Blood Lance

13

Chaucer turned off the London road and into an inn yard. He tossed the reins to a waiting groom. Crispin and Jack waited in the shadows across the lane and watched as Chaucer crossed the yard and entered the inn.

“Jack, I can’t go inside. I’ll be spotted. You must go.”

“Right, Master!”

He grabbed the lad’s hood and yanked him back. “Make certain you are not seen.”

“Aye, sir. I understand.” He made to move forward again but Crispin pulled him back a second time.

“Find out who he is meeting.”

“I know, Master Crispin! I wasn’t made no Tracker’s apprentice yesterday.” In a huff, he stomped toward the inn and disappeared into the shade of its muddy courtyard.

Crispin crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against a gatepost. His hood hung low, nearly blocking his view, but he was glad of it, as the rain had not stopped, though it had eased from before.

He tried not to think about Abbot Nicholas. Instead, he thought of his current situation, threading the many bits and patches through his head: the dead armorer and the missing relic; the stolen rent money; the three knights; Lenny; Sir Thomas. And Chaucer. How did his presence slip into these strange and unrelated events? What the hell was he up to in that inn? Oh to be a fly on the wall. But his own little fly was doing his spying for him. Crispin could only hope he did it well enough that Chaucer would not notice him.

He sniffed, feeling with relief the stuffiness finally receding. He didn’t suppose standing in the rain would ease his cold, but it couldn’t be helped. He glanced down the lane- God’s death! Not those damned sheriffs again. Didn’t they have the peace to keep? From atop their mounts the pair smiled at him.

He didn’t need this right now.

He composed his features before pushing away from the post and sauntering toward them. They all but rubbed their hands together in anticipation. When he came alongside them he bowed. “Lord Sheriffs.”

“It’s a small world, isn’t it, seeing you again so soon, Master Crispin?” said Staundon. “But a fortunate meeting, for I have new tidings. We have looked at the evidence and made the notation that you have done your job well, being the First Finder, Master Crispin.”

“Indeed,” put in More. “You called the hue and cry as is prescribed and you gave good testimony to the coroner. All in all, we cannot see fit to fine you.”

“That’s a mercy,” he mumbled.

Staundon leaned down. “Did you say something, Master Crispin?”

“No, nothing. Only that I am glad that the jury found Grey’s death a murder. It was not fit to bury the man without the blessings of the Church.”

“Rightly so,” said More, crossing himself. “We hope to find the other apprentice. It does not do well that he should lie at the bottom of the Thames without the proper burial sacraments.”

Staundon nodded his head solemnly for the allotted moment before he got right to the point as he leaned an arm across the pommel of his saddle. “Have we caught you in the midst of your investigations, Crispin?”

More looked around with bright eyes. Did he hope to see the murderer come striding up to Crispin, a flag of surrender in his hands?

“Er … it is a delicate business, my lords. I am waiting for my apprentice to arrive with information.”

“Oh?” Staundon dismounted and grabbed the horse’s lead with a gloved fist. “Perhaps we can help.”

“Yes, indeed!” More slipped off his horse as well and anxiously surveyed the lane. “From which direction is he bound to come?”

Crispin flicked his eyes across the lane. “He is in yon inn, spying.”

“Spying!” cried More with glee. He clapped his hands together and then rested one on Staundon’s sleeve. “Did you hear that, William?”

“Indeed I did. Why don’t we go in, Master Guest, and help you get your information. The presence of the Lord Sheriffs will surely help you in your cause.”

He grabbed their arms as they made to cross the lane. “My lords! Why don’t we let my apprentice do his work? Sometimes it is best to keep a low profile in these endeavors.”

They stared at him until More broke into a smile. “Low profile. I get your meaning, Master Crispin. And we, being the sheriffs, are the highest profile to be had, eh?”

He nodded vigorously. “Oh indeed, my lords.” You pompous asses.

Staundon pressed his fists to his hips. “Dear me. And I was so looking forward to helping. Master Guest, you take the fun out of it.”

“I apologize, my lord. I did not realize that investigating the murder of three men was somehow … fun.”

Staundon lowered his arms and shuffled in place. “Ah. Yes. Well, certainly I did not mean that.”

