Blood Lance

22

With numbed fingers, Crispin unbuttoned his cotehardie, and when it lay open like the skin of a butchered animal, Thomas took it from him and slipped it over his own shoulders.

Jack stood at the tent door, guarding the entrance, alternating his attention between the doorway and Crispin.

Thomas said nothing more as he helped arm Crispin. There was little left to be said. Crispin knew he should be praying, but he felt weightless, as if this was happening to another, and he couldn’t come up with even the simplest of prayers. Instead, he stood like a child being dressed by his nursemaid, arms out, as Thomas slipped him into the sleeves of the aketon, pulled it taut against his chest, and laced it up.

Next, he lifted the mail shirt from its stand. Crispin bent forward and let Thomas slip the habergeon over his head, arms through the sleeves. When he straightened, he felt the weight of it resting over his shoulders as it flowed down his body to his upper thighs.

Thomas then knelt and held a sabaton for Crispin to slide his boot-clad foot into. The fit was tight-after all, it was made to fit Sir Thomas-but the straps and spurs held it in place. It would have to do. On one knee, Thomas unstrapped the greaves from his own shins and clapped them over Crispin’s, pulling the leather straps tight. He rose for only a moment and that was to retrieve the cuisses from the arming table. He soon knelt again and affixed them to Crispin’s thighs, pulling the leather buckles almost painfully taut. Crispin didn’t complain. He accepted it as he accepted all of it.

The poleyns were next, fitting just over Crispin’s exposed kneecaps.

As the armor rose up his body, so did the fear at what was about to happen. His mouth felt dry. How he wished he had spent the day in the Boar’s Tusk rather than coming here. His mind raced with the things he had yet to achieve. There was bringing Osbert and his ilk to justice, for one. And Anabel. She had yet to be dealt with. And then there was the Spear. Its fate was still unknown. If it did confer the power the abbot claimed it did, it was a dangerous object.

The abbot. Nicholas, his friend, dying at his estates. He would have liked to spend some time with the old man, perhaps played a last game of chess. How Nicholas would wag a finger at him now if he saw what foolery Crispin had let himself get into.

Then there was Lancaster. He would have liked to have seen Lancaster one more time. His anger at the duke for deceiving him, for putting him in the state in which he now lived, had suddenly dispersed. The fear at his impending doom appeared to have chased it into the mist.

And finally there was Jack. His gaze found his apprentice, one eye glued to the slit of the tent flap. That clever boy. Crispin did not fear for Jack Tucker now. He had skills he could use. He would have to hone them but he could do it. He could succeed Crispin. True, he could do with a few more years in his apprenticeship, for he would stumble and get into trouble, but he was sharp. He would survive.

Crispin jerked at the suddenness of the breastplate entombing him. The heaviness of it seemed to rob him of his breath. He could not help but gasp for air even as Thomas bound him within. He put his hand to it, feeling the smooth planes of steel, the delicate carvings that made up the arms of Saunfayl. It was beautiful armor. A shame he could not fully appreciate it.

The tassets were next, articulated plates hanging over his privities and backside. Then his arms, then the gauntlets, the padded arming cap for his head, and then the mail coif over that with its wide camail that flowed across his chest and over his shoulders. He felt light-headed. Was he being choked to death by the very armor that served to protect him?

Thomas approached him with the helm and Crispin-feeling stiff and unfamiliar in the constricting armor-could only watch as the knight lifted it like a coronation crown, and lowered it over him. Time seemed to stop. Ears already padded by layers of cloth, batting, and a mesh of steel were further chambered by the helm. His vision was now relegated to trim rectangular slits. His breathing was harsh and loud within the confines of the steel encasing him and smelled of oiled metal. Thomas pushed the visor up and Crispin breathed freely again, at least as freely as the weighty breastplate would allow. It seemed heavier than he was used to, but ten years separated the last time he had worn any kind of armor, so he knew his memory was frail at best.

Thomas strapped the belt with its decorated scabbard about Crispin’s metal-clad waist. He walked over to the fallen sword and took it up. Thomas did not move, looking at it for a long moment. He had meant to take his life with it. Crispin wondered what was going through Thomas’s mind as he returned to Crispin and essentially surrendered it to him. His eyes met Crispin’s briefly before he rested the tip at the opening of the scabbard before shoving it in.

Crispin huffed a muffled sound deep in his chest. Was it a laugh? Was it relief? Here he stood, dressed as the knight he used to be, sword at his side. He closed his eyes, savoring the moment. Dammit, if he were to die today, then he’d much rather end his life like this, dressed as he was born to be.

Eyes still closed, he rolled his shoulders experimentally. The leather squeaked. His muscles rippled under the sussurating mail. The plates of armor clacked over the others. Yes. He remembered. He moved his arms, bending and extending them. He raised each leg in turn, felt the solid metal encasing him. He reached over to the scabbard-just where it was supposed to be-and closed his gauntleted hand over the sword hilt. With a hiss of steel, he pulled it free and swung it, satisfied with the expected whistle through the air.

He couldn’t resist looking at Jack. There was still terror in his eyes, but there was now something more. His mouth parted in what looked like awe. He realized that Jack was seeing him for the first time as he should have been. Walking toward his apprentice, armor clanking, he smiled at the novelty of the armor moving with him. Sheathing the sword, he rested his hand on Jack’s shoulder.

“Well, Jack. Here I am at last.”

The corners of the boy’s mouth curled up in a fond smile and in a whispered voice he said, “You don’t look no different to me, Master Crispin.”

Suddenly, all that Crispin wished to say gathered as a knot in his throat. He opened his mouth but could not speak. Instead, he nodded and slowly closed the visor with a solid click.

Thomas peeked out the tent flap. “They are coming.” He grabbed Crispin’s hood and thrust it over his own head, pulling it low as he moved into the shadows, dressed as Crispin had been.

The squire near the entrance stopped the men from approaching, but Thomas cried loud enough for them to hear, “I’m coming out!”

He nodded to Crispin and Crispin nodded once to him. He curled a gauntlet into a fist and lightly tapped Jack’s chest with the steel knuckles before he took a deep breath, grabbed the tent flap, and stepped outside.