Cup of Blood

CHAPTER ONE

London, 1384

Cold. His fingers were cold. Digging them into his tunic sleeves did little good, as ragged and as full of holes as they were.

Jack Tucker lifted his face to the wet sky. Droplets pelted his numbed cheeks, but he barely felt them. Yanking his hood lower over his face, he scanned the street. So few were abroad now, what with the rain and the dim moonlight peeking beyond the tall buildings and shops. The bells in the nearby churches were tolling compline and soon the Watch would be roaming the streets, looking for stragglers like him.

“Jack.” It was almost a growl but it was only because it came out a gravelly whisper. He turned, looking for the maker of the sound and found him in the doorway of an abandoned shop. Jack’s eyes widened as he slowly approached.

The face of the young man looked far older than his fourteen or fifteen years, and Jack swallowed, looking him over. “What you doing there, Will?”

Will made a movement that might have been a shrug. “Spare a coin for your old friend?”

Jack approached and then saw the leg. It was twisted and the scant stocking covering it was torn and damp from sores and running pus. He gasped and then looked again into Will’s face. Will was the smartest lad he knew, taught him some of his trade in purse-cutting. Now his bright eyes were dull and shadowed. Jack’s gaze fell again to the sour leg, the leg that was slowly killing him.

“What happened, man?”

Will’s mouth curved up in a slight smile. “Rat bit me. I think. So here I now sit.”

Running a hand over the back of his neck, Jack crouched low. He couldn’t stop staring at the leg and the horror of it. “By the saints, Will. How could a small bite do that to you? You were as hearty and hale as me.”

But now that he was closer, Jack noted the sallow and sweat-damp cheeks and how sunken-in they were.

He’d been saving the hard crust of bread in his pouch for later. The last time he’d had a bite to eat was that morning and he well knew the dreadful hollow feeling. But without another thought, he threw open the flap of the scrip at his belt and withdrew the crust, handing it to Will. “Here, Will. Take it. And this, too.” His fingers lighted on a coin-the only one he had-and gave it over.

“Ah, look at you, Jack,” he said, closing his fingers on the bounty. “That’s right charitable of you, my lad.”

Still crouching, Jack rocked back. He said nothing as Will nibbled on the crust, tumbling crumbs onto his breast. He’d seen it before, many times. The pallid complexion, the slow movements, the deadened eyes. Will hadn’t long. And with a jolt to his heart, he knew it could easily have been him, dying alone in an abandoned doorway.

He snapped to his feet.

“I…I have to go.”

Will nodded. Yes, he knew. Knew that boys like the two of them saw death regularly on the streets of London. Saw it, skirted it, said their prayers, and moved on. Jack’s charity was a small kindness that would not last. But Jack vowed that if he could get a purse or two this night, he’d come back and share it with Will, bring him something warm to drink maybe.

“I have to go,” he said again.

Will merely closed his eyes and laid his head back against the doorpost. The hand holding the bread drooped over his chest.

Swallowing hard, Jack rose and trotted away. He becrossed himself and looked back, but saw only shadows. He would return, he vowed, though his guts churned from the thought of that leg, of Death hovering so closely. The fear of it kept him moving.

A boy on the streets courted Death, at least that’s what Will used to say. Courted her, bowed to her, but you were to always keep your distance. A clever young lad could avoid her grasping hands. But not always, they had both noted silently when they’d seen boys floating face down in the Thames, or broken in an alley from a man who hadn’t liked getting his purse cut.

He turned a corner, just another corner like any other in London. He looked back once, and then only ahead.

Shopkeepers urged their young sons and apprentices with a gentle nudge to their shoulders, heading indoors. Some of the boys were little older than Jack.

An ale stake rose out of the gloom and then the sound of a pipe filtered onto the muddy lane from the shuttered window. A tavern. That meant warmth and perhaps a purse or two to cut. The painted sign was of a spiraled horn. Tusk, maybe?

“God be praised,” he muttered, blowing on his fingers. Had to bring life back into them if he was to do a proper job of it.

Gingerly, he pushed open the heavy oaken door and glanced about the dim room. So few men. There was one slumped over the table. His arms were crossed before him and he was surrounded by many bowls of wine. He sat next to a slumping man, a servant likely, from the badge on his arm.

Looking across the room through the haze of smoke, he saw another asleep by the fire. And yet another man at another table, barely able to sit up as he swayed, staring morosely into his horn beaker. A piper played in a corner, and it appeared that the tavern keeper was himself asleep, leaning back against the wall on his three-legged stool.

