Cup of Blood

CHAPTER EIGHT

Stephen St Albans. Was there a day gone by where Crispin had not thought of him? It was he who revealed the conspiracy that felled many a knight and threw Crispin into the poverty he now suffered. Stephen. Rosamunde’s guardian.

Standing in the street, his mind flitted unbidden to the image of Rosamunde. She had been the most beautiful creature he had ever set eyes on. Did love still haunt him, or was she only one of many objects wrapped in his past like hurts and dashed dreams?

He remembered her pale face on that day when they cut his scabbard and unsheathed the sword. Though all of court watched, only she had mattered. They smashed the blade against the stone floor, but it was well made and expensive, and refused to break. It took three such blows to finally knick the tip. Then they cut his family arms from his surcote, tore off the whole garment, and broke his spurs. Left with nothing but the clothes on his back, the whole court turned away from him. Humiliated, he dared not look at Rosamunde. Did she turn her back, too? Even now he couldn’t decide what was worse: his complete degradation and dispossession, or his loss of her.

She never even fought it. She never stood up to Stephen and came to me. I thought she might. But what woman would have done? Willingly become a pauper and the laughing stock of court, all for him? How could he blame her? Yet he did. A year earlier they had both signed the betrothal contracts and the families thought it a fine match. But something happened between the contracts and the courtship: Crispin fell in love.

How could I not? She was so beautiful. There were many days they would steal away, leaving her maidservants behind. They would kiss and touch and whisper those silly phrases only spoken in romances and love songs. And though he loved and desired her, often raining kisses along her throat, he would go no further. A proper courtier was he.

A proper fool!

Only a mere fortnight after his disgrace, another man conquered that virginity which should have been his. It was that pain that pierced him the most, that could not be undone.

He looked at Jack standing in the tinker’s doorway, waiting for orders. What was he to do with the boy? Jack was like a stray dog that would not leave, even when kicked. “Tucker, I appreciate your loyalty, but this has to end. Now. When I get back, I do not expect to find you here.”

“But Master…”

“I am not your master. You must leave.” He turned on his heel, uncertain where he was going. Did it matter? He needed to think, but it was difficult with a headache pounding between his temples.

He turned up the street to Gutter Lane-walking toward the Boar’s Tusk-when he saw it. A man in a long, dark robe, hood up over his head, standing under the eave of a shop across the way. He merely looked in Crispin’s direction, or at least his covered head and shadowed face was turned toward him.

A fleeting sense of recognition propelled Crispin toward the man, but the man abruptly turned and dashed up the lane.

Crispin paused before he leaped forward, sprinting after the man.

The robed man flew ahead, dodging stalls and townsfolk.

Crispin ran hard. His feet sucked and slapped the mud, pounding the lane, swerving to avoid people and wandering dogs.

The man looked back once but kept going. Crispin cursed. He still could not see his face. But his legs were visible as they pumped. He was wearing mail chausses and boots with spurs. He wore no weapon, but scabbard frogs flapped from the belt as if he had only just divested himself of a sword.

Flying down the lane, Crispin caught only a glimpse of the man. Pushing himself harder, Crispin panted, rushing forward. If only he could cut him off. Was it possible? The man was heading up Monkwell toward Cripplegate. If he got past the gate, he could disappear into the marshland.

The man neared a cart full of bundled firewood. He leapt up and ran over the laden cart and jumped off the end. He whirled, grabbed the cart, and upended it, filling the street with scattered sticks and cordwood. Then he lit off.

The merchant howled his protest. Crispin’s momentum hurled him forward. He spun and tumbled backwards, rolling over the bundles. It smarted, but he bolted upright and leapt free of the debris. But it only propelled him awkwardly, stumbling over the cart’s handles. He flew into the air, flopped on his belly, and skidded forward several feet before he came to a stop. His sore chest flamed with pain and he was covered face to chest in mud.

There was no need to look. He knew the man was gone.

Slowly he picked himself up amid raucous guffaws and curses. He stood and looked down. Mud everywhere. He ran his hands down his coat and scraped some of it off, did the same to his face. He took the end of his cloak and wiped his eyes and lips. Saying nothing to the cart owner or the crowd, he limped back toward the Shambles, thinking of little but to wash his face and clothes. The robed man was now long gone, whoever he was. It galled that these men continued to shadow Crispin, leaving him cryptic parchments and no other clues. If he and his ilk wanted this object so badly why not just come out with it and say what it was? Was he not the Tracker? Did he not find lost articles for a living? Surely they knew that by now.

He got to the tinker shop and trudged up the stairs, flicking the mud from his hand to retrieve the key from his pouch. He put the key to the lock but the door swung open freely. He dropped the key, grabbed his dagger, and shouldered the door wider.

The room lay in disarray. The table, the chair and stool were all cast aside. His bedding had been tossed about with some of the hay from the ripped mattress making a long trail across the floor. His bowls and spoons were scattered as well as his basin and water jug which sat in a pool of rippling water under the far window.

His first thoughts were of Jack Tucker, and a very descriptive curse left his lips. But when he made a circuit of the room he found his family rings scattered on the floor, thrown from their hiding place. If Tucker had ransacked his room, these prizes would not have been left behind.

The chase. It had been a ruse. But what were they looking for?

He stood with shoulders sagged for a few moments, simply surveying the carnage. Then he knelt by the overturned chest and picked up his spare pair of underbraies that had been cast from the coffer.

The floor behind him creaked and he whirled, drawn dagger in one hand, underbraies in the other.

The woman stared at him, her perfect brows arched in surprise.

“Are you Crispin Guest?” she asked. “I’ve been looking for you.”