Blood Lance

20

“Why are you here in England, Bishop Gutierrez? Should you not be at Lancaster’s side?”

The man strode to another candle and lit it with the one in his hand. Two other men moved out of the shadows and bowed warily to Crispin.

Gutierrez set both candles on the table and sat, offering places for both Chaucer and Crispin. “There is much to be done, Señor Guest. My Lord of Gaunt-that is, his grace the King of Spain-is poised for opposition. As his secretary, it is my duty to protect his interests.”

“And so you call him ‘king’?”

“Did not your own sovereign declare him so? Did he not crown the duke and his wife, the Lady Costanza, Easter last?”

“So I heard. He sailed to Spain with his family to claim his throne and to find husbands for his daughters. So why are you here?”

“As I said. To protect his interests.”

The other men stepped into the small circle of light cast by the candles. “May I introduce Don Lope Pérez and Don Gonzaluo de Castilla?”

“You rescued me in the alley.”

They bowed. “It was necessary,” said Don Lope. “It was I who spoke. Bishop Gutierrez said you would recognize his voice.”

“But why come to light now?”

He looked back at Gutierrez, who shrugged. “We should have hired you in the first place,” said the bishop, looking sternly at Chaucer.

Geoffrey smiled. “We all could have saved ourselves a great deal of trouble.”

“Except for the murders,” said Crispin. “They spoiled your plans.”

“Indeed.”

“It was those men, you realize. They killed the armorer and his apprentices. And they are working for the earl of Suffolk.”

“Madre santa,” said the bishop, becrossing himself. “Are they any closer to finding the Spear?”

Crispin ran his hand over his beard-roughened chin. “I don’t know. I don’t have any idea where it is or who might have it.”

“We must join forces,” said Don Lope.

Everyone was nodding, including Chaucer, but Crispin still had misgivings. “Gentlemen.” He rose. “I appreciate your sense of urgency. But I am accustomed to working alone.”

Chaucer edged closer. “You don’t trust us.”

He locked gazes with Geoffrey. There was hurt in his eyes but a hard edge, too. It soon smoothed to resignation. Finally, Chaucer looked away and masked his discomfort by toying with the poker. He jammed it into the fireplace, stirring the logs to a flame. “Master Crispin has little cause to trust me or you, Excellency.”

Gutierrez nodded. “I suspected as much. His grace the duke-the king-said the same to me. He said that even if he had given his word, it would mean little to Master Guest at this juncture. He also said he hoped that someday-someday soon-that Master Guest’s opinion would change.” He moved around the table and stood beside Crispin, studying him. “The two of you were close at one time. I wonder what has caused this rift between you?”

“My Lord of Gaunt is aware of the reasons and that is enough,” said Crispin. At least Lancaster didn’t expect him to jump to the orders of these Spaniards, no matter how seemingly close they appeared to do the duke’s bidding. The king’s, he reminded himself ruefully. He smiled to himself. Well, he was a king at last, though not of England as Crispin would have had it; as Crispin had tried to achieve, much to his chagrin now. After all, if he had not attempted that very thing nine years ago, his life, his status would not have been forfeit. He would still be a knight and in the personal retinue of Gaunt, wearing his colors and standing beside him while he sat on the throne of Spain.

Crispin turned toward the door. “My search continues,” he said over his shoulder.

“Will you keep us apprised, Master Crispin?” asked Gutierrez.

His hand paused over the latch. “I … cannot guarantee that, my lords.”

“But Master Crispin.” Gutierrez rushed to the door, pressing a hand against it, preventing him from leaving. “We have told you of our need. It is for the duke of Lancaster, I assure you.”

Crispin surveyed the Bishop of Dax, Lancaster’s longtime companion and secretary. The man was at his side when he traveled through Spain and sometimes to other places. “I have known you for years, sir.” He admired the man, for though he was a bishop, he was not afraid to pick up a sword, as he had done in the alley to protect Crispin. “But it is plain by your words that you do not know me.” He pulled at the door experimentally and Gutierrez slowly released the pressure, dropping his hand away. “The duke and I have a long history,” said Crispin. “And I seem to have a history of sorts with relics. Some would say I owe my loyalty to the duke. And some would say I owe my loyalty to God and to what belongs to Him. But in the nine years since my exile, I have learned to serve another master, that of myself and my intellect. If my intellect tells me to surrender the Spear to the duke, then I shall. But if it tells me to discard it down the deepest hole … well, gentlemen, then that is what I will do. Good day.”

He pulled open the door. Chaucer and Gutierrez rushed after him. “Crispin!” cried Chaucer. “You cannot mean what you say.”

“Geoffrey, I always mean what I say.”

