Blood Lance

8

Lost in his own thoughts, Crispin walked, heedless of the direction the meandering lanes took him.

Chaucer, Lancaster’s man, conspiring with Michael de la Pole? This was madness. If Suffolk’s ouster was imminent, then all those associated with him were in grave danger. His dismissal-possibly even execution-would be a great insult to the king and leave Richard on very thin ice. He wondered if Richard could even appreciate the extent of the damage being done, if he understood what he was in danger of losing.

And now Chaucer was involved. Crispin walked slowly down the muddy streets and tried to make sense of it. Geoffrey and Crispin had both served Lancaster and had become the best of friends and confidants. Though Geoffrey was older-the same age as Lancaster, ironically-they treated each other more like brothers. It hadn’t made a difference to their jests and pranks.

The man had a family, for God’s sake. How could he throw them into jeopardy? At least Crispin had sacrificed no one but himself when he stepped into the role of traitor nine years ago.

That settled it. He’d have to go to see Abbot Nicholas and beg answers. But should he not first go back to the bridge? He had craved rest before but now his blood was up, and he knew he had more questions to find answers to before this day was out. Bridge or Westminster? They were at opposite points of town.

He took a step forward and stopped. A crouching figure dashed across the avenue. Looking back at Crispin, the man winced and darted into an alley.

Goddammit! Lenny!

Off he ran, but the cursed man was slippery. Crispin reached the alley but no one was there. He halted and cocked an ear. Silence. How could he have lost him twice in so many days? The man wasn’t that clever. But he was surely that scared. What had he done that he feared Crispin so desperately? “Lenny, Lenny. I don’t like this feeling in my gut.”

He made more halfhearted attempts to search for him, but gave it up.

Thoughts of whether to go to Westminster Abbey or London Bridge disappeared.

He turned toward Knightrider Street.

The Falconer was a fine inn with bright, lime-washed walls and a formidable door. Crispin swept in and called for the innkeeper. He was an ordinary man with bland, sandy hair. When Crispin asked for Sir Thomas, the innkeeper eyed Crispin with suspicion. A coin pressed into the man’s hand soon allayed his fears.

Crispin waited by the fire, warming himself until his thighs were toasted through.

A step behind him. Sir Thomas, still clad in his surcote as if reluctant to relinquish it, wore a face twisted into an angry scowl. “What are you doing here?”

“I have come to ask you questions, my lord.”

“I told you. I only want to hear from you when you’ve found the … the object. Have you?”

“No. But I-”

“Then there is nothing to say, Guest.” He spun and pushed his way none too gently past some traveling men bundled in cloaks and with bulging scrips.

“Why didn’t you tell me of the charges against you?” said Crispin.

Thomas’s step faltered to a halt. He turned his face only halfway back. Shadows hid his features but not the tightening of his shoulders. “What are you talking about?”

“It seems I had a visit from your defender, Geoffrey Chaucer.”

Thomas stalked up to Crispin and grasped him by the upper arms. “What did you tell him?”

Crispin glanced down at those whitening hands with disdain. Quietly, he said, “Do you truly wish to discuss this here?”

Thomas looked around wildly. His lips curled downward, and he released Crispin. He stomped toward the stairs and hissed over his shoulder, “Come with me!”

Crispin straightened his cloak and with as much dignity as he could muster, followed the man up to his room.

It was spare but in better order than his own back on the Shambles. The fire was larger, for one, and the two chairs both had high backs and arms. Thomas paced, running his hand over his beard. “What did he say?”

Crispin edged toward the fire and stood before it. “He said … he said you were charged with cowardice and desertion. Did you desert?”

There was a long silence, broken only by the faint sound of a whimper. Crispin grimaced. God’s blood! Could Geoffrey possibly be right?

Thomas felt around for the chair, grabbed it, and pooled into it. His shoulders sank, head drooping. “So now you know. My disgrace. You can’t begin to imagine, Crispin. You can’t know … I think … I think it was the noise of it. The cries of the men and the clash of steel. My heart thumped so hard I feared it would bolt from my chest. And never would it rest during the heat of battle and even afterwards. Christ Jesus help me! I … I tried, Crispin. I tried to ignore it, thinking it merely a momentary befuddlement. But when it would not abate, even in our pavilions at night, I truly feared for my sanity. Even the sound of marching men, of armor clattering around me, caused my skin to crawl. I … just couldn’t take it any longer.” He raised his face and long silvery trails of tears marred his cheeks. “Crispin, you know me. I was never a coward. Could I have been bewitched?”

Crispin stared. He’d never seen the like. This man was the most courageous he had ever known. What could it be other than witchcraft to have turned him to this sniveling coward before him. He swallowed his revulsion.

“I know nothing of such things, Thomas. But Chaucer is looking for you.”

The man looked afraid. “You didn’t tell him where I am, did you?”

“No. I held my tongue. Is he here to defend you, as he said?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

Crispin couldn’t stand it anymore and kicked at a basket of kindling, sending it tumbling over. “I don’t understand this, Thomas! You have served Lancaster almost as long as I have. How could you desert him? How could you ever leave the field without consent?”

“I know, I know. Trouble me not, Crispin. I have flogged myself enough over it.”

“Not enough, obviously.” He took a deep, calming breath. “What are you up against?”

“What am I up against? Death, of course. They will condemn me to die for my sins. And I cannot blame them.”

“And you can just sit there-”

“No!” He jolted to his feet. “No. I came to England to that damned armorer to save myself. I’d be invincible. I would not lose and in so arming myself, I would not f-fear to face an opponent on the lists.”

“Trial by combat?”

“Most likely.”

This was damnable. “You must face it sooner than later.”

“I know. Find that relic, Crispin, and I can.”

“I can only hold off Chaucer for so long.”

He offered a weak smile, the first Crispin had seen on him. “You are a good friend.”

“I made an oath to you. I do not forswear myself lightly.”

Thomas studied him. “No. Not even when they put you on trial for treason. There is not a shred of cowardice in you, Crispin Guest. You can be proud of that.”

“Yes, well. That was a long time ago.” He shuffled uncomfortably before settling in front of the fire again. “Can you tell me anything of Richard’s chancellor?”

Thomas seemed bewildered by the question. “Suffolk? What has he to do with me?”

“I wondered.”

Thomas shook his head. “There is nothing. Lancaster used to speak well of him but lately he only says the name ‘Suffolk’ in disparaging tones. And so I keep my association with him at a minimum. But this is foolish talk. There is nothing to discuss but the relic. Find it, Crispin.”

“It would help to know what the hell it is!”

The knight shook his head and turned away toward the fire. “You should go.”

“Thomas … I … it would truly help me to know. Can’t you give me some sort of … hint? Why keep it such a secret?”

“A soldier. A proper soldier would have such a thing. Such a great thing.” His eyes were on Crispin again, gazes locked. “No one else must know. But you’ll find it. God help me if you do not.”

Crispin stared at the man for several heartbeats, willing him to capitulate. He said he didn’t quite trust Crispin. Why? What was this relic that caused such distrust? But Thomas was adamant. He had turned away, dismissing him, and Crispin supposed that was that. Exasperated, Crispin muttered, “God keep you, then,” and strode quickly toward the door. He is the only one who shall.