“Of course you didn’t,” said Sheriff More. “That would be most vulgar. But Master Guest must also certainly realize that without our patronage, his job would be much harder. And his fines would be more rigorous.”

Crispin set his jaw. “My lords, what would I do without your help? Your full credit for solving this murder will, of course, be heralded throughout London.” Again.

Sheriff Staundon smiled. “Of course. Master Guest is a clever fellow. He never misses a clue.” He gazed longingly at the inn before turning abruptly on his heel. Mounting his horse, he said, “We can be as patient as the Tracker. We will wait for the conclusion of this until his apprentice returns.”

“So be it,” said More from atop his horse again. “He is a clever boy. Jack is his name, is it not? Whence did he come to you, Master Crispin? A servant from your former days at court?”

There seemed a little too much emphasis on “former,” he thought, but he plastered on a faint smile. “Not at all. He used to be a cutpurse.”

With swallowed gasps, the sheriffs fell blessedly silent. He stood beside their horses, allowing the flanks of the beasts to warm his back. Still, the drizzle seemed to grow colder the longer he stood. Crispin tilted his head down and crossed his arms under his cloak. Standing like a pillar, he let the rainwater cascade around him. The horses snuffled and chewed their bits with the jangling of bridles. But the sheriffs were the impatient ones, whispering back and forth to each other, as if Crispin couldn’t hear what they were saying.

At last, Jack trotted from around the wall of the inn, and stumbled when he beheld the sheriffs. The look on his face told Crispin that the lad was deciding whether to run in the opposite direction, but since everyone had spotted him, he continued on his course. When he reached Crispin he bowed to all three. “Master. What goes on here?”

“The sheriffs are here to help me, Jack.”

Jack gathered the full meaning in one. “’Slud,” he rasped.

“Well, Master Tucker,” said Sheriff Staundon congenially. “What have you discovered?”

Eyes like bezants, he looked to Crispin for help. Crispin obliged him by turning to face the sheriffs. “My apprentice is used to dealing only with me, especially on delicate topics.”

Sheriff More frowned. “Eh? Delicate?”

“At times, my lord, the subjects of our inquiries are persons of … grand nature.”

The sheriffs exchanged glances. “Oh!” piped Staundon. “Oh, I see. You do not wish to divulge-”

“No, my lords. It is for the best. You would not wish to be found at fault should our subjects discover our clandestine activities, would you?”

Even their horses shied. More clutched at the reins and pulled the horse to. “No, indeed, Master Crispin!” He cast a furtive glance toward the inn. “He didn’t see you, did he, Master Tucker?”

“N-no, my lords.”

“That’s a good lad. He’s a clever boy, Crispin. Did we not say that, William? Well! Sheriff Staundon and I must be off. Do report your findings to us when you can, Master Guest.”

Crispin bowed again, hiding his smile beneath his sodden hood. “In all haste, my lords.”

“Good. Good.” He turned the horse and, with Staundon beside him, they galloped their beasts away toward London.

“God be praised,” Crispin muttered before turning to Jack. “Well?”

“It wasn’t easy, Master Crispin,” he said. They both began to walk toward London, leaning in toward each other to keep their conversation to themselves and to keep the rain at bay. “It was a small inn. But I kept me hood low and, luckily, Sir Geoffrey had his back to me. He met a man in a dark cloak and they retired up to a room.”

Jack pulled Crispin aside and stood in front of him when a cart, going a little too fast, cast up a splatter of muddy water. His cloak took the brunt of it, and he looked back at the cart with a sneer before continuing with his tale. “As soon as they closed the door I crept up the stairs, but I couldn’t hear naught through the door. Anyhow, it would have looked suspicious my standing outside it, so I went to the end of the gallery where there was a window and climbed out of it.”

“You what?”

“I reckoned I’d have to listen in some other way. So I climbed out the window and went up over the roof. It was powerful slippery, mind you, with the rain and all. But I crawled along the roof and found the room below. There wasn’t no balcony-”

“There wasn’t any balcony,” Crispin softly corrected out of habit.

“As I said,” he went on, “so I crept as close to the edge of the roof as I dared. Their shutters were open-a good thing, too-and I listened. But because of the rain I didn’t hear much. Only that Master Chaucer said he was doing the best he could and that the other man’s lord would have to wait. And then the other man spoke but he had a foreign accent, and it was twice as hard to hear what he was about.”

