Blood Lance

11

The night drew on later and later and the candle before him got shorter and shorter, and somewhat blurrier as the wine filled him. Someone slid next to him on the bench and Crispin sluggishly shifted his gaze.

Gilbert looked back at him, his face questioning as usual, his disapproval thick.

“Gilbert, I sense you are about to admonish me.” His tongue felt thick and unmanageable. A proper drunk had set in and he liked the feel of it. It was better than the feeling of that damned head cold. “Why don’t we pass over this part since I already well know what you are going to say?”

“That you’re drunk and you should go home? What makes you think I was going to say that?” He slid a horn beaker into view and took Crispin’s jug, pouring himself a dose. He took a drink and smacked his lips.

“Because you always do. Because I always am. Drunk, that is.”

“Why so intemperate today, Crispin? Is it that knight you spoke of, your friend?”

He shrugged. It threw him off balance and he had to grab the table to keep from falling backward off the bench. “Maybe. Maybe not. I’ve encountered plenty of former acquaintances.”

“And each time, you drink.” He saluted with his cup and drank.

“Why shouldn’t I?” Crispin grumbled. “Every one of them is doing far better than I. And little wonder. They have moved on, taken that one step higher on the ladder rung while I wallow where I have been for the last nine years.”

“Now Crispin.” Gilbert laid an arm on the table and leaned on it. Wine moistened his beard. “That is not true, and you well know it. You did not start on the Shambles as the Tracker. You earned that title and much admiration since.”

“Amongst shopkeepers,” he sneered.

Gilbert elbowed him hard, eliciting a grunt. “And tavern keepers, you wretch. You never rejoice in your achievements, you only compare your failings to those above you. Those of our rank-yours now, too, mind you-never do that. Why should we? We will only achieve so much. But a good day’s work and food in our belly is a satisfying thing, Crispin.” He shook his head and drank again. He eased the cup down, placing it on the table. “You have an apprentice now. A new cotehardie.” He brushed his hand over Crispin’s crimson sleeve. “And coins on your person for a change. Things are looking up, are they not?” He took another drink and rubbed his bearded chin. “You and I must not continue to have this conversation. I’d much rather talk to you of festive things, of cheerful things.”

“Cheerful things.” Crispin made an unsteady perusal of his friend’s face, a round and generally merry countenance. Gilbert Langton was a man with much. He had a loving wife in Eleanor and they owned this tavern. And though it wasn’t as proud an establishment as some others of its ilk, it was a good and affable place. Their greatest sorrow was in not having children. He knew this vexed them sorely, for what were they to do in old age? Who would care for them? Strangely, Crispin never thought of that for himself. He had assumed a long time ago that he would eventually lose his edge and get involved in one too many altercations. It would take only once to let his guard down and a dagger blade could easily slip between his ribs. Yes, he knew how his days would end. And yet, this did not frighten him or darken his mood. It was not the future that vexed him but his past. He could not let it go. Never would he.

He drank again. His sleeve caught the dribble down his chin. “Gilbert, you are ever my conscience in this. You are always right. And yet I find myself here time and again.”

“I’ll bring you some food. How about a nice roasted coney, eh? Ned has an extra one on the spit. I’ll bring that and share it with you.”

He nodded sloppily. “Yes. That would content me.”

Gilbert climbed out of the bench and straightened his coat. “Where’s that rascal of yours, Jack Tucker? Shouldn’t he be here taking you home?”

“I was wondering that myself. It seems he rushed off in a jealous fit.”

Gilbert paused by the table. “Eh? Young Jack? Jealous of what?”

Crispin smiled, remembering. “I was with a client who showed exceptional perception when it came to investigating. Jack got it into his wooden head that she was taking his place.”

“She?”

Crispin drew patterns on the table with the spilled wine. “She. A beauteous maid. Well, perhaps not so much a maid.”

Gilbert sat again. “Older?”

He smirked. “Not older. Merely … experienced. At least that is my impression.”

