Cup of Blood: A Medieval Noir: A Crispin Guest Medieval Noir Prequel

by Jeri Westerson

  “Aye, Master,” he murmured, grasping Crispin’s cloak.

  They reached the top of the landing and entered a wide hall. The space was as large as any nave in London’s bigger churches, spanned by huge trusses and ornate beams, all held aloft by two rows of pillars. The floor, painted in a large checkerboard of blue and white, stretched forward. Long banners hung from the far walls while the closer walls near a raised dais glittered with a colorful scene of men on horseback hunting a boar, and ladies plucking flowers. Crispin glanced at the shimmering banners and the many pallets still set up for sleeping servants, and headed across the expanse of floor. But Jack’s tugging at his cloak slowed him to a stop.

  “Jack! What are you doing?”

  “Sweet Jesus.” His voice seemed smaller amidst the hall’s echoes. “What is this place?”

  Crispin wanted to hurry through. He did not want to be forced to look about the hall, to remember where he had sat many a time, recalling the great feasts and the fine food. He did not wish to bring to mind with whom he talked and the women with whom he danced. But Jack’s fear forced him to take stock and he made himself survey the place that had been home to him since before the time he was Jack’s age.

  “It is the great hall. This is where the evening meals are served.”

  Jack clutched Crispin’s cloak tight and peered around him. “Does the king eat here?” he asked, still whispering.

  “Yes.” Crispin sighed and turned toward the dais. He pointed to the largest and most ornate chair situated in the center of the long plank table. “There, next to his ministers and now his wife.”

  “Blind me! Did you ever sit up there?”

  “Sometimes. That was in Edward III’s court. Before Richard was ever heir.”

  Jack raised his eyes to the high ceiling and its ornate beams painted in stripes and diamonds. Gold leaf gleamed from carved leaves, and below them hung huge, round coronas filled with candles, none of which were now lit. The hall’s light came from large clerestory windows and flaming cressets.

  The tapestries lining the walls rustled from a draft from the open passage doors. Above them hung the banners of knights and houses nearly as old as England itself. Crispin’s banner once hung there. The family name of Guest had thrown in their fortunes with Henry II, and for two hundred years counted themselves among the elite of court society.

  The banner was gone. Every memory of it wiped clean from English recollection. Others stood in its place, proudly jutting upward toward the arched ceiling, like angels’ wings stretched protectively over the throne.

  Jack turned a melancholy face to Crispin. His eyes were wide and moist. “By the saints. This is what you lost?”

  Crispin turned away. He tried to swallow the ache in his throat. “Come along.”

  Quickly they passed through the great hall to an outer chamber framed by clerestory windows. Here, oil lamps lit their way along more painted floors. Murals and tapestries enlivened the plaster walls.

  A cluster of maids bustled ahead and Crispin drew back to allow them distance. Except that the maids had a familiar look about them. And one in particular.

  He rushed forward, Jack trying vainly to catch up.

  “Vivienne!”

  She stopped and turned. Her maids stood before her protectively, especially the ones who recognized Crispin.

  A small smile formed on her lips and she shook her head. “Crispin Guest. You do turn up at the most unexpected places.”

  “As do you, Madam.” He bowed. Nudging Jack, the boy followed suit.

  She glanced at her maids but seemed to decide she needed a shield. She did not dismiss them or move to stand before them. “I found it necessary to return to court. I made a, perhaps, too hasty departure.”

  “Indeed. What brings you back so swiftly?”

  “Unfinished business.”

  “And yet I thought your business was finished.”

  The smile on her lips now appeared painted there. “This is other business.”

  Crispin glanced at the maids and then at a perplexed and defensive Jack. There was only so much he could say in front of an audience. “Then…I hope you will come to me if there is anything more I can do for you.”

  She bowed her head and curtseyed. “You will be the first to know.” She turned on those words, and without looking back, proceeded up the corridor.