“What sort of accent?”

“I’m sorry, Master, I could not recognize it. But then in the midst of their talking, Sir Geoffrey told the man he was a Spanish dog, and by that I reckoned it was a Spanish accent.”

“What?” Crispin pulled him to a stop and they stood on the muddy road on the cusp of Fleet Street. “Geoffrey was talking to a Spaniard?”

“That’s what it would seem like, sir.”

“But you couldn’t make out what they were discussing?”

“No, sir. I swear on the Holy Rood, sir.”

“You did well, Jack.”

“Master Crispin, if Sir Geoffrey was talking to a Spaniard, and our knights are fighting in Spain, then what would Master Chaucer be talking about in secret at an inn?”

Any number of scenarios ran through Crispin’s head. “I don’t know, Jack. It can’t be anything good, that is certain. I may just have to confront Geoffrey.”

“But he’s your friend, Master Crispin. Surely he will tell you something.”

“Something, yes. But will it be the truth?”

It took another quarter of the hour to reach the Shambles, and by then it was nearing sundown. Discouraged merchants and butchers were shuttering their shops. Business had been poor on the street again. But the business of murder seemed to be booming. Crispin sneered at his own cynicism and trudged up the stairs, but pulled up short just shy of the landing.

His door was open. Either his landlord had let in a client, or he had an unwanted visitor.

Jack pushed forward, grumbling at his master’s hesitation. But Crispin laid a hand on his shoulder to impede him.

Jack jolted to a stop.

Shadows moved past the crack below the door. Crispin eased his dagger from its sheath. He stepped up the riser to the landing, stretched out his arm, and pushed open the door.

It was almost a relief to see Chaucer standing there.

Crispin sheathed his dagger and walked into the room, heading straight for his chair. He sat, leaving the stool for Geoffrey. “I almost expected you.”

Geoffrey scowled, glared at the stool, and finally sat hard. “I’m tired of playing games, Cris.”

“So am I. What exactly are you playing, Geoffrey? It seems very dangerous. To all of us.”

His lip twitched. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Crispin hunched forward and folded his hands on the table. The small tallow candle flickered. A ribbon of smoke rose between them, clouding Chaucer’s eyes. “I don’t like the company you keep.”

Geoffrey’s eyes narrowed slightly before the shadow passed and he threw his head back with a laugh. “You have been following me.”

“What else was I to do?”

“I should have thought of that myself. I should have followed you.”

A smirk pulled up one side of Crispin’s mouth. “But I was waiting for that.”

Chaucer shook his head and scooted the stool closer to the table so that he could rest his hands upon it. Fingers toyed with the clay dish that held the pooled wax of the candle. “So. Cat. Mouse. Which the cat and which the mouse?”

“Depends on the game.”

Geoffrey leaned on an elbow and stroked his carefully combed beard. “No game. But many players. Where is Sir Thomas Saunfayl?”

“So bold a strike for your first move? Geoffrey, Geoffrey. Lancaster taught you better chess than that. ‘Do not show your opponent your strategy so soon.’”

“I don’t want to be your opponent.”

Crispin chuckled humorlessly. “Too late for that.”

“Oh, you have become hard, haven’t you? Although I can’t recall you being a particularly merry fellow in days gone by. But this? How can you say you know me and have so little trust?”

“I’m still waiting.”

“Very well.” He grabbed the edge of the table with whitening fingers. “I needed information on an object. Something of great importance. Something … I think you know about.”

Now we are getting to it at last! “You jest. An object?”

“Dammit, Cris!” A hand slammed the table. The flat pool of melted wax spilled over into white ghostly fingers, reaching across the wood. “You know what I am talking about. You went to see the abbot about it.” A pause. “Oh, very well, I did follow you.”

Crispin didn’t move, didn’t speak.

“We both know what we are talking about,” said Chaucer.

“Then you go first.”

Chaucer’s ire seemed to melt away. A smile, and then he closed his eyes, chuckling. “I have so missed you. Bless me.” He turned to Jack, standing in the shadows. “Has this God-forsaken hole of a room any wine?”