Gilbert tsked and shook his head. “You need the company of decent women, Crispin. How will you ever find a woman to wife?”

“I’m not looking for a wife. I’ve told you that.”

“So many have slipped through your fingers, women of worth.”

“But not fit for a knight,” he muttered.

“Crispin,” he said, rising but leaning down to whisper close to his ear. “You are not a knight.”

Gilbert walked toward the kitchen as Crispin scowled in his direction. “I don’t need reminding,” he said to the nearly empty room. But when he looked into his wine bowl he saw the face of Philippa Walcote, the woman he had discarded because of his lingering sense of his past. A woman he had loved. A woman he still loved.

He pushed the bowl away, sloshing its red wine on the table like blood. What was it that truly vexed him, he wondered, among all other thoughts? Was it Philippa? Was it Anabel, who reminded him so of her? Was it Sir Thomas, who was throwing away that which Crispin longed for? “Maybe it is all of it,” he muttered. “Perhaps I am a flagellant and these memories are my flail. Only then may I find my peace, when I have done proper penance.”

“Are you Crispin Guest?”

A man stood over him, one he did not recognize.

“Who wants to know?”

“Pardon me for interrupting your conversation with your wine bowl.” The man snickered. His reddish gold hair was covered by a close-fitting cap. His clothes were those of a middling merchant, no velvets but good cloth, no patches, and a decent dagger hanging from a belt carved with decorative designs. “I am Lucas Stotley, a clerk. You are the one with Jack Tucker as an apprentice, no?”

“What of that scoundrel?”

“Well, I saw that boy being dragged away by some knights who were none too happy with him. Thought you’d want to know.”

Crispin staggered up from his seat and leaned shakily on the table. “What?”

“I saw them back up the lane. He was talking vigorously with a group of knights. They didn’t like his tone or his manner. He did not treat them with the proper respect and they set about to teach the lad a lesson. I would have thought you would have tutored him properly in this yourself, Master Guest, his being your apprentice and all. Well, they are doing the job now.”

Crispin grabbed his arm. “When? Where?”

“Not long ago. Just up the lane.”

“By God’s death, where?” Crispin grabbed clumsily for his coin pouch. He managed to withdraw a coin and tossed it on the table. “WHERE?”

“I’ll show you.” He grabbed Crispin’s arm and led him outside. He pointed up the street to a stable. “See there. Their horses are still tied to the posts. They must be teaching him a lengthy lesson.”

Crispin drew his dagger at last and staggered up the lane.

“Wait! Master Guest, you do not intend to rescue him by yourself? In your state?”

Crispin looked down at himself and felt how wooly his head was from a cold and from the wine. “I have no choice.”

“Wait there, Master Guest. I will get Master Langton.”

Crispin swayed with uncertainty. He knew the man was right, but he did not wish to delay. Jack was in grave danger. Who knew what those knights were doing to him?

It wasn’t long before Gilbert was at his side, and the clerk, too.

“What mischief is this, Crispin? Young Jack is in trouble?”

“And so he might be. Master Stotley, this clerk, says so.”

Gilbert eyed Stotley. “So he has said. What do you need of me? I am ready.”

Crispin heartened at Gilbert’s presence. “Draw your daggers, men. I know not what trouble Jack might be in.”

Flanked by his companions, Crispin hurried up the road and stopped before the stable, trying to sober himself with deep gulps of fresh air. The roof bowed inward, and bits of plaster had chipped away from the walls, leaving the wattle exposed. The stable looked to be abandoned, but Crispin knew that it was still in use, renting old horses to unwary travelers.

Crispin motioned for the two men to stand behind him while he reached for the door. Carefully, he pulled it open and peered inside. The stable was dark except for a lantern hanging by its chain from a post peg near the center of the straw-covered floor. A shaggy horse in a stall whinnied in agitation. The sharp smell of horse dung twined with the oily smoke from the lantern.