Gutierrez blocked his path. Crispin stiffened. He did not like to use force on an old friend, and a bishop at that, but he would if necessary. “The relics of God, of His Son, should be in the hands of His clerics who know how to safeguard them and to put them to their proper use,” said the bishop. “Have a care, Crispin, in these grave decisions, or you may find yourself in opposition to the might of the Church.”

“It won’t be the first time, Excellency.” He waited. Gutierrez seemed to be deciding, and it was a long time until he slowly moved, stepping out of his way. Crispin didn’t look back as he walked stiffly across the gallery, down the stairs, and through the inn to the door.

He stood in the street, debating with himself. In truth, he felt a bit lost. Was it a Spanish plot? Or was it what Chaucer would have him believe it was? A scheme to get the Spear’s power into the hands of Lancaster? For as much as he had seen, he still did not know if he believed in the power of relics. There were many explanations to cover their seeming miracles. So he told himself. But if it did have great power, then why did he hesitate to surrender it to the duke? He was more than his liege lord. He was far closer than that. At least, at one time this was so.

“God’s blood!” he hissed into the bleak sunlight. He started walking, little caring in what direction.

If it were a true relic with power, then he would see it safe away, out of the greedy hands of men. For who was to say that it would stay in the hands of the duke? Others could take it and use it for their own purposes. What if it fell into the hands of the French? No, if he found it-when he found it-he couldn’t allow it into the hands of just any man.

His mind whirred with all the players laid across his path: There was Thomas Saunfayl, now in custody. Damn, he should have asked Chaucer where that was. But, listening with a tilt to his head, he knew all he had to do was wait, and Chaucer would present himself.

After all, if he didn’t know better, he would say those were his steps following him on the empty street.

He turned toward a shadowed wall and leaned against it, pulling his cloak about him to stave off the cold sweeping up through the lane. A mist had rolled in, obscuring even the nearest houses.

The soft footfalls slowed to a stop and Crispin smiled a feral grin. “Join me, Geoffrey?”

A pause.

Then out of the mist, “How did you know it was me, damn you?”

A figure stepped out of the gloom and approached and soon joined him against the wall. “You have become a very cautious man.”

“Would that I had done the same nine years ago, eh?”

“Yes.”

They stood silently, neither looking at the other.

“It occurred to me, Geoffrey, that I do not know where Sir Thomas is being held and I should speak to him before his trial.”

“He is in Newgate. The trial is tomorrow.”

“That’s very … soon.”

“The king is anxious for a distraction. He wants the joust to commence quickly. Some of the knights left behind by Lancaster’s expedition would enjoy the entertainment. They have become restless while awaiting a thwarted French invasion.”

“The invasion that never was.”

“Indeed. I admit it’s been a while since I’ve seen a joust, though I doubt I shall enjoy this one overmuch. Thomas has been loyal to Lancaster. If he prevails the duke will take him back … though he will send him far away back to his estates.”

“And if he dies on the lists?”

“Well, that is the way of it, Crispin. No general can countenance a coward.”

Kicking at the mud, Crispin nodded. “I know.” He gazed at his boot a while longer before lifting his face. “Geoffrey, do you ever get the feeling that events, people, are always in flux? That we are not the masters of our universe as we thought?”

He chuckled. “Oh yes. We are only allowed to play in the garden but for a little while … until the storm drives us away. Changes, yes. We grow older, that is a certainty. Politics sweep over the continent with each whimsical breeze and we are caught up in it like autumn leaves. We grasp it for but a moment and then … it is loose again, whipping in another direction. We think we are the puppet masters but it is an illusion. We are helpless after all. And I tell you, Cris, with all that I have done and in all my travels and dangerous dealings, with all my confidence either deserved or undeserved, never have I felt so helpless and in need of God’s good grace than when my children were born. As simple as that. The master of my house and a man of duty and purpose, but powerless in the lying in.”

“So I have heard similar tales from others.”

He looked at Crispin steadily. “None of your own?”

He shook his head. “And Lancaster’s children are all grown. I sometimes felt like … well. An uncle, perhaps. I stumbled upon Henry, Lord Derby, just the other day.”

“No! Well, he’s quite the man now.”

“Yes, he is. I do regret missing his childhood.” He was being a fool, he knew it. Wallowing in his morose past? He could use a wine bowl about now.

“But it is God who guides our lives,” said Chaucer. “And so it is a vain and foolish thing to imagine we have reign over our destinies. When we sin we ignore His good council. When we thrive it is because we are living holy lives.”

Crispin laughed. “Geoffrey. You? A holy life?”

“I resent the implication, Cris. I am a model husband. I am a good citizen and a loyal servant of Lancaster and the Church.”

“And a member of Parliament, don’t forget that on the accounts, Geoffrey.”

Chaucer huffed. “You are making light of me.”