Jack’s gaze slid to his master first before he answered. “No, my lord. Shall I fetch some, Master Crispin?”

“I think you had better. And make haste, Jack. Master Chaucer won’t be staying as long as he thinks he will.”

Geoffrey laughed at that, but his eyes still followed Jack as he took up the empty jug and hurried out the door.

“Now that we’ve gotten rid of him,” said Crispin, sitting back. “What did you want to say to me that you didn’t want him to hear? Mind you, I’ll be telling him anyway.”

“You see plots in cobwebs.”

“I have good reason to. What, Geoffrey? Tell me, then. The only wine I can afford won’t be worth the wait.”

“The Spear of Longinus.”

“Ah. Finally. And what makes you think I am looking for it?”

“Coy? No. I know you are looking for it. Just as I know that Sir Thomas Saunfayl paid money to obtain it from the dead armorer on London Bridge. Just as I know it is missing.”

“You know a lot. I could have saved my feet from all that walking.”

“There is still a great deal I don’t know. Who killed the armorer, for instance, though little I care.”

“You should care more. It is likely the killer has this relic.”

“You think so? I have reason to believe he doesn’t.”

“And what reasons are those?”

“I have my sources.”

Crispin began to rock his chair gently, the soft creak, creak soothed him. “What sort of sources?”

“Does it matter? Cris, we don’t need to do this. We can join forces to find this thing. It needs to be found.”

“And when it is found what will happen next?”

“It will be returned to its rightful place.”

“And where is that?”

Suddenly, Chaucer’s effusiveness stilled. “Never fear, Cris. It will be a goodly place.”

He smirked again. “Why is it when someone tells me ‘never fear’ I find that I must fear very greatly?”

“Cris-”

“What do I get out of this?”

Chaucer’s thoughts seemed to stumble. “Why, the accomplishment of your task.”

“I do this work for money. It is my livelihood. I say again, what do I get out of it?”

“So it’s coins you want. Perhaps I was mistaken about you, Cris.”

“Geoffrey, you are a clever man, a sometimes rake, and, God help us, a fine poet. But you have never been a stupid man. Why are you playing stupid now?”

“I seem to have missed a page in this manuscript. You asked about compensation and I was incredulous that you wanted it. And so. If that is our bargaining chip, I will pay.” He unbuttoned the flap on his scrip and took out a large pouch, bulging with coins. “What will it take, Master Guest? How many marks? We can pay whatever you like.”

“We?”

“Surely you do not imagine I am working alone. If I pay you your fee then you will deliver the Spear to me and me alone. You will also speak of this to no one.” He began counting coins onto the table in neat piles. Crispin didn’t stop him. He merely watched, counting them out in his head. The fee was climbing higher by the moment.

“I will not take your money.”

Hand suspended over another growing column of coins, Chaucer looked up. “You may have little choice in the matter. It would be better, I think, to at least have the coins in hand. You never know what the future will hold.”

“I know there is no future in taking your coins, from whatever the source. I will find this object and I will decide then what I do with it.”

“You would do well to bargain with me now. I doubt that this offer will come again.”

A sudden wave of anger swept over Crispin and he gritted his teeth. “Don’t. Don’t sound like those cursed dogs I must deal with every day. Twisted men with a vile purpose. For God’s sake, Geoffrey! Don’t sound like them.”

But Chaucer’s face was hardened. “Forgive me. I suppose I forgot myself. For I have forgotten you, the man you used to be.” Slowly, Chaucer collected the coins from the many piles he had positioned on the table and dropped them back into his pouch.

Jack burst through the door, out of breath and panting, but holding the jug with two hands. His eyes caught the glitter of silver and he was in time to watch the last of the coins disappear into their pouch and scrip.

Jack’s eyes looked as if they would bulge from his head, but he controlled himself and fetched the bowls from the shelf and filled them with the wine and set them before each man.

“I’m afraid I can’t partake of your wine, Crispin. It appears I must be going.” Chaucer rose.

“Oh? So soon?” Crispin stayed where he was.

“Yes. I’m sorry we couldn’t do business together. It would have been so much easier if we had.”

“Yes. Easier. Though ‘All persons ought to endeavor to follow what is right, and not what is established.’”

