Blood Lance

5

His face was windblown, lined, and tanned. He looked older than his thirty or so years. There was even gray at his temples, but he was still as trim as Crispin remembered him. His clothes were as fine, too, and his horse, a sturdy chestnut stallion. He wore his surcote over his clothes, the green and white colors bright, even with mud speckling it. And though the greaves covering his shins were mud-spattered and dented, parts of them still had a silvery gleam. It looked as if the man’s fortunes had not changed as severely as Crispin’s. And why should they have?

“Thomas,” said Crispin without thinking. When his mind caught up, he found, to his shame, that he was obliged to bow. Bow to a man who had sometimes been his equal on the lists and in battle. But a man who had not been his equal in social standing. If anything, he had been lower than Crispin. Yet now it was Crispin who bowed, and not Sir Thomas.

Sir Thomas’s face showed that he recognized the irony, too. He simply stood, staring at his onetime friend, unable to say anything for his surprise.

Jack and Anabel stood off to the side, silent.

Crispin cleared his throat. “Jack, may I present Sir Thomas Saunfayl.” Jack bowed low and remained quiet. He seemed to sense Crispin’s mood. He was good at that after three years of knowing him.

The knight made a cursory glance at Jack but fixed his eyes again on Crispin, scouring him with his gaze. Slowly he approached, lifted his arms, and grasped Crispin tightly at his shoulders. “Crispin, Crispin. My God. I thought you were dead.”

He barked a laugh, enduring the grasp. “Not dead. Not yet.”

“But…” Sir Thomas looked him over from head to foot. At least his coat was only a year old now, not the beaten and patched cotehardie he had worn for years. But his stockings had seen better days and the soles of his shoes were loose and flapping. He wore only a dagger at his side, not a sword, not as Sir Thomas sported, hanging from its frog at the stout leather belt.

Crispin was starkly aware of his only ornament, the signet ring upon his finger, a bauble he had denied himself for too many years. But the Guest arms belonged to him and, now more than ever, he felt the need to display them, if not on a surcote then at least on his family ring.

Thomas shook his head. “I thought … when we’d heard you were convicted of treason…”

He offered a smile he did not feel. “His grace the duke spoke for me. He saved my life but little else.”

Thomas whistled low. He could not seem to tear his eyes away from Crispin’s face. But his stare was becoming uncomfortable and Crispin moved out of his grasp and toward the armorer’s shop to redirect the conversation if not the man’s gaze. “Were you a patron of Roger Grey’s?”

That seemed to snap him out of it and he straightened his surcote. “I … yes. But … there seems to be some devilry here.”

“Indeed.” Crispin’s eyes caught on Anabel, who had not moved and looked on with a tight expression. “Master Grey was murdered last night.”

“No! No, that can’t be!” He rushed into the shop again. Crispin and Jack followed.

Thomas tore about the room, tossing blankets and benches aside. “Where is it?”

Anabel entered, still silent. She merely blinked at Crispin and accepted the knight’s intrusion without comment.

Folding his arms across his chest, Crispin watched the further destruction of the room for a few moments more before asking, “Where is what, Sir Thomas?”

Bending over a box of kindling the man suddenly froze. He straightened and squared his shoulders. “I am brokenhearted over these tidings of Master Grey.”

I can see that, mused Crispin.

Flustered, Thomas faced him, caught again by the specter of Crispin with his head firmly on his shoulders. His hands twitched over his sword hilt, but not because he wished to draw it. Instead, they seemed to twitch from some other irritation that Crispin could not see. He was sweaty and breathing in a quickened rate, like a rabbit or a bird. His eyes would not light on any one thing, but ticked to this and that about the room, an aimless amble that made Crispin nervous.

“I am surprised to see you, too, Sir Thomas,” Crispin said stiffly. They had been friends and he hated this formality that now they were forced into. “Not only for the years that have passed but because … well, because I expected a knight such as yourself to be in the company of the duke in Spain.”

The man’s eyes widened, and he took a staggering step back. He whirled away with unnecessary vigor and stalked toward the window. His gloved hand found the topmost sill and grasped it. He stared down into the churning water of the Thames.

“Have a care,” said Crispin. “Master Grey met his doom out that selfsame window.”

“Did he?” came the soft reply. Thomas did not move but continued to stare down, enchanted by the sight of water and foam surging past the piers and arches, of the boats doing their best to navigate those treacherous waters, for few dared shoot through the bridge when the tide was high.

