Cup of Blood

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Jack hurried through the streets, a tight happy feeling filling his chest. Four years ago, he hadn’t wanted a master. The slovenly man his mother had served wasn’t interested in cultivating an apprentice and certainly had no need of Jack, nor of feeding, housing, or paying him. The man was as relieved as Jack was when Jack left him for good, though it hadn’t been long after that he would have gladly doffed his pride and begged to be back for the scraps to eat and a warm fire to sleep by.

But here was a master worth having! Master Crispin seemed like no ordinary man. And his vocation was strange and unusual. Jack knew he could learn the habits of a varlet but he liked better doing such tasks as Crispin had set him to today. Finding Lady Vivienne and following her would be simple, for he knew the streets of London better than the rats. Yes, it was good to find a home at last. He found he wanted to make the man proud of him, for he had the feeling that Master Crispin didn’t suffer fools, and neither did Jack.

Crispin had said that Lady Vivienne would go to the Spur, an inn on Friday Street. Jack made his way there with no hesitation.

He held his chin up. For once, he was not skulking in the shadows, creeping upon his prey. He was walking in the clear light of day, taking in the passersby, watching curiously as boys-some his age, some younger-worked furiously for their masters by fetching water, carrying heavy loads, or sat crouching over tables and working their nimble fingers on some intricate trade.

The smells of the mid-morning wafted around him. Smells of cooking fires, dead fish, horse dung, sweet hay, wet wool, and roasted meats, all swirling together in an odor that said “London.” Church bells began to chime, each claxon making its own unique sound, but all telling him it was terce, well before noon. He squinted up toward the gray sky but it was overcast and offered very little in the way of warm sunshine.

From West Cheap he turned down Friday Street and slowed as he neared the inn. A painted wooden spur hung from an iron hanger right before the inn door and Jack scanned the street around him. It was a strange thing, this task. For always before, he felt he was a little bit invisible. By necessity he had worked hard not to be noticed. But for some reason, now he felt gilded with a motely of colors, as if all eyes were upon him and knew what he was about. He tucked his hood down almost over his eyes and shuffled in place, kicking at a stone and stuffing his hands into his sleeves for warmth.

Don’t be daft, Jack. No one’s looking at you any more than they ever did.

He warily stole a look out from under his hood and saw that it was true. No one paid him any heed. He was just a boy, after all. What mischief could he be up to? Drawing his hands from his sleeves he adjusted his tunic and stalked forward across the dung-littered inn yard as if he belonged there. He crossed the threshold and pushed open the door.

The inn’s hall was a riot of noise but the warmth and savory smells of food drew him in further until he was standing beside a table with a group of laughing men. They were enjoying their beakers of ale and spooning pottage from wooden bowls. Jack watched them for a moment, licking his lips, his belly growling, before he lifted his gaze to the rest of the hall. Tables and stools, all occupied with mostly men in traveling clothes. Some nuns sat off to the side and kept to themselves, their veils hiding most of their faces in shadow. Some other women in cloaks and sturdy gowns laughed alongside their male companions with bright eyes and smiles on their faces. Gowns in blues and cheerful crimson, yellow stockings, green cotehardies, gaily embroidered houppelandes. It reminded Jack of colorful chickens clucking in a barnyard.

He moved slowly through them, itching to cut a purse that was so carelessly hanging outside a cloak, or nab those laid on a table without a protective hand covering them. He pulled himself up short. He was here for a purpose, one Master Crispin had set him to and he was going to perform it as best he could. He rubbed his palms instead, keeping them occupied.

He listened as he moved, wondering if he’d catch some word or phrase that could help him. But it seemed a futile move, for nothing told him of Lady Vivienne. What made Master Crispin think she would come here?

He went to the stairwell and stood at the bottom. A gallery above the hall wound about three sides. Doors were tucked up there in the smoky gloom but they told him nothing.

He scanned the room again and caught sight of a familiar cloak on feminine shoulders. Just as Master Crispin had said. How had he known?