“Are you still quoting that philosopher? I thought you would have grown out of that by now.”

“Not when Aristotle proves so apt time and again.”

“But he is dead and gone. He can no longer speak on these topical issues.”

“Well, we’ve all got to die sometime.”

Chaucer gave a pained smile before he pulled open the door and left, leaving it open behind him.

Jack slowly closed and bolted it and stared at Crispin. “Was he offering to pay you?”

“You don’t truly want to know.”

“You’re right. I don’t.” He picked up the bowl. “May I?”

“Why not? Here’s to your continued health, Jack.”

They both drank quietly.

Lying here wasn’t going to solve this, thought Crispin. On his bed, hands tucked behind his head, Crispin stretched. Morning light, such as it was behind a layer of gray clouds, filtered in through the partially opened shutters. Roger Grey and his apprentices were dead. For the sake of a relic? That did seem to be the case, but Geoffrey all but told him that the killer didn’t have it. How did he know? What more did he know? Had Crispin been a fool to throw that information away? As well as the silver?

Or was Geoffrey merely lying again to get what he wanted?

“Ah, Jack,” he sighed.

“Aye, Master? Is there something you wanted? I have hot water for your shave and hot broth to break the morning fast.”

“In a moment. I’ve been thinking. If Chaucer is right-and at the moment we will indulge ourselves that he is speaking the truth-then the relic either didn’t exist or is missing by other means.”

“So, Master Crispin, Sir Geoffrey claims the murderer does not have it?”

“Correct. And if that were true, then it is in the hands of another.”

“How are we ever to know that!”

“We must think it through as we always do.”

“Very well, then.” Jack sat on the end of Crispin’s bed and leaned against the wall beside the window.

Crispin folded his legs, making room for him. “First of all, this business of Lenny running from the scene. I do not like it, Jack. I think he had something to do with it.”

“He is a slimy fellow. I don’t trust him. He scares me a bit.”

“But is he a murderer?”

“Lenny?” Jack scratched his nose thoughtfully. “Well, you would know him better than me.”

“I do not see him in that role but it does not mean he is not capable. For what do I truly know of the knave? But I know with certainty that he is a thief. He might have stolen the relic.”

“And why would he do that, Master? He wouldn’t know what it was. That it was worth anything. Especially with all the fine things in that shop.”

“True. Unless he was hired to steal it.”

“Ah! Now that is a possibility, sir. But, of course, that still doesn’t tell us who is ultimately responsible.”

“But if we find Lenny-”

“Aye, Master.” He rubbed at his upturned nose. “Of course, it might also be that he didn’t do so grand a burglary and is more likely responsible for stealing the Coterels’ rent money.”

“Yes, about that. Why was it that the rent money and only the rent money was stolen?”

“That has troubled me too, Master.”

Crispin scooted up until his back rested against the wall. Jack took this as a signal to bring over a bowl of hot broth. Crispin took it gratefully, for his head cold had not entirely surrendered. He dipped his stale bread in it and chewed on the softened scrap.

Jack sat back on the bed with his own bowl and bread. He clamped his teeth on the crusty edge of the loaf and tore it free, chewing loudly with his mouth open.

“Manners, Jack,” Crispin reminded.

“Oh,” he said, tongue pushing the bread to the side of a bulging cheek. “Sorry.” He closed his mouth and chewed more silently. “And so,” he said, still chewing. “Why would a thief ignore all the finery around him-as well as needles and thimbles, which are expensive-and steal only coins in a hidden place? And would he know that place? It don’t make no sense … er, any sense.”

“No, it does not. Except … What is the outcome if the rent is gone?”

“The tenants get booted out on their ears, that’s what. Master Kemp has been good to you, sir, and allows you to be late many a time.”

“Yes, he does. But other landlords are not as charitable. Though Mistress Anabel said that her landlord has not in the past been so adamant. What would make him suddenly irate about late rent now?”

“It’s a good excuse to roust out your tenant.”

“But why would one do that? Surely a new tenant would be hard to come by, paying those higher prices on the bridge.”

“I dunno, sir. The place would stand empty. And that can’t be profitable.”

“Indeed not.”

“It wouldn’t be good for tenants or landlord.”