Jack stood under the lantern’s light. Two men each had him by an arm and were pulling those arms to their extremes, keeping him secure. Jack’s worn coat had been discarded and lay in the dirty straw. His shirt was rucked up over his shoulders, exposing his back. Coming closer, Crispin saw why. Behind him, the third man swung back his arm and delivered another stroke with a switch. From the look of agony on Jack’s profile and the sweat on his cheek, this had been going on a while. Yet he bit his lip bloody and made no sound except for a grunt when the switch fell.

Lurching forward, Crispin captured the man’s arm before he could swing the lash again. Grabbing the switch from him, Crispin broke it over his knee and cast the pieces to the ground. “What, by God’s bones, are you doing to that boy?”

The man glared, and Jack tried to twist around to look. His back was striped with red welts. But the men held him firm and he could only struggle and flick his head over one shoulder and then the other.

The spare lantern light slipped across the man’s face. A scar ran down his cheek from his eye to his chin. Lank blond hair fell to his shoulders in greasy strands. “This boy needs to learn how to speak to his betters. And he appears not to be the only one.” His hand slid toward his sword hilt but Crispin was quicker and before he could consider the consequences, his dagger was pressed to the blond man’s throat.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said Crispin, suddenly sober.

The other two men released Jack. He dropped to the hay-covered floor like a sack full of meal. They unsheathed their swords and Gilbert and the clerk drew back.

The blond man with Crispin’s dagger at his throat smiled. “Three swords to three daggers. I wonder who will win?”

“Well, I doubt they can save you before I slash a seam in your throat … my lord. So that will be one sword down.”

The man’s smile faded. “You realize what you are doing, knave?”

Crispin felt sweat break out on his face, though the stable was cold. “It’s not a very good position I’m in at the moment, is it? But neither is it good for you.” And he emphasized that by pressing the blade harder against his throat. The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

Crispin kept the dagger steady and glanced at the other swordsmen, who hesitated at their companion’s peril. He was in too deep. There was nothing for it but to get in deeper. “Will you drop your swords, or would you see your companion wear a crimson smile across his neck?”

There was much silent commiserating, but in the end, the swords clanged loudly onto the hard dirt floor.

Crispin studied the man he had captured. Well-bred, surcote, sword. Knights all, but it was too dim to see their arms properly. Each had different blazons. He could see that much. His dagger remained at the man’s shaven throat but his other hand grabbed the surcote at the collar. At this point his fuzzy brain was a little uncertain how to proceed.

“Jack, are you all right?”

The boy regained his feet and was easing down his shirt with a hiss between his teeth. He winced upon reaching to the floor to retrieve his soiled coat. “Aye, Master,” he said breathlessly. “As well as can be expected.”

“Is what this man says true? Did you not treat them with the proper respect?”

He stuck an arm in a coat sleeve and then carefully repeated the action with the other arm, but he left it unbuttoned. “I just done what you would have done-”

“Answer the damned question, boy!”

He hung his head. “Aye. I reckon.”

“Then what should you do now?”

Slowly, Jack got down on his knees and looked up at the knights surrounding him. “My lords. I beg your mercy. Please forgive me for speaking above my station. I meant naught by it. I only wanted to help my master, who cannot be blamed for my impertinence.”

The man held captive by Crispin glared into his eyes with a look that seemed to say otherwise.

Jack knelt for several moments before Crispin told him softly to rise. With a sigh, Crispin turned to the knights.

“My apprentice has apologized. I hope you can forgive him as good Christian knights. He is young and as yet inexperienced. Perhaps he failed to frame his questions with the right tone. And so I will attempt it.” Though he could well see the irony, as he had a dagger to one of the men’s throats. “You and your companions have not, by any chance, been to London Bridge of late, have you?”

The blond knight under Crispin’s dagger sneered. “We go to many places in London. Among them, Newgate. Perhaps you would also visit there again, Master Guest.”

