Blood Lance (13 page)

“But not fit for a knight,” he muttered.

“Crispin,” he said, rising but leaning down to whisper close to his ear. “You are
not
a knight.”

Gilbert walked toward the kitchen as Crispin scowled in his direction. “I don’t need reminding,” he said to the nearly empty room. But when he looked into his wine bowl he saw the face of Philippa Walcote, the woman he had discarded because of his lingering sense of his past. A woman he had loved. A woman he still loved.

He pushed the bowl away, sloshing its red wine on the table like blood. What was it that
truly
vexed him, he wondered, among all other thoughts?
Was
it Philippa? Was it Anabel, who reminded him so of her? Was it Sir Thomas, who was throwing away that which Crispin longed for? “Maybe it is all of it,” he muttered. “Perhaps I am a flagellant and these memories are my flail. Only then may I find my peace, when I have done proper penance.”

“Are you Crispin Guest?”

A man stood over him, one he did not recognize.

“Who wants to know?”

“Pardon me for interrupting your conversation with your wine bowl.” The man snickered. His reddish gold hair was covered by a close-fitting cap. His clothes were those of a middling merchant, no velvets but good cloth, no patches, and a decent dagger hanging from a belt carved with decorative designs. “I am Lucas Stotley, a clerk. You are the one with Jack Tucker as an apprentice, no?”

“What of that scoundrel?”

“Well, I saw that boy being dragged away by some knights who were none too happy with him. Thought you’d want to know.”

Crispin staggered up from his seat and leaned shakily on the table.
“What?”

“I saw them back up the lane. He was talking vigorously with a group of knights. They didn’t like his tone or his manner. He did not treat them with the proper respect and they set about to teach the lad a lesson. I would have thought you would have tutored him properly in this yourself, Master Guest, his being your apprentice and all. Well, they are doing the job now.”

Crispin grabbed his arm. “When? Where?”

“Not long ago. Just up the lane.”

“By God’s death, where
?
” Crispin grabbed clumsily for his coin pouch. He managed to withdraw a coin and tossed it on the table. “WHERE?”

“I’ll show you.” He grabbed Crispin’s arm and led him outside. He pointed up the street to a stable. “See there. Their horses are still tied to the posts. They must be teaching him a lengthy lesson.”

Crispin drew his dagger at last and staggered up the lane.

“Wait! Master Guest, you do not intend to rescue him by yourself? In your state?”

Crispin looked down at himself and felt how wooly his head was from a cold and from the wine. “I have no choice.”

“Wait there, Master Guest. I will get Master Langton.”

Crispin swayed with uncertainty. He knew the man was right, but he did not wish to delay. Jack was in grave danger. Who knew what those knights were doing to him?

It wasn’t long before Gilbert was at his side, and the clerk, too.

“What mischief is this, Crispin? Young Jack is in trouble?”

“And so he might be. Master Stotley, this clerk, says so.”

Gilbert eyed Stotley. “So he has said. What do you need of me? I am ready.”

Crispin heartened at Gilbert’s presence. “Draw your daggers, men. I know not what trouble Jack might be in.”

Flanked by his companions, Crispin hurried up the road and stopped before the stable, trying to sober himself with deep gulps of fresh air. The roof bowed inward, and bits of plaster had chipped away from the walls, leaving the wattle exposed. The stable looked to be abandoned, but Crispin knew that it was still in use, renting old horses to unwary travelers.

Crispin motioned for the two men to stand behind him while he reached for the door. Carefully, he pulled it open and peered inside. The stable was dark except for a lantern hanging by its chain from a post peg near the center of the straw-covered floor. A shaggy horse in a stall whinnied in agitation. The sharp smell of horse dung twined with the oily smoke from the lantern.

Jack stood under the lantern’s light. Two men each had him by an arm and were pulling those arms to their extremes, keeping him secure. Jack’s worn coat had been discarded and lay in the dirty straw. His shirt was rucked up over his shoulders, exposing his back. Coming closer, Crispin saw why. Behind him, the third man swung back his arm and delivered another stroke with a switch. From the look of agony on Jack’s profile and the sweat on his cheek, this had been going on a while. Yet he bit his lip bloody and made no sound except for a grunt when the switch fell.

Lurching forward, Crispin captured the man’s arm before he could swing the lash again. Grabbing the switch from him, Crispin broke it over his knee and cast the pieces to the ground. “What, by God’s bones, are you doing to that boy?”

The man glared, and Jack tried to twist around to look. His back was striped with red welts. But the men held him firm and he could only struggle and flick his head over one shoulder and then the other.

The spare lantern light slipped across the man’s face. A scar ran down his cheek from his eye to his chin. Lank blond hair fell to his shoulders in greasy strands. “This boy needs to learn how to speak to his betters. And he appears not to be the only one.” His hand slid toward his sword hilt but Crispin was quicker and before he could consider the consequences, his dagger was pressed to the blond man’s throat.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said Crispin, suddenly sober.

The other two men released Jack. He dropped to the hay-covered floor like a sack full of meal. They unsheathed their swords and Gilbert and the clerk drew back.

The blond man with Crispin’s dagger at his throat smiled. “Three swords to three daggers. I wonder who will win?”

“Well, I doubt they can save
you
before I slash a seam in your throat … my lord. So that will be one sword down.”

The man’s smile faded. “You realize what you are doing, knave?”

Crispin felt sweat break out on his face, though the stable was cold. “It’s not a very good position I’m in at the moment, is it? But neither is it good for you.” And he emphasized that by pressing the blade harder against his throat. The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

Crispin kept the dagger steady and glanced at the other swordsmen, who hesitated at their companion’s peril. He was in too deep. There was nothing for it but to get in deeper. “Will you drop your swords, or would you see your companion wear a crimson smile across his neck?”

There was much silent commiserating, but in the end, the swords clanged loudly onto the hard dirt floor.

Crispin studied the man he had captured. Well-bred, surcote, sword. Knights all, but it was too dim to see their arms properly. Each had different blazons. He could see that much. His dagger remained at the man’s shaven throat but his other hand grabbed the surcote at the collar. At this point his fuzzy brain was a little uncertain how to proceed.

“Jack, are you all right?”

The boy regained his feet and was easing down his shirt with a hiss between his teeth. He winced upon reaching to the floor to retrieve his soiled coat. “Aye, Master,” he said breathlessly. “As well as can be expected.”

“Is what this man says true? Did you not treat them with the proper respect?”

He stuck an arm in a coat sleeve and then carefully repeated the action with the other arm, but he left it unbuttoned. “I just done what
you
would have done—”

“Answer the damned question, boy!”

He hung his head. “Aye. I reckon.”

“Then what should you do now?”

Slowly, Jack got down on his knees and looked up at the knights surrounding him. “My lords. I beg your mercy. Please forgive me for speaking above my station. I meant naught by it. I only wanted to help my master, who cannot be blamed for my impertinence.”

The man held captive by Crispin glared into his eyes with a look that seemed to say otherwise.

Jack knelt for several moments before Crispin told him softly to rise. With a sigh, Crispin turned to the knights.

“My apprentice has apologized. I hope you can forgive him as good Christian knights. He is young and as yet inexperienced. Perhaps he failed to frame his questions with the right tone. And so
I
will attempt it.” Though he could well see the irony, as he had a dagger to one of the men’s throats. “You and your companions have not, by any chance, been to London Bridge of late, have you?”

The blond knight under Crispin’s dagger sneered. “We go to many places in London. Among them, Newgate. Perhaps you would also visit there again, Master Guest.”

Crispin paused at the use of his name. “No, thank you. I’ve seen enough of Newgate.”

“Have you? One wonders.” His eyes dropped to the knife again.

“There was a murder. A man was killed on the bridge last night. But rumors had it as suicide.”

“Maybe it was.”

“Oh no. I have seen much evidence to the contrary. The sheriffs are now treating it as a murder.” He hoped. “You were seen that night.”

“Oh? By whom? We shall visit them and ask them personally.”

Crispin did not look at Jack. “That won’t be necessary.”

The man’s expression did not change. “Are we done here, Master Guest?”

He tried one last time to make out their blazons in the dim light, but could see little. The wine also made certain of that.

Reluctantly, Crispin withdrew the dagger and stepped back, bowing deeply, hoping that the man would not now hew off his head while he was so vulnerable. “My sincerest apologies, my lords, and I beg your mercy for my foolish servant. And also I apologize most humbly for my own actions. My only excuse is that I was out of my mind for fear of my servant’s safety, for I alone am responsible for him.”

Crispin remained with his back bent and his head lowered, not daring to look up. This would either be the end of it … or the end of him.

A fist clouted the side of his head and toppled him. He rolled in the hay and righted himself, standing none too steadily. “I should kick you to death, Crispin Guest,” said the man he had captured, teeth gritted. He rubbed at his neck where the dagger’s blade had been. “But I know you. I should have known that this knave was yours. Have better care. And teach him some manners.” He swung a kick at Crispin, catching him in the shin. He went down on that knee as the man strode by him, pushing Gilbert and the clerk out of the way.

The other knights retrieved their swords and looked as if they, too, would clout him, but they merely sneered in his direction and left the stable, shouldering him roughly on their way out.

The shaggy horse seemed relieved and snorted once before its whiskered muzzle reached over the top of the wooden stall and it began chewing on the wood.

Crispin straightened and found Jack beside him, offering to help. The boy looked as chastened as a penitent, but that was not enough for Crispin. Without acknowledging him, he turned to the tavern keeper. “I thank you, Gilbert. And you, Master Lucas.”

The clerk bowed to Crispin. “Always willing to help.” He held out his hand and Crispin found there the coin he had given the man earlier. Crispin took it with a nod and clenched it in his fist.

“Home, Jack,” he rasped. He did not need to look back to know that the boy followed him.

Though it was only a few lanes to the Shambles, tonight it seemed like a much longer walk. Crispin was still in the throes of wine spirits and now the hot blood that had sustained him during the encounter had cooled. Jack followed silently behind and climbed the stairs to their lodgings with light steps.

Once Crispin unlocked the door and moved into their dark surroundings, Jack slipped past him and knelt at the fire. He immediately set to work churning the coals to a small flame.

Crispin sat on his bed and pulled off his boots.

Jack continued at the fire, breaking off a piece of peat and laying it on the glowing flames, watching it catch. The firelight flickered over his face and glossy eyes. It was only then, in the safety of their lodgings, that Jack’s emotions seemed to give way, and big, round tears overflowed his eyes and streaked trails down his cheeks. He stifled a sob and that was when Crispin rose from his bed.

He knelt beside the boy. “Does it hurt much?”

With tears still gliding down his face, Jack turned his amber eyes to his master. He slowly shook his head.

“Come now. That coat must be scratchy.”

“But it’s cold.”

“Here. I’ll help you put it on backwards.”

Jack allowed Crispin to help him off with his coat and then slip his arms in so the back of the cotehardie covered his chest. “Now turn your back to the fire and you will be warm enough.”

Crispin crossed the room to retrieve the wine jug and then a wooden bowl from the pantry shelf. He poured what was left into the bowl and handed it to Jack.

“No, sir. That is all we have