Jack raised his face to the heavens and smiled. Ah, blessed saints. You are looking out for a poor thief like me.

If he could cut the drunken men’s purses and make off, he’d eat tonight. If he was able to find a baker with his shop still open and buy a day-old pie, something with some meat in it, that would fill his belly. That would be worth it. And he could share it with Will, who could use a few hours with a friendly face.

Yes. He’d get in and get out. No need to linger. Though the warmth on his cheeks was particularly inviting.

He slipped past the door and made his way carefully toward the hearth. He couldn’t help himself and stood before it, warming his face and hands. He almost groaned from the wonderful heat. But he knew he had a job to do.

Turning to the first man asleep near him, he crept closer. The man’s rust-colored cotehardie looked as threadbare as Jack’s own tunic, with a few missing buttons on his sleeve and shiny at the elbows where the material-good wool, he noticed-was nearly worn through. His black hair hung long over his face, hiding his features, and the man’s fingers, curled on the table, were dirty and calloused. He wondered what manner of work the man did, but only briefly. He didn’t truly care. Only that the man’s purse had at least some silver in it, though by the looks of him, he likely didn’t have much.

Jack glanced once more back toward the snoring tavern keeper, and drew his small knife. The piper played on and never seemed to notice what Jack was about.

Jack listened intently to his victim, to his slow and even breathing in and out, followed by an occasional snore. Sidling closer, he looked over the man’s shoulder. His dark cloak hid his purse, but if Jack was careful, he could move it out of the way, cut the purse strings, and move on to the next man.

Kneeling behind him, still listening, Jack gently pushed the heavy, damp cloak aside. It smelled strongly of smoke and wet wool. He moved it only enough to reveal the dangling black, leather purse. Jack knew his knife was sharp. He kept it that way by necessity. What thief would keep a dull blade? He needed it as much for his work as for protection. Holding his breath, he eased the knife forward.

The deep breathing changed, shortened. Jack froze. Had he awakened the drunkard? After a long tense moment, the man’s breathing resumed in a lengthy, slow exhale and Jack didn’t hesitate to snip the leather ties. The pouch landed neatly into his other palm and he immediately slipped it down into his tunic neck until it rested warm and snug next to his body.

He smiled and gently withdrew, becrossing himself with quiet thanks to the Almighty. The man slept on and he quickly turned his attention to the other, the one surrounded by wine bowls. Jack licked his lips. The wine was tempting. He was thirsty, truth be told, and now seemed a good time to snatch a bit of spirits.

He moved away from the man by the warm hearth and crossed to that far table with its two occupants, one a hooded servant in dark blue livery with a broach pinned to his breast, and the other asleep, his face lying in the nest of his arms. At that moment, the first of the two, the servant, snapped from the bench as if his seat were afire. It was an easy thing for Jack to stumble into him and he fell into Jack’s accommodating arms. The pouch wasn’t within reach but the broach was, and he snatched it from the servant’s breast and secreted it like the others.

The man stumbled away, none the wiser. Jack knew his fingers were nimble and his touch light. But a drunken man was ten times easier than a sober one, and by the time the man realized what happened, Jack would be long gone.

He knew his luck would soon run out and this last one needed to be dispatched as quickly as possible. Sliding onto the bench next to the sleeping man, he toyed with the wine bowls. There were plenty there with still the dregs of wine within, and he took up one and slurped it down. It warmed, and the tangy berry flavors filled his mouth like a gift.

He measured the man beside him with a sly look and noted a necklace in the shadows and folds of his gown. ‘Slud! he thought. Jewelry was always hard to come by and here it was, like it was being handed to him. But first and foremost, the purse. He scooted along the bench until he was right up against the man. He was dead to the world, was this one, and Jack easily snipped off his purse without his ever moving. It was just as easy to reach up and unhook the necklace and he slipped both jewelry and pouch into his tunic. And now the wine! He slid a bowl toward him, took a long drink and sighed. He would eat tonight. And now he even had his wine. Not bad for a scrap of a thief.

“Oi!”

Jack looked up at the first man by the fire, who seemed to have awakened. The man swayed, his cruel gray eyes narrowing. “Thief!” he cried, lurching to his feet.

Uh oh. Jack didn’t hesitate. He dove across the table, tipping a candle and spattering hot wax. Like a startled rabbit, he wove in and out of the tables and slipped out the door, leaving a wake of turned heads and puzzled faces.