Crispin paused at the use of his name. “No, thank you. I’ve seen enough of Newgate.”

“Have you? One wonders.” His eyes dropped to the knife again.

“There was a murder. A man was killed on the bridge last night. But rumors had it as suicide.”

“Maybe it was.”

“Oh no. I have seen much evidence to the contrary. The sheriffs are now treating it as a murder.” He hoped. “You were seen that night.”

“Oh? By whom? We shall visit them and ask them personally.”

Crispin did not look at Jack. “That won’t be necessary.”

The man’s expression did not change. “Are we done here, Master Guest?”

He tried one last time to make out their blazons in the dim light, but could see little. The wine also made certain of that.

Reluctantly, Crispin withdrew the dagger and stepped back, bowing deeply, hoping that the man would not now hew off his head while he was so vulnerable. “My sincerest apologies, my lords, and I beg your mercy for my foolish servant. And also I apologize most humbly for my own actions. My only excuse is that I was out of my mind for fear of my servant’s safety, for I alone am responsible for him.”

Crispin remained with his back bent and his head lowered, not daring to look up. This would either be the end of it … or the end of him.

A fist clouted the side of his head and toppled him. He rolled in the hay and righted himself, standing none too steadily. “I should kick you to death, Crispin Guest,” said the man he had captured, teeth gritted. He rubbed at his neck where the dagger’s blade had been. “But I know you. I should have known that this knave was yours. Have better care. And teach him some manners.” He swung a kick at Crispin, catching him in the shin. He went down on that knee as the man strode by him, pushing Gilbert and the clerk out of the way.

The other knights retrieved their swords and looked as if they, too, would clout him, but they merely sneered in his direction and left the stable, shouldering him roughly on their way out.

The shaggy horse seemed relieved and snorted once before its whiskered muzzle reached over the top of the wooden stall and it began chewing on the wood.

Crispin straightened and found Jack beside him, offering to help. The boy looked as chastened as a penitent, but that was not enough for Crispin. Without acknowledging him, he turned to the tavern keeper. “I thank you, Gilbert. And you, Master Lucas.”

The clerk bowed to Crispin. “Always willing to help.” He held out his hand and Crispin found there the coin he had given the man earlier. Crispin took it with a nod and clenched it in his fist.

“Home, Jack,” he rasped. He did not need to look back to know that the boy followed him.

Though it was only a few lanes to the Shambles, tonight it seemed like a much longer walk. Crispin was still in the throes of wine spirits and now the hot blood that had sustained him during the encounter had cooled. Jack followed silently behind and climbed the stairs to their lodgings with light steps.

Once Crispin unlocked the door and moved into their dark surroundings, Jack slipped past him and knelt at the fire. He immediately set to work churning the coals to a small flame.

Crispin sat on his bed and pulled off his boots.

Jack continued at the fire, breaking off a piece of peat and laying it on the glowing flames, watching it catch. The firelight flickered over his face and glossy eyes. It was only then, in the safety of their lodgings, that Jack’s emotions seemed to give way, and big, round tears overflowed his eyes and streaked trails down his cheeks. He stifled a sob and that was when Crispin rose from his bed.

He knelt beside the boy. “Does it hurt much?”

With tears still gliding down his face, Jack turned his amber eyes to his master. He slowly shook his head.

“Come now. That coat must be scratchy.”

“But it’s cold.”

“Here. I’ll help you put it on backwards.”

Jack allowed Crispin to help him off with his coat and then slip his arms in so the back of the cotehardie covered his chest. “Now turn your back to the fire and you will be warm enough.”

Crispin crossed the room to retrieve the wine jug and then a wooden bowl from the pantry shelf. He poured what was left into the bowl and handed it to Jack.

“No, sir. That is all we have.”

“In truth, I’ve had enough this day. Take it.”

Jack did and drank it thirstily.

Crispin watched him for a moment more before he sat on the floor next to him. He clasped his legs, rubbing his bruised shin, and positioned himself with his back to the flames as well.