Jack moved back into the shadows of a pillar. He watched Lady Vivienne move away from the fire and go to the stairs. With her skirts raised, she walked up the treads and made her way to the second door on the gallery. She tried the handle but it was locked. Putting a finger to her lips, she turned suddenly, her cloak and skirts whirling out around her, and she descended the stairs and caught the sleeve of a man that Jack soon reckoned was the innkeeper. She talked quietly to him for a long time. He seemed disinclined to something she asked until she reached into the money pouch at her side and handed him a coin. He bowed and led the way up the stairs to the locked room, took a set of keys from a ring hanging from his belt, and unlocked the door. In she went. The innkeeper did not follow, but looked about shiftily before retreating down the stairs.

Jack hesitated. Should he follow? But wouldn’t she notice him if he did?

A moment later she emerged and Jack thanked the saints for staying him. She walked all the way down the stairs and through the hall to the front door whereupon she passed through it to the outside.

Jack rose swiftly and followed, pushing the door slowly and peering through the slim opening before he stepped out himself. She was making fierce strides down the lane and Jack scrambled to keep an eye on her from a good distance behind. He side-stepped a gaggle of geese. One stretched out its long neck to snap its bill at him and he got out of its way just in time. “Sarding gander,” he murmured, looking back.

A misty rain was falling and Jack tugged his hood up over his head, blinking the droplets from his lashes. Her pace was furious, as if she might be late for an appointment, and Jack followed some steps behind.

Once she looked back, and Jack whirled on his heel. He bent to pick up a bundle of sticks and hoisted it to his shoulder, pretending to walk into the nearest shop with it.

“Oi!”

He looked up at the man with the cart full of sticks, gesturing to him.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Jack gently placed the sticks where he found them. “Naught, good Master. I, er…farewell.”

“Knave!” the man yelled, but Jack sprinted away around a corner. He stopped and slammed against the wall of a shop before peering back. No one was after him. Glancing forward, Vivienne was getting farther ahead so he pushed himself away and trailed after.

I wonder what is it I’m supposed to see, Jack mused. This tracking was more complicated than he thought.

They were traveling down Old Fish Street toward Trinity. The city was fully awake, and Jack blended in as he always had, walking just behind a man pushing a cart full of onions and turnips. He provided good cover as the avenue widened at Walbrook Street. Vivienne turned down it and Jack lost the man with the cart but picked up the shadow of three monks traveling together.

Vivienne continued to march down the street until she turned again at Ropery. She seemed to be heading toward another inn, the Bell, by the wooden sign hanging before it. When she slipped inside Jack hurried. He got through the door and looked around hurriedly just in time to spy her up on the gallery with a key in hand and opening a door. Her room, he assumed.

Well then. What was he to do now? Master Crispin had told him to keep an eye on her and so he decided to wait. He looked about the place and found a stool near the fire and settled in, leaning the stool back until he rested his shoulders against the wall. Travelers and tradesmen sat in groups at the long tables, drinking, talking, or just eating by themselves. One appeared to be a rich cleric of some sort, all bedecked in the colorful robes of his office. He was hand-feeding a sleek greyhound sitting elegantly on the floor beside him.

Jack licked his lips and felt the emptiness in his belly again. Maybe just one purse. One purse from some unsuspecting drunkard would do, so he could get a meal.

Eyes keen, he began to examine the crowd for a likely victim. A drunken man to his right staggered to his feet and pulled out some coins. One fell to the floor and his shuffling feet kicked it beneath the table. Jack watched and waited. The man didn’t notice, paid his bill, and shambled away.

The moment he was gone, Jack dove for it and pinched the silver between his fingers. A penny. He could buy pottage and ale for that, and he looked anxiously for the innkeeper before signaling to him.

Jack settled in. He’d eaten his bowl of soup, scraping the last bit with the wooden spoon, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve, nursing the ale in its wooden beaker. He kept half an eye on Lady Vivienne’s room and the other on the rest of the hall. Men came and went. Others went to their rooms briefly and stomped out of them again. But Lady Vivienne’s door remained shut.

Leaning against the wall, Jack waited. He took out his small knife and picked his teeth with the blade’s tip. The innkeeper eyed him, but otherwise he went unmolested.

But after some hours passed, Jack squirmed. He’d never had to stay in one spot for so long. What did Master Crispin want, anyway?

He stood and stretched…and spied a man whose money pouch was there for the taking. He looked like a student or perhaps a law clerk, the type of young man with patches on his sleeves but with eloquent words on his tongue. His pouch was small and likely mostly empty, but it hung nearly on his back and he was in deep conversation with another of his ilk at the table.

Jack slid his gaze about the room and straightened his stool. No one was watching. The few customers in the hall were busy in their own conversations and Jack had been there for so long, no one even took heed of him any longer.

Certainly he had the time for it, he thought, snatching one last look up the stairs to Lady Vivienne’s solidly closed door.

Slipping gently off his stool he moved closer to the student, pretending to dust off his tunic. He leaned over to tug up his sagging stocking, and while he was low, he raised his knife and swiped at the pouch’s ties. The pouch fell neatly into his waiting hand. Standing up again, he pivoted to return to his seat when he smacked into the chest of a solid individual behind him. A tall, lean man in dark colors looked down at him. A scar pulled up an edge of his mouth and traveled up his face nearly to his eye.

Jack staggered back but the man shot out a hand and closed it over his shoulder. “How kind of you to retrieve that poor man’s money pouch,” he said in accented English.

Jack stiffened, especially when the hand squeezed hard on the bone.

The man kicked the student, who flashed angry eyes at him and rose, looking at the man askance. “Why do you kick, sir?”

His friends rose, too, and squared off with the Frenchman, for that was what Jack perceived him to be. After all, he had seen him before, and his gut chilled from the remembering.

The man smiled. “This boy retrieved your money pouch. You dropped it.”

The student instantly put a hand to his belt and, feeling nothing there, glared down at Jack. Jack proffered the pouch, not knowing what else to do.

The student grabbed it from Jack’s fingers and gripped it tightly. “Thanks, boy.” He stared at Jack and Jack, frightened to do anything else, stared back.

“Should you not reward the boy for his honesty?” asked the tall Frenchman.

Sneering and clearly not wishing to do so, the student reached into his tightly cinched pouch and rummaged for a long time until he finally removed a farthing. He stuck his hand out toward Jack. “Here,” he said. “God keep you.”

Jack didn’t hesitate to close his fingers on it. He bowed and nodded his head. “Thank you, sir. Bless you, sir.”

The Frenchman let him go at last and stepped back. The others seated themselves again and resumed their conversation, albeit a bit cautiously.

Jack shrank away from the dark man. But the Frenchman winked at him, his scar whitening as he offered a half smile, before he stalked to the stairs and trotted upward. He knocked on Vivienne’s door and when she opened it, she startled back upon seeing him. Jack watched as she exchanged a few quiet words before allowing him to enter.

The student was still glaring, and so Jack retreated to the back of the inn into the gloom. He could still watch the room from there, while keeping out of sight of the suspicious student.

After a brief time, the Frenchman emerged from the room and trotted back down the stairs and out the inn’s door. Jack stayed in his corner a long time, until his bladder told him he needed to find a privy.

Out the door he went and toward the back of the stables when someone nabbed him by his hood and spun him around.

The Frenchman with the scar leaned close. “Don’t I know you, boy?” He looked Jack over as he quivered in the man’s grip. “Ah yes, I remember. Such a brave boy you are. So valiant. A proper squire, are you not? A fitting squire for such a knight.” He chuckled at his own joke, before he peered closely, too close. “But, of course, your master is no longer a knight, is he? You must tell your master this: that I have not forgotten him. Oh no. Not at all. Eh, boy?”

Suddenly, he released Jack and he fell backward into the muddy hay of the courtyard. The Frenchman smirked and strode away, not looking back.

Trembling, Jack remembered well that man. He was the man who had held Master Crispin captive before Jack had led the rescue.

Jack looked down at his braies with shame. He no longer needed the privy.