again. He wasted no time in scrambling to his feet. Getting in close to Osbert, he grabbed the man’s blade with his mail-clad armpit, pulling the man even closer. Osbert would not relinquish the blade and so Crispin closed his gauntlet into a fist and slammed it into Osbert’s helm. He jabbed his own sword pommel up into the chin of Osbert’s visor with a ringing whack, but though the man wobbled and staggered, he did not collapse. He shook his helmet-clad head and stepped back to reassess.

  Crispin was panting. It had been a very long time since he had engaged in so prolonged a battle, and in armor. Though he was lighter because of a lack of a breastplate, he also felt vulnerable and had to defend his torso. It was the biggest target, and Osbert would surely take advantage of that soon. He wished he still had his shield.

  Osbert seemed to be taking a break as well, and Crispin let his guard down the tiniest bit … and it was enough. In a heartbeat, Osbert leapt forward, sword whistling. Crispin lurched back, but not far enough to avoid the tip of the blade sliding hard across his mail-covered chest. If not for the habergeon he would have been sliced open.

  The metal rings did not give way, but it was a calculated hit that Crispin had not wanted to allow. His confidence rising, Osbert pressed his advantage and began systematically slashing with big sweeping gestures, hilt rolling over his wrist. Like a grim reaper, his swipes came ever closer. Crispin deflected each blow with his sword in a ringing report. Sparks cascaded around them when steel met steel.

  Angry now, Crispin struck back harder. Osbert’s sword got turned aside farther and farther back until it was almost level with his shoulder, leaving his chest open to attack. Crispin shuffled in close and tried to knee him in the groin but the man’s metal tassets got in the way. Crispin used his armored elbow instead to jab him in the chest near the armpit, a weak spot in the armor where Crispin had already dented it with his lance.

  Osbert gasped in his helm from the harsh blow. Flipping the blade in his hand, Crispin used the pommel and swung, bashing him in the helm. The heavy rouelle folded the metal into a dent and Osbert teetered. Crispin slammed him again with his gauntlet-covered fist and this time Osbert sunk to one knee. Crispin drew back his foot and kicked him hard in the breastplate. He fell back. As soon as he hit the ground, he tried to rise but Crispin stepped on him, holding him in place. Osbert’s sword arm raised but Crispin used his own blade to knock Osbert’s from his hand. The crowd gasped when the sword skidded aside.

  Breathing hard, Crispin stared at the sword now lying several feet away. He was just as surprised as the crowd.

  But all at once hands gripped his ankle and twisted. Pain shot through his leg and Osbert rose beneath him, propelling him backward. Osbert leapt for his lost blade while Crispin struggled on the ground on his back. He rolled over and crawled after him, grabbing his foot. Osbert kicked back and managed to dislodge Crispin but Crispin reached again, grasping with metal-clad fingers toward the knight’s spurs. With one long stretch of his lean frame, Osbert closed his hand over his sword and chopped behind him toward Crispin.

  Crispin flung himself backward, rolling in the dirt. He knew Osbert had gained his feet and now it was a race whether Crispin could get up in time to get out of the way of the next blow.

  “God’s blood!” He staggered back, clutching his left bicep. Astounded that he’d righted himself, Crispin had blocked part of the blow but nevertheless took the heaviest hit to his arm.

  He looked down, trying to see through the visor. The mail held but the arm in its pain was all but useless.

  Osbert came at him, swinging again and again, and Crispin, wearying, blocked each strike with less and less skill. He wouldn’t, couldn’t think of defeat. He fended off the blows, letting his sword arm take it, but that arm, too, was tested beyond measure.

  Osbert grunted as he swung each strike, and his eyes, though shadowed, glittered within the visor. Crispin did the only thing he could think to do, as weary as he was. He rushed in close and clasped the man’s arms to his sides in a bear hug, squeezing tighter. With one arm wrapped around Osbert’s head, he tried to work his hilt under the edge of Osbert’s helm, lifting up. He knew it must have hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, hilt edge digging into the mail at his neck, helm pressing hard against the side of his head.

  It was then he looked right in the eye slits of Osbert’s visor, and Osbert glared at him. “You want to know who I am?” growled Crispin. “I’m Crispin Guest, and I’m going to kill you.”

  The eyes snapped wide and Osbert was startled enough to lose concentration. It was enough. Hooking his leg around the other’s ankle, Crispin pulled it inward and Osbert collapsed onto the ground. With a shout, Crispin dug a knee into his chest and smacked his sword away.

  Panting, Crispin stared into the eyes of his opponent. Fear glistened there but, unmoved, Crispin grabbed his blade and poised the sharp end at Osbert’s exposed neck. With a hard thrust, the blade would easily pierce the mail and slice into his throat. It was a killing cut and Osbert couldn’t do a damned thing about it.

  “You killed Roger Grey,” Crispin spat into his visor, “and you killed those apprentices. I will give them the justice they deserve.”

  He pulled the blade back.

  “I didn’t kill that man! I swear to you by Almighty God! Nor did I touch those boys. I have sons their age. Never would I have done.”

  Crispin hesitated. The tip, eager to plunge, sparkled in the sunshine.

  “Roger Grey was willing to negotiate,” he wheezed. “I was coming to the bridge to talk to him! He wanted to leave London. I swear! That woman kept getting in his way. He was ready to take our money, but she interfered.”

  Crispin stared, hating his own hesitancy, but hating more the thoughts running through his head with astonishing clarity. “You didn’t do it.”

  Osbert shook his head, only his helm moving.

  “Goddammit, you didn’t do it. That only means…”

  Crispin raised the blade high and plunged it down … into the dirt.

  “I can take your life because of this contest if I so choose. If I spare it, you will tell no one who I am. You will let all believe it is Thomas Saunfayl who has defeated you. Swear it!”

  “I-I so swear, on my honor and my life.”

  Gritting his teeth, Crispin pushed off from him and stood unsteadily, using the sword as a crutch.

  He gestured toward the crowd. “Tell them.”

  Voice hoarse but as loud as he could shout, Osbert cried, “I yield!”

  The stands erupted in cheers and shouts, banners waving crazily. So now you cheer? Disgusted, Crispin heaved the sword away from him. He turned toward the quivering stands.

  Swiveling toward the king, he bowed. Richard inclined his head. Crispin couldn’t help but look over at Chaucer. He gave him a curt nod as well. Chaucer startled and took a step forward, but Crispin had already turned on his heel to stalk back to the pavilion tent, whereupon he threw open the flap and instantly collapsed on the rug-laden floor.

  25

  CRISPIN FLUTTERED OPEN HIS eyes. He was on a cot. Gazing upward, he realized he was still in t
he tent but the armor had been removed and Jack and the squire from the lists leaned over him.

  “Master Crispin!” whispered Jack. His voice was choked and there were tears on his face. “God be praised for your deliverance, good sir! I thought … I thought…”

  “There, there, Jack. I am whole … I think.” He looked to the squire for confirmation.

  “You are indeed, my lord. No worse for wear.”

  “I am no one’s lord, good squire.” He took the arm offered and pulled himself up to a sitting position.

  “And, apparently, I am no one’s squire.”

  Before Crispin could ask, Jack pressed forward. “That damnable Sir Thomas! Once he reckoned what the breastplate was he snatched it from my arms and took off. Left! With you still fighting for his miserable honor out there.”

  Leaning back on his elbows did nothing to subdue the queasy feeling in Crispin’s gut. Was there no honor left? Among knights? Among friends?

  “Before he disappeared, he tossed me this.” Jack held up a leather pouch, and by the sound of it, it was full of coins.

  Crispin snorted. The price of a man’s honor.

  “My lord,” said the squire at the tent flap. “You’d best depart. Master Chaucer is coming.”

  Jack scrambled to get Crispin’s abandoned coat and hood—at least Thomas had left him that! Dressing quickly without time to button the cotehardie, he pushed Jack under the tent on the other side. He looked toward the squire to give him thanks, but the youth only smiled. “I see you already have a squire. A pity. I know I could have learned a great deal from you. God keep you, Master Guest.”

  “And you.”

  He hit the floor and rolled under the tent canvas, just as he heard the squire at the door address Geoffrey. He stuffed his head into the hood and kept low, running into the crowd. It was Jack who found him and grabbed his arm. Never letting it go, the boy pulled him along. Too tired to argue or to question, Crispin allowed it. Not until they were many streets away did Jack drag him into a shadowed alley and push him against the wall. He ran his hands over Crispin, looking for injuries.