Down the lane he ran, but God’s teeth! That man in the rust-colored cotehardie followed right after him! The sound of feet pounding behind forced him from Gutter Lane to the swell of West Cheap. The smooth road gave way to rutted mud and gray puddles.

He rounded a corner and turned, panting. A gray silhouette against the dim light of a sputtering cresset appeared in the middle of the street. The man hadn’t seen him. Jack crept forward, stealth foremost on his mind. His foot slid on the wet paving and he nearly lost his balance. He spit a loud curse and instantly realized his mistake.

The man turned. His moonlit face was a shield of stark white and dark eyes. His gaze locked on Jack bent over and wind-milling to keep his footing. The man pursued at a run, and Jack put heel to mud, zigzagging away down a crooked alley.

Jack scrambled over a low fence at the end of a long lane and dashed across a dark courtyard into the gloom and came up against a wall. It was so deeply shadowed he reckoned he could hide in the darkness until the man passed by and then he could double back. He waited, slowing his breathing, touching the pouches that jumbled against his skin under his tunic.

A low growl rumbled next to Jack’s ear. Eyes wide he turned slowly and stared into the face of a dark, shaggy mongrel. Teeth bared, it growled a bark.

Jack was on his feet in an instant, ran back through the yard, and leapt for the fence.

Out of the blackness, the man lunged and caught Jack in midair by his hood. Yanked back, he struggled and swung a fist, but the man dodged, and darted his own fist forward, landing a solid blow to Jack’s jaw. Stars exploded behind his eyes and he sagged like a rag doll. He was shoved to the ground with shoulders pinned, and his last thoughts were, Here I am in no better stead than Will.

Taut at the end of its tether, the dog barked until someone hurled a bone from a window and hit the mutt in the head. After a prolonged howl and a yip, the dog took the bone and padded away.

The man shook Jack till his senses returned.

“Harken! I have you.” Immediately, Jack began to struggle, but those hands were strong on his shoulders. “Stop it!”

As if a string were cut, Jack surrendered, flopping back. There was no way out of this. But he sent up a prayer anyway, hoping for something swift and painless. Jack shook his curly ginger hair out of his eyes and raised his chin, deciding that he wouldn’t beg. Face Death like a man, that was the idea. “Aye, m’lord,” he said, his voice a bit more strident than he liked it to be. “You got me. And for what, I’d like to know?”

The man smiled. His gray eyes fixed on Jack’s. His accent was that of a lord’s, though a shabby one. His dark hair, hanging nearly to his shoulders, was a match to those heavy brows. He had a sharp nose and a self-satisfied twist to his lips that seemed to suggest amusement, though the situation was far from amusing.

Jack’s heart hammered, but he tried to appear calm and innocent, even as the man reached into his tunic and pulled out both stolen pouches.

“For these, perhaps.”

Christ! The man had known all along. Jack knew he had awakened! “Them’s just purses I come by,” he said quietly.

“Came by them, did you? Well one of them came by way of my belt.”

“O-o-o-h! So you’re the lord what lost it.”

With knees pinning Jack’s shoulders, the man picked out his pouch from the two. Since the straps were cut, he maneuvered the flap over his belt and managed to secure it there one-handed. “As for you, what’s to be done? Turn you over to the law?”

“For what, m’lord? I done naught. I told you. I come by them purses.”

“Not afraid of the law, eh? Do you know what they do to thieves in London?”

“I’m not afraid of gaol,” he said, though his voice quivered.

“Gaol? You’d be lucky to be thrown in gaol. No, for your type of thief, the sheriff prefers to cut off that sinful hand of yours.”

Jack gasped. Hadn’t meant to. Fear closed his throat. If the man turned him in he’d be hanged for sure!

With a flourish, the man suddenly brandished his knife. “Perhaps I should do it myself.”

The brave façade fell. Terror welled up in him and he squirmed, eyes pouring forth tears. “M’lord! Have mercy. I’m just a poor lad all alone in the world! I got naught. Please, m’lord, have mercy!”

The man considered. He looked once at his blade before he shrugged and replaced it. “Then what shall we do? Go to the sheriff?”

“There’s no need to trouble him, is there, m’lord?” He sniffed and longed to wipe his dripping nose on his sleeve, but his arm was still trapped at his side by the man’s knee. “You have your property back. I would say that is all fair and done with. Wouldn’t you, m’lord?”