  Crispin watched her leave with a wave of anxiety. He took a step forward, but stopped. He longed to ask her about Guillaume de Marcherne, but too many eyes and ears made that impossible. And he had been as good as dismissed. He knew in his current standing he had no authority to delay her.

  “But she left London…” Jack whispered.

  “Yes. She had.” He pressed a fist to his hip. “And now she is back. And I wonder now if I was right in not apprehending her. The sheriff will have my hide if I change my mind on it.”

  “Then don’t change your mind,” Jack muttered under his breath.

  Ahead, he heard voices and hoped it came from the pages he sought. He moved quickly and turned the corner much too fast and ran into a lordly man surrounded by a cadre of equally attired knights and squires.

  Crispin blanched and stepped back. Belatedly, he bowed in apology and tried to skirt them by walking backwards, trying to escape before they recognized him, but the lordly man shot out a hand and grabbed his arm.

  Crispin gasped and looked up. The man was older. The beard running along the underside of his jaw and his neatly trimmed mustache were black but graying, yet there was no mistaking that stern nose and those aggressive eyes.

  He glared at Crispin for a long moment. His pale lips parted to speak, but in the end, he said nothing. He released Crispin’s arm and turned from him abruptly, striding quickly down the corridor with his entourage of knights. He never looked back, but his entourage did, with scowls and accusing expressions.

  Crispin froze. Careless. Incredibly careless.

  Jack waited for the men to disappear through an arched doorway before he tugged on Crispin’s cloak. “Who was that, Master?”

  Crispin breathed again, unaware he had held his breath. “That was John of Gaunt, duke of Lancaster.”

  “Jesus mercy,” whispered Jack and becrossed himself.

  Crispin did not move except to shake his head. “It was a mistake to come here.”

  “But you have to question de Marcherne, do you not?”

  “To what end? I cannot arrest him. He could easily escape to France before the sheriff ever decides to make his writ. Wynchecombe already has his murderer, remember?”

  “Then what are you going to do?”

  His body felt numb, his limbs limp. “I do not know.” Curse his impetuosity! It had been a proud choice to return to court. He believed that if he summoned the courage to do this, then nothing, not even the cold reality of Rosamunde’s broken chastity, could crack him. But he was wrong. This was too insurmountable.

  The Tracker. He snorted. He could not even find his own dignity. He thought he did find a portion of it through feats with the lower classes, but all of it was mummery.

  The palace walls closed in on him, trapping him in the illusion of the freedom he mistakenly thought he possessed.

  “Crispin Guest?”

  Crispin spun and stared at a young page. His fears gathered about him again. “Yes?”

  “His grace the duke wishes to speak with you.”

  Crispin felt his skin go cold. “With me?”

  “Yes. Follow me.”

  Crispin looked once at Jack before he lifted his deadened feet to trail the page. Jack followed a little further behind.

  They entered a small door to an anteroom where Lancaster sat on a sumptuous chair.

  “Your servant can wait outside,” said Lancaster.

  Jack seemed only too happy to oblige and he bowed to the duke very low and once more to Crispin before exiting.

  Warm. Familiar. Crispin recalled gazing at this room’s rich tapestries many a time, losing himself i
n the adventures depicted on their clever panels. He and his fellow squires and knights used to warm themselves by that same fire, sharing cups of wine and speaking of deep things that only men who had shared the experience of war could discuss.

  Being Lancaster’s protégé, Crispin had been allowed in the next chamber, Lancaster’s bedroom. Pleased to serve as Lancaster’s personal varlet, Crispin’s training began with these menial tasks for his lord. He had cut his meat at dinner and he had served him cups of wine. They never seemed like lowly chores then, for he loved the man who raised him, knighted him, trained him, and took him on his campaigns.

  Yet now, Crispin stood before him like the menial he had become. He kept silent knowing he no longer had the right to speak freely.

  Lancaster studied him. “It has been a long time, Crispin,” he said at last.

  Crispin tried to smile but could not recall how. “Yes, your grace. A very long time.”