Crispin smiled. Geoffrey always was easy to insult. “Not so light. You have done well. You must know something of Heaven that I don’t.”

“I fear God, Cris. For the life of me, I do not think that you do. You are forever Jacob wrestling with angels.”

The smile faded. “Perhaps.”

“Why not give Lancaster the Spear?”

“Aren’t you putting the cart before the horse? I haven’t got it yet.”

“But I know you will get it. Since last year I have been following your exploits, looking into your history.”

“Oh?” A warm glow settled in his chest. “Are there histories of me?”

“Once your name was whispered in secret corners. People are most anxious to talk of you now in voices that have the sound of admiration. If I were King Richard I’d be worried.”

“He has nothing to fear from me. I am entirely repentant and reformed, a devoted champion for the crown.”

“So I also hear.”

Now his friend’s warm scrutiny began to irritate. He pushed away from the wall and started walking. Geoffrey trotted to catch up.

“I will not surrender the Spear to Lancaster. I will give it to the Church where it belongs. If I find it.”

“You will.” Geoffrey halted, letting Crispin walk ahead. “Think, Cris,” he called, “what Gaunt could do with it.”

“I am thinking of it, Geoffrey,” he said over his shoulder.

Crispin decided to go to Newgate that day. It was possible the serjeant would not let him in, but it was also possible he would. And without the interference of the sheriffs. That would be a boon.

Crispin approached the stark exterior of Newgate’s damp stone walls. A cresset burned in the archway and he entered under it, rousing the sleepy guard, who blinked at Crispin in surprise. “Master Crispin? What would you be doing here?”

“I have come to visit a prisoner.”

“Have you permission of the sheriffs, sir?”

“I am certain the sheriffs would not object. As you know, they are curious about my exploits. They would not want to interfere in them.”

The man scratched his head through his leather cap. “We-e-ell, seeing that you have been here before and that it is well known these sheriffs favor you, I suppose I can allow you through. But don’t make no mischief, Master Crispin.”

“Me? Mischief?”

The guard scowled as he reached for the keys to unlock the gates. He pulled them open with a rusty whine. “Er … which prisoner, sir?”

“Sir Thomas Saunfayl. Where are they keeping him?”

The guard gasped. “Curse me, I should have asked you that first. No one is allowed to see that particular prisoner, Master.” He gestured for Crispin to go back through the gate, but Crispin had already put a foot on the first step of the stairwell leading up into the tower.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll see that all is accounted for.”

“No, Master Crispin, you must come back down, sir. I am not allowed to let you up.” His hand twitched near his sword.

Halfway around the curved corner, Crispin peered back at the now perspiring guard. “All is well, good sir. I won’t tell anyone you let me up.” Crispin didn’t wait, but quickly made his way through the shadowed stairwell, the swearing rant of the guard below disappearing into echoes.

Sir Thomas was likely housed in the better cells, more like chambers with a hearth and a cot with a straw mattress. He headed down the gallery toward the nearest cell and peered through the barred window in the door. “Sir Thomas!” he rasped.

A stirring. Someone shuffled toward the door and Crispin could see his face. A faint glow from the hearth behind him lit a forlorn countenance. “Crispin.”

“Thomas. Geoffrey told me he had found you.”

He nodded listlessly. The knight looked haggard and drawn.

“The trial is on the morrow.”

“It is not so much a trial as a hearing. The joust is to be tomorrow afternoon as well. That is my true trial.”

“Well, better to get it over with, eh?”

“Yes. Over with.” He sighed. “Crispin, I am weary of this world. I shall be glad of my fate.”

“Thomas! Don’t talk like that. You are a fine warrior and a valiant knight. You will prevail. Pray on it.”

“My praying is done. Without the Spear, all is lost.”

Crispin gripped the grille and drew himself right to the window. “Dammit, Thomas! You mustn’t speak like that. Do not give in to melancholy. You should have seen a barber. You should at least have been bled to restore your humors.” The man was exasperating! He had surrendered before the fight was ever fought. No wonder he found himself in peril.

He pushed it aside. There was other business that needed attending to. “Thomas, you must tell me about this relic. How did you hear of it?”

His eyes rose toward Crispin at last and a rueful twitch of lips was the only expression he wore. “Rumor. I was lucky.”

“This is no time to lie. I saw the letter you wrote to Roger Grey.”

Thomas frowned. “And so. You have discovered all my secrets. Why ask me, then, except to trap me in a lie, another sin?”

“I am not trapping you. I merely need to know. Did you intercept this relic that was meant for the duke?”