“Not all. There is this other pouch. And I have a mind that you should be the one to personally restore it to its owner.”

Jack grimaced. “Aw now, m’lord. He might not be as fair-minded as you are. Can’t you take it to him and be done with it?”

“Not possible. ‘First be reconciled with thy brother.’ You have sinned against your fellow man. You will take it to him yourself, or we will go to the sheriff now.” The man released him and rose.

Slowly, Jack got to his feet and shook the cold mud from his cloak. He frowned up at the man. “If it’s to be done, let’s do it quickly.”

Any thoughts of escape quickly faded as the man grabbed Jack by his cloak in a tight grip. He smiled. “Perhaps he will be merciful. A genuine show of repentance will do much for a man’s disposition. I suggest you add remorse to your apology.”

“Aye, m’lord,” he grumbled. Jack fell silent and did not struggle even when the man hoisted him up and his toes barely danced along the ground. It could have gone worse, he decided. The man could have been cruel, could have beaten or cut him. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

They made the long walk back to the tavern in silence. Yellow light pierced the broken shutters, though many of the candles had burned low. The place was quiet when they opened the door. The tavern keeper no longer dozed at his place by the kitchens, but was instead picking up the mess Jack had left when he ran.

The piper had left his pipe aside and quaffed his cup of ale from a clay cup. A male servant lay asleep and snoring near the door, his feet hanging off the end of a cot. Most of the patrons had gone, but Jack’s latest victim never moved, sleeping where he had left him.

When the man shut the door, the tavern keeper looked up. “Oi? Is that you Crispin?”

“Yes, Gilbert.”

“Come, man. I thought you left for the night. In truth, it is time I send these last two away so that I can go to my own bed.”

The musician looked up from over the rim of his cup and pointed to it.

Gilbert waved him off with a huff. “He’d nurse that ‘til dawn if I let him. But what is this?” He gestured toward Jack, who shrank away from the brawny man as much as he could while still in the clutches of the man called Crispin. “What have you brought me?”

“I return him to the place of his crime for the betterment of his soul.”

Gilbert rubbed his face with a fat hand, wiping away the sweat from his bearded chin. A big-boned man, he stood nearly as tall as Crispin. “Crime? What mean you by that?”

“I mean that this knave is a cutpurse…”

“Oh! It’s that way, is it?” Gilbert lunged for the knife at his belt and pulled it free, advancing on Jack. “I’ll have none of that in my house!”

Jack recoiled and tried to wriggle free.

“Peace, Gilbert. I have already pardoned the knave on condition that he returns his spoils to the rightful owner.”

Gilbert glared and pointed with his knife. “You do not know how fortunate you are, young lad. Crispin Guest is a right honorable gentleman. That’s the Tracker you’re fooling with. I’ll wager you’ve heard of him. Any other man would have first sliced you open for your thievery-” and he made cutting motions- “and only then asked questions. He’s coddling you, and in all probability you don’t deserve it.”

Jack glanced once at Crispin before licking his dry lips. Tracker? He had heard of the man, though he thought it was more of a legend than a real person. He slipped further into the neck of his tunic held firm in the Tracker’s fist. Were he thinner, he might have slipped entirely free of the tattered garment.

“I think first you owe Master Langton an apology for using such tricks in his establishment.” Crispin shook him. “Well?”

Hanging from his own hood, Jack smiled weakly up at Gilbert’s taut face. “I…I am heartily sorry for plying me trade in your ale house, good Master.”

“Hmpf,” snorted Gilbert. “The words are spoken but the sincerity is lacking. Let me never see your face in here again, lad.”

“Aye, Master.” He glanced up at Crispin’s stern expression. “I doubt I’ll be back.”

“Well then,” said Crispin, casting his glance toward the sleeping man. “Let us awaken your victim.” Crispin maneuvered the boy forward and kicked the table. “Awake, Master. Come, now.”

The man remained stubbornly motionless.

Crispin chuckled and looked up at Gilbert. “The character of your wine must be particularly potent today.” With Jack’s hood still firm in his grip, he reached down with his other hand and shook the man’s shoulder before frowning.

“He sleeps like the dead, this one,” said Gilbert.

“You are partly correct,” said Crispin. His fist slackened on Jack’s hood, and Jack took advantage by stepping back and adjusting his loosened collar. Crispin’s fingers touched the sleeping man’s neck and turned his face, revealing wide bulging eyes.

Jack gasped.

“This man isn’t asleep at all,” said Crispin. “He is dead.”