  “I did not know of your return to court.”

  Crispin tapped his scabbard with nervous fingers. “I have not exactly been brought back, your grace.”

  “Oh?” Lancaster’s gaze began its slow travel over Crispin’s shoddy clothes, lighting last on his left hip, the place where his sword should have been. “Well,” he said, seeming not to know just what to reply. “You look well, at any rate. A bit thin, perhaps. What do you do with yourself?”

  Never had Crispin felt so aware of his lack of a sword, as if he were standing naked before Lancaster. “I solve puzzles, your grace,” he managed to say. “I recover stolen goods, bring criminals to justice, right wrongs.”

  “Right wrongs, eh?” Lancaster’s lips curved into an ironic smile. “If not for yourself than for others, is that it?”

  “Perhaps it is a penance, your grace.”

  Lancaster ticked his head. “I have missed you, Crispin. But I have also been extremely angry with you. And disappointed.”

  Crispin shut his eyes. “I know, your grace. I say again, I apologize. And I do thank you for speaking for me, for asking the king to spare my life. I was never able to convey that. I was ushered away so quickly, and then…”

  Lancaster nodded and stared at the floor. “Yes. Well. I am surprised you are in London. I would have thought…”

  Crispin raised his head. “There was truly nowhere else to go.”

  Lancaster nodded. “Just so.”

  Crispin wondered if he should say more. Lancaster looked old suddenly, and very tired. When Richard took the throne at the tender age of ten, a council had been appointed to rule until he came of age, and Lancaster ruled that council. For all intents and purposes, he was the power of the throne. In the end, Crispin’s traitorous efforts toward that resolution had been premature.

  Being outside the sphere of court, Crispin had been unable to determine if Lancaster had any further influence on his nephew and charge. But now, at sixteen, King Richard showed himself to be the petulant autocrat Crispin feared he would become, even though he was not at full majority. Like his doomed great grandfather Edward II, Richard kept close too many favorites who were given too many privileges and too much access. Crispin believed if this continued into Richard’s majority, the king’s fate might follow that of his unfortunate ancestor.

  “What is your business here, Crispin?”

  “Strange business, your grace. I am investigating a murder.”

  Lancaster raised a brow in a familiar way. It eased Crispin somewhat to think that Lancaster might find something in him to be proud of again.

  “You work with the sheriff, then? I had not heard this.”

  “Not exactly, your grace. I am a free agent but the sheriff does call upon me from time to time.”

  Lancaster mulled this while examining Crispin’s shabby clothes. “You have a retainer. That boy.”

  Crispin smiled. “Yes. He won’t seem to take ‘no’ for an answer.”

  “Who is he? An apprentice investigator?”

  Crispin’s smile fell. “No. A cutpurse.”

  “What?”

  “Reformed.”

  “I see. This is the manner of men you traffic with?”

  “It is now.”

  Lancaster acceded with a nod. “I take it there is someone here you wish to interview about this murder.”

  “Yes, your grace. It is somewhat thorny.”

  “It isn’t the king, is it?” His voice carried a familiar sardonic lilt.

  “No.” Crispin smiled. “It is only the French dignitary, Guillaume de Marcherne.”

  “‘Only’, eh? Crispin, can I trust you in this?”

  “With my life, your grace. I owe it to you at any rate. I need only talk with him. But, in truth, it would help a great deal if I could examine his rooms without his presence.”

  “Crispin, Crispin.” Lancaster rose and walked across the Saracen rug before the hearth. He stood just as Crispin remembered: strong, straight, tall. His posture reminded him of those days on the battlefield and especially after, when Lancaster walked amongst his men and toasted them with a shared cup of ale.

  The hearth flames were kind to his aging features, and Crispin could almost transport himself back to those lost days when he grew to maturity under this man’s shadow. Strange, he thought, that a man only ten years his senior could seem so much older and wiser.

  “What are you thinking, Crispin?” he said in his mentor’s voice. “Are you trying to get yourself hanged?”