“I think we both learned a lesson today.”

Jack wiped at his face, sniffing. “Aye. I learned not to be smart to my betters. I’m not you, after all. What did you learn?”

Crispin stared straight ahead at the legs of the table and at the shadows climbing up the door and walls. “I learned that I must remember you are still only fourteen.”

“But sir!”

“Do you dare naysay me, you with a raw back? I should have inflicted those wounds myself. I still should.”

“Aye. You’d be in the right.”

“Of course I would! You’ve no right going about London behaving as arrogant as … as…”

“As you?”

He backhanded Jack on the ear, but out of the corner of his eye he could see the boy smiling. “As a lord. What the devil did you think you were doing?”

“I was questioning them. And they didn’t like it.”

“Of course they didn’t. All they saw was a scrawny apprentice harassing them.”

“I’m not scrawny,” he muttered.

“So you saw that lot on the bridge?”

“Aye. They was-were-standing in the back of the crowd, looking pleased about something.”

Crispin rocked on his haunches, thinking. “Did they tell you anything of worth?”

“No, Master. When I pressed them they did look surprised but then they got cross, as lordly men are like to do with my ilk.” He peeked at Crispin under the curled fringe at his brow. “Some get angrier than most.”

Crispin hid his smile by laying his cheek upon his upraised knees. “No doubt. Though I wonder at their mercy. I was surprised to get off with a bruised shin and nothing more. They were well within their right to kill me or have me arrested.”

“Perhaps they did not wish your attention, Master. The one man knew you.”

He lifted his head. “From that night or by my reputation?”

“Dunno. Either way, it is a good thing. But you are right in that they wish to be rid of you, which means they bear more scrutiny. Though … from a distance.” He studied Crispin’s profile. “I know why I suspected them, but why did you?”

“For one, I trust your judgment … mostly.” Jack’s cheeks reddened. “And for another, Anabel’s witnesses said as much.”

Jack sniffed and lowered his head. “So she is a better apprentice than me.”

“Don’t be a fool.”

Jack blinked, staring into the shadows until he slowly turned his face back to Crispin. His eyes were dark pits with the merest hint of a glittering reflection. Softly, he said, “I’m sorry, Master Crispin, for getting you into trouble.”

“I certainly don’t need help to get into trouble. I do it very well on my own, thank you.”

“Still.” Jack pulled fretfully at the frayed sleeve cuffs of his cotehardie. “I’m a terrible apprentice. I can’t even question people properly.” The hitch in his voice shouldn’t have disturbed Crispin since he was angry at the boy, but he suddenly realized that his anger had abated a while ago and now he was only relieved that Jack was alive with only a striped back. It could have gone much worse for him.

“You’ll learn. Take your time. And always, always show respect, especially to your betters. Do not be schooled by my actions for I have a long history with men of that station. Do as I tell you and not as I do.”

“Yes, Master Crispin.”

Fourteen. He recalled quite well what he was like himself at that age. Always ready to go fiercely forward to some dangerous enterprise. But he had had arms training to cool his blood and keep his itchy limbs occupied. He had even gone to war with Lancaster when he was only fifteen, but he was already well accomplished on a horse and with arms. Lancaster had made him glow with pride when he told him what a quick study he was, how well versed on battlefield tactics and how quick with a sword.

Jack was like a colt tied in a stable. He longed to stretch his legs and run wild.

“Let us both eat and then get some rest, Jack. We’ll have a busy day tomorrow.”

In the morning, Jack seemed to have recovered and was in fact whistling while preparing the hot water for Crispin’s morning ablutions.

Crispin, on the other hand, was nursing a headache from the previous night’s drinking. “Must you do that?” he grumbled.

“You look none too steady this morning, Master. How about I shave you?”

Crispin eyed him warily but decided the boy wanted to make up for yesterday. He nodded and let Jack assemble the basin, towel, soap, and razor on their table. Crispin sat with the basin in his hands while Jack soaped his face. Crispin sat very still as Jack, with face screwed up in concentration and teeth biting his overhanging tongue, carefully dragged the iron razor over Crispin’s cheek. It took longer than Crispin might have done, but both master and servant were pleased with the results.

Jack wrung the wet towel in the basin and dumped the water out the back garden window. “How come you don’t favor a beard, Master?”

Crispin wiped the remaining soap from his face with the back of his fingers and shrugged into a clean chemise. “I never cared for the look on me, Jack. Simple vanity.”

“You have a good strong face, sir. You don’t need no beard.”

“Flattery, Jack?” He pulled on his cotehardie and began buttoning. “I already forgave you for yesterday.”

Jack, face red as he put the razor back on its shelf, turned away from Crispin. “I know, sir. I just … want to make it up to you.”

“And you will. You will comport yourself better, will you not? You represent me when you conduct my business, Jack. I expect better.”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“Very well. That is done. I will work you hard today. We have a stop at the bridge and then to Islington.”

“What’s in Islington?”

“You’ll see.”

Jack remained quiet but alert. A little stiff from his beating, but he seemed to have recovered well, as the young often did. He strode alongside Crispin down the Shambles where it became East Cheap, swinging his long arms and darting his eyes to this and that, even turning his head and then his whole body to watch a pretty maid carrying a baby goat over her shoulders with a dog at her feet, urging her small braying herd of goats ahead of her. He walked backward and grinned at her. The girl noticed him, too, and turned to look back, offering a dimpled smile.

“Stop thinking with your cod, Tucker,” said Crispin out of the side of his mouth.

Jack turned a beaming smile toward him. “I can think with me brain at the same time, sir.”

He chuckled. “I’ve never met a man who could.”

A drizzle began, graying the streets before them. Some ran for the eaves of the shops and chatted with shopkeepers within. Others, like Crispin and Jack, lowered their faces, letting their hoods cover them as they trudged on.

After the bells of the churches rang Terce, they reached the bridge, paid their toll, and passed through the gatehouse. The rain was steady now, and they trod the rain-slickened lane to the armorer’s once again. The door was still boarded and there was a parchment with the seal of the sheriffs nailed to the door. Crispin didn’t bother to read it. He opened the window shutter, climbed up onto the sill, and jumped inside. Jack followed and they stood in the dark and musty shop side by side. Crispin strode immediately to a rack that held swords and lifted two of them free. He handed them both to Jack without a word.

They clattered in Jack’s clumsy embrace. “Er … sir? Are we … stealing these?”

“Of course not,” said Crispin, searching the room for what he sought. “We are only borrowing them. Ah!” He found a flail and a wooden shield sheathed with leather and handed those, too, to Jack. Jack fumbled with the new additions and cursed under his breath, trying to balance it all.

“That’s enough for now. Let’s go.”

Crispin, unencumbered, climbed out the window easily and waited on the street for Jack.

The shield made an appearance first on the window sill and then the arms clattered behind it, with only a tuft of ginger hair in the rear. “Master! I cannot climb with this burden.”

“Give it here.” Crispin snatched shield and swords and leaned them against the shop wall as Jack made his way over the window and down. He closed the shutter and picked up his burdens again.

“Where to now?” Jack looked around anxiously, and a few bridge folk did look at them with peculiar frowns.

“To Islington. To practice.”

“To practice what, sir?”

“Arms. You are sorely lacking in instruction, Jack. It is well past time I teach you to fight properly.”

It was still raining when they reached the fields outside of London. The archery butts stood alone and unmolested at the far end of the field but there were soldiers lingering under the trees, watching them warily.

As soon as Jack understood what Crispin meant to do with the weapons, he had a spring in his step and never complained at his ungainly burden. But once they reached the place, he dumped the weapons to the ground with an apologetic expression. He shook out his hands and stood silently, waiting for instruction.

Crispin smiled. The boy liked learning things. He had taken to reading and writing readily enough. But he could see now that the lad was more than ready for this particular tutelage.

“I want you to realize, Jack, that never should you raise a weapon to one of your betters. I am a different case, as you know. I did so with those knights last evening … and it was a mistake. I never should have done that. I was … perhaps a little in my cups.” It was embarrassing admitting it, but he knew that Jack knew it well. “And so this is only to teach you to defend yourself. Never should you challenge a man for a point of honor. That does not suit your status. Neither will you likely be carrying a sword … but one never knows. You can learn to fight with it at any rate, and use any other weapon like it to your advantage. So. Pick them up and give one to me. I will show you the basics.”

“Do I not need a shield, sir?” he said, eyeing the shield on the ground while he picked up both swords and handed one to Crispin.

“No. A good fighter does not need a shield. Indeed, it can sometimes get in the way.”

“Of one’s flesh, you mean,” he muttered.

“I wish Master Grey had had wooden practice blades but we will do our best not to injure each other, eh, Jack?”

“Aye, sir.” Jack clutched the hilt, blade down.

Crispin curled his hands around the grip of his weapon and felt the heft of it. It was a good sword. Good weight, good balance. He held it aloft and gave some practice swings, cutting the air with a whistle. Rain pattered off its shiny surface and he couldn’t help but smile to feel it in his hand. It almost made him feel like himself … yet that was all so long ago, and with an alarming pang in his heart, he realized that he didn’t know if he could quite recall anymore who he had been.

“Now Jack, observe. The blade, an edge on both sides. The guard.” He ran his other hand along the cross guard. “It protects your hand, gives you balance, and can be used in a manner of ways which I will show you anon. Here the pommel. Feel how heavy, how solid it is. It can also be used as a weapon.”

Jack followed his lead, holding the sword as Crispin did and running his hand over each part as Crispin enumerated them.

“Jack, you face your opponent, knees bent, ready for anything.” Jack did likewise, bouncing on his knees.

“And then-”

Crispin lunged, sword raised over his head to chop down.

With a shout, Jack raised his sword to block it. But metal did not touch metal.

Crispin slowly lowered the blade and laughed. “Excellent, Jack. You have superb instincts. We’ll do bladework first before I show you what your body should be doing.”

Crispin instructed him on using the sword, not only for chopping, but for swinging like a club, using as a hook with the cross guard, like a hammer with the pommel end, and then how to disarm with feet, dagger, and hands. Despite the rain, they were both in a sweat.

The boy never complained of growing tired, wet, or sore from his striped back. Jack’s eyes told Crispin all he needed to know. The lad gloried in arms training just as much as Crispin had. Such a pity that they had so little time with these weapons.

A crash in the underbrush. Crispin pivoted, brandishing his sword.

But it was only Ned, the scullion at the Boar’s Tusk, stumbling upon the wet grass with an exhausted breath. “Master Crispin,” he huffed as Crispin helped him to his feet. “I’ve been looking all over London for you!”

“For me?” His heart gave a shudder. “Gilbert and Eleanor? Are they in danger?”

“No, no, Master. Nothing like that.” His eyes took in the swords and then raked over Jack with a tinge of envy. “Your landlord, Master Kemp, came looking for you and Master Gilbert sent me to find you.”

“How did you know to come here?” asked Jack.

“I’d exhausted everywhere else and your master has been known to practice with the bow on the butts.” He turned to Crispin. “Your landlord, sir, says you are to come home at once. The sheriffs are awaiting you and will not leave until you make yourself known to them.”

Crispin exchanged looks with Jack before he handed his sword to Ned. “Ned, make sure these are returned to their owner. Er … give them to Master Coterel the tailor on London Bridge. And here. Two coins; one for your passage and one for your trouble.”

He dug into his pouch for the coins and left the weaponry behind as he ushered Jack quickly across the field to the road back to London.