Crispin cautiously approached and stood behind him only a few feet away. “Yes. They said it was suicide but I have since discovered it was murder.”

Thomas’s spine stiffened to hear Crispin’s words so close to him. Still, he did not turn. “And what are you now? The sheriff?”

“No. They call me the Tracker. I sometimes get called upon to solve the occasional murder.”

“By God. You’re the Tracker? That wily fellow one hears no end about? Well, I should say I am not surprised. You were always a clever man, Crispin. A clever man. You even slipped the noose. How clever must a man be to escape death when he has committed treason?” The last was said with a bit more fire than his other words, and Crispin could tell the man’s body was tense and winding tighter. “So clever. You’re laughing at them all, I suppose. So many other knights, good men, were executed. How is it you were spared?”

Crispin felt a sharp spasm of remorse wash through him. Yes, many had died, and he often asked himself why Lancaster chose to spare him alone. Of course he knew the answer. The duke was like a father to him, and he a surrogate son. If any were to be spared it would have been him. But it didn’t lessen the guilt.

Thomas answered his own query. “How like Lancaster to spare you. How many times had he pulled your hide from the nettles, eh? Isn’t this just once more?”

The irate tone and the sneer on his face were peculiar for the man Crispin had known. But nine years had passed since Crispin’s disgrace and he realized he didn’t truly know Thomas Saunfayl any longer.

He lowered his head. “You may be right. I certainly didn’t deserve it. But each day I pay my penance in my way.” He stepped closer and said in a quiet voice, “I should have listened to you. You told me not to follow the conspirators. You tried to warn me. I owe you for that, my lord.”

Thomas began to laugh, a high-pitched, raw sound that had little to do with humor. “‘My lord,’ you call me. Ah, Crispin, I remember well my calling you by that title. How many times?”

There was nothing to say. Crispin felt the words scrape over him like nails over naked flesh.

They both stood immobile for too long before Thomas surged away again, marching through the room, looking again for … something.

“What can I help you with, Sir Thomas?”

“It’s none of your affair, Guest.”

“Forgive me, my lord, but it is very much my affair. I have been charged with discovering the murderer and this is the scene of that crime.” It wasn’t strictly true that he was “charged” with finding the murderer, but the sheriffs would be amused that he should try, and when pressed they would agree, he was certain. Partially certain.

Thomas grimaced over his shoulder at him, one canine tooth digging into his lip. “You are the devil, Guest. You were always getting into affairs that were none of your business. So you make a living at it now, eh? Well.”

“Yes. A living. I get paid my fee for discovering that which is secret and unknown. Being hired makes it my business. Sometimes unpleasant truths are uncovered. Sometimes secrets must be revealed. For instance. You are here in England when the rest of the chivalry are with my lord of Gaunt. I wonder why.”

A hit. The knight’s face darkened. He strode up to Crispin and sunk a fist into his coat, hauling him forward an inch from his face. Harsh breath rasped over his cheek. “Who do you think you are talking to? Some lackey? I am a knight of the realm! And what are you?”

“At your mercy,” said Crispin simply.

All at once the man deflated. He released Crispin and stepped back. Passing a hand over his face he breathed in short, halting breaths. “I don’t know why I did that. F-forgive me, Crispin.” When he looked up again his gaze swept once over the woman and a feral expression overtook his face again. “What do you want?”

“I … I have hired Master Guest.”

He threw back his head and howled a laugh. “Indeed. Wenches hire you now, do they?”

“I earn my coin where I may. Honestly.”

“Honestly? A traitor’s honesty.” The remorseful expression was gone and he took on the cloak of a demon again. Crispin found it difficult to keep pace.

Thomas gestured toward the woman. “I don’t want her here, Guest. Send her away.”

Crispin hesitated. After all, he needed the woman in order to do his investigating. But looking at the man’s face and the struggle within him, he did not think he could argue. Before he had a chance to say anything, Thomas lunged at her.

She let out a yelp as he closed his hands over her arm and thrust her toward the door. “Get out, wench! Out!” He kicked at her, and she sobbed on her way through the entry, hurt eyes meeting Crispin’s once before she was gone.

Thomas slammed the door and stared at it, breathing hard before his shoulders sagged again. He scrubbed at his face. “I never meant to do that.”

Crispin glanced once at Jack cringing against the wall. “For God’s sake, Thomas! What ails you? I have never seen you behave so. What has happened to you?”

He bobbed his head in what Crispin took for a nod. “Very well. I … I must tell you, then. I must.”