  “No, my lord. Far from it. But I must know more of this man. There are some facts I know already, but I must be certain if they are true. He is a master of lies.”

  “What is your plan?”

  With an awkward smile, Crispin shrugged. “I have no plan.”

  Lancaster shook his head with disdain. “After all these years, still hot-headed as ever. Do you recall nothing of my lessons? I told you to curb these impulses or you will get yourself killed.”

  “As you see,” he said, opening his arms, “I am still alive.”

  “Yes. God must love you greatly. Or does not wish eternity yet with you.”

  Crispin waited. Was he to be escorted from court? Surely Lancaster would not turn him in. He wondered just why Lancaster asked to see him at all. He hoped it was because of their mutual affection. But times had changed. Crispin was no longer the asset he had been. If he were found in Lancaster’s quarters, even now after seven years…

  Lancaster turned back to the fire. The years fell away and it was again him and Crispin plotting and planning. He remembered quiet evenings in these chambers while Lancaster’s first wife Blanche played a psaltery. They would sit together, a family, listening to the quiet strains of music before a roaring fire. Occasionally, Lancaster’s son Henry would join them. Henry, the same age as Richard, seemed a world apart in temperament from his monarch cousin. Not often at court, Henry likely stayed busy with his own knight’s training. After Blanche died, Lancaster married Costanza of Castile. She was not the motherly matron that Blanche had been to him, but he missed her, too, and her kind attention.

  Crispin suddenly frowned. It didn’t do to fall into the trap of sentimentality. There would be no more quiet evenings by Lancaster’s fire, no more private moments with the man. He looked up at the duke and saw all the same thoughts pass over Lancaster’s features. Lancaster scowled and he suddenly seemed much older.

  “Listen carefully,” Lancaster said at last. “I will have de Marcherne brought to me now and you will have no more than a quarter hour to see to your business in his rooms. After that, I am no longer responsible. I did not see you and I did not speak with you. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, your grace.”

  “Go now. If I recall, he is in the west corridor.”

  Crispin longed to clasp Lancaster’s hand, but that intimacy had long past. Crispin bowed low instead before he hastily departed.

  Jack hovered in the shadows trying to disappear when he noticed Crispin. “Master!” Jack scurried alongside him. “What happened?”

 
“He’s helping us, but we must hurry.”

  Crispin trotted and Jack followed. They skirted pages and servants and finally made it to the west corridor. Crispin moved Jack and himself into a small window alcove and pulled the drapery around them. “We must wait here,” he whispered. He grabbed the two curtains with his fists and peered through a small crevice.

  A page strode down the passageway and entered the door to a suite of apartments. Not long after, he came out again followed by de Marcherne and two of his men. Like a military unit, they marched down the passage and soon disappeared into the distant shadows.

  Crispin opened the curtains and without bothering to motion to Jack, went up to the door and pulled on the door ring.

  Locked.

  He knelt. Using the long metal aiglet from one lace of his shirt and his dagger’s point, he inserted both into the lock. He fished and jiggled until the pins set and the lock released.

  Jack whistled. “Blind me. Where’d you learn that?”

  “You’d be surprised at the things I’ve learned.” He pushed open the door and peered inside. At first he feared the other men would be lying in wait for him, but a cursory examination of the chamber told him otherwise.

  Crispin moved to one of the chests and opened it. He rummaged through the many layers of rich clothing until his fingers encountered something hard. He removed a box, tripped the lock in the same way as he had the door, and opened it. Brooches, rings, other fine jewels. Nothing of any consequence. He handed the box to Jack to return to the chest and immediately grabbed the boy’s hand. “Jack, there are no spoils from this venture. Put it back.”

  “But Master! Surely you don’t think—”

  “Jack, I am not a fool. I saw you take the ring. Now return it.”

  Grumbling, Jack cupped his palm and spit the ring into it. He stuffed the wet object back in the box which he placed with care under the clothes in the first chest.