“Just so. Perhaps we are speculating in the wrong quarter.”

“It would help to ask Lenny what he was up to.”

“Indeed. I should very much like to talk with him but he is more slippery than an eel.”

“Shall I search for him, sir? We haven’t made much of an effort till now. I am more familiar with his haunts, having made them myself.”

“You’re right.” He scrubbed his face, fingers trailing down to his unshaven chin. “Too many distractions. Damn Geoffrey. Why can’t he just come out with it? And what the hell is he doing plotting with a Spaniard?”

Jack slurped his broth until Crispin raised his eyes and looked at him. The boy folded his lips and sipped instead. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Jack set the empty bowl aside. “I know this vexes you the most, Master. Sir Geoffrey and Sir Thomas. Friends of yours who are at odds. It doesn’t sit well with you, I can see that. And I’m sorry for it.”

Crispin shrugged. “It’s damnable, to be sure. But I must not let it distract me. And we must be careful, Jack. If Geoffrey is somehow following us, we must make certain he does not know what we are about.”

“That’s a certainty. Well! He’ll never dog my steps, sir.”

Crispin smiled at the arrogance of the boy and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “See that he doesn’t.”

While Jack went in search of Lenny, Crispin found himself returning to the bridge. He made a circuitous route to get there, making certain he wasn’t followed. Damn Geoffrey.

He strode down the main thoroughfare of the bridge, observing the viewing stands rising, the carpenters and their apprentices calling to one another, their workers planing posts into shape over sawhorses. The stands were to be narrow, as there was little enough space for the tilting yard.

When he reached the armorer’s shop, a sheriff’s guard stood before it. Word must have gotten back to them that some suspicious goings-on were occurring.

Crispin leaned against a post across the way and ran his eyes over the building, its windows shuttered tight now. Beside it to the right was the haberdasher’s. And then there was the tailor, Coterel’s shop. If Crispin had not paid their quarterly rent money for them, their shop would stand empty. Why did that suddenly trouble him? An empty shop on one side of the armorer’s. And there was something in the armorer’s that someone wanted. If I were devious, he thought, I would use that empty shop to bore a hole and get myself inside, in secret, to steal what I wanted. But what of the apprentices? Apprentices were often sent on errands, as Jack was doing. It would be an easy thing when Master Grey was out to tell his apprentices that they were wanted at the other side of London. How long would the place stand empty? Long enough to get through the wall and rummage about at will. But something had gone wrong. The plan had changed. Roger Grey was killed and his apprentices along with him.

A talk with the Coterels’ landlord was in order, that was certain.

“Yet they had not gotten the relic,” he muttered. But then the memory of that missing box or at least something with a rectangular shape came to mind. It seemed likely that a reliquary of some kind had housed the Spear. Suddenly, he recalled the ornamented spear shaft that Grey had fashioned. It had no spear head but was awaiting it. Maybe Grey had lied. Maybe he had not yet received the Spear.

No, some event had triggered all these happenings. Crispin was certain the Spear had been present. But where was it now?

Crispin watched the tailor shop, waiting for Robert Coterel to open the shutters and begin his day as his neighbors were doing. His shop, however, remained quiet and dark. Crispin frowned. He pushed away from the post and strode across the lane, allowing a wagon loaded with long beams to ramble in front of him until it passed, heading for the viewing stands.

He knocked on the door and waited. Nothing. He pushed and the door yielded. The room was dark and smelled of smoldering hearth. He was careful to open the door slowly.

In the dimness, he saw a figure on a chair. But as his eyes adjusted, he could see the man was tied to it with a gag in his mouth and his head slumped on his chest.

Crispin rushed to him, shaking his shoulder as he slipped the gag off. “Master Coterel! Awake! What has happened?”

His eyelids fluttered and he slowly opened them. His lip trembled. “Anabel,” he rasped.

“Master Coterel.” Crispin quickly took his knife to the tailor’s bindings and cut him free. “What has happened to your daughter? Is she here?” He glanced behind him up the darkened stairs.

“No, no! They took her.”

“What are you saying?”

“They took her, those men. They kept asking us but we did not know. So they took her. God help us!”

“Asking you what?”

“About some spear. I did not know what they were talking about. But they took her, Master Guest. They took her!”