“Yes!” he cried suddenly. “I had the greater need. He had already conquered his foes. Many times! What need did he have? I heard Chaucer talking with that Spanish bishop who cleaves to Lancaster’s side. I got the name of the man who was retrieving the Spear. My runners were faster. I sent gold, more than what Chaucer was going to send. I got there first! It was mine!” His eyes, wide and wild, searched Crispin’s. “Grey was cheating me, is that it? There was no Spear?”

Shaking his head, Crispin released the grille, its cold still permeating his hands. “I am uncertain of that. Chaucer and others seemed to believe Grey had the Spear. If he hid it, then it is hidden well. Who else might have stolen it, Thomas? I know Geoffrey was after it. And Juan Gutierrez.”

“He is here?”

“Yes, and with two Spanish knights. Also … the earl of Suffolk. He, too, sent men for it. They killed Grey but they were unable to find the Spear. Who else, Thomas? There must be someone else.”

He shook his head and finally rested it against the iron grille. “I don’t know. Don’t you see? There could be any number of people who could have known.”

Crispin did see. So many were now implicated. Lucas Stotley, for one. And Lenny for another. Lucas hired Lenny to steal the rent money but he could have told him about the Spear. And maybe even the landlord, for he might also be involved. And then there was Anabel, the one who kept the most secrets. He was certain now that she knew more than she had let on. It was entirely possible she had known of the Spear all along and might even have already sold it to the highest bidder. This certainly warranted more scrutiny.

“You are right, of course,” he said vaguely to the knight.

“Crispin,” he said quietly. “Will you be there? At the joust?”

“Of course. And I shall be cheering the loudest when you win and prove yourself.”

He smiled. “You are a good friend. I have been a poor one to you. I abandoned you with all the others because that is what we were told to do.”

“Thomas-”

“But you have never abandoned me, even in my blackest hour. Knowing full well that I am a coward and deserter. You made an oath to me and you have kept it. I release you, then. You owe me nothing more. Nothing more than what you wish to give. It’s a shameful thing, what happened to you, Crispin.”

“And you tried to talk me out of it, risking your own neck. I owe you more than I can give, Thomas. I was guilty of treason. I should not now be standing before you.”

“Your crime was in being faithful to Lancaster, your liege lord. A ten-year-old boy was not fit to be king. Perhaps we all should have looked at that with more care.”

“Richard is the rightful heir. Lancaster has been his steward. The kingdom has not crumbled while he reigns. I was mistaken.”

“Perhaps. But storm clouds are coming, Crispin. Next year when the king comes into his full majority, what will happen then? With men like Suffolk and Oxford at his side, what will happen then?”

“We will see, Thomas. I will not worry over it now. I worry over you. I will be on hand tomorrow afternoon on the bridge and you will win.”

Thomas chuckled low in his chest. He shuffled away from the door and sat on the scraped and chipped chair in front of his meager fire. “We shall see. We shall see.”

* * *

THE DAY DAWNED COLD but clear. Excitement was in the air, even on the Shambles. Jousts had been rare of late and this one on London Bridge was positioned to be a memorable one. It was rumored that King Richard would be there. Ordinarily, that would have made Crispin think twice about going, but he had promised Sir Thomas, and there was no way around it.

Jack was buzzing with enthusiasm. His brief bout with weapons practice had not sated his appetite for action, only whetted it. Yet even through Jack’s excitement, he had the aplomb to try to curb it. After all, he knew that they were going to see Crispin’s old friend destroy himself. For Crispin sensed that Thomas had already surrendered.

They were on their way to an execution.

But there was time before it all began. They were early yet, even though most of London was heading in the direction of the bridge. There was time to go to the Unicorn Inn and confront Anabel.

Jack was silent at his side, wearing his new blue coat from Robert Coterel’s talented hands. There was much to say but Crispin wanted to speak of it to Anabel, to push her against the wall, not in a passionate embrace, but to strangle the truth out of her.

And the more he brooded on it the more he convinced himself that she had more to do with the disappearance of the Spear than she had let on. She certainly knew Lucas Stotley, and if her loquacious neighbor could be believed, knew him very well. Even her father had corroborated that relationship, though little he understood of it. She was worse than a whore, then, for not only did she receive money for the favors she doled out, but she schemed ever greater. And schemed with Lucas Stotley. He didn’t know how and to what extent, but he was damned well going to find out.

They reached the street where the inn lay between a two-story house and an open field with a view of a wharf stretching its wooden piers into the Thames. Muscles tensing, Crispin entered and climbed the stairs as Jack directed. They reached the door, where Crispin knocked. He waited, wondering if he should send Master Coterel on some errand. It seemed the merciful thing to spare him the ugly truth about his daughter.

There was no reply, no shuffling of feet, no movement of furniture. He knocked again and again heard nothing. He grabbed the latch and when it yielded, he pushed open the door.

The room was empty but for the furniture, a cold hearth, and Lucas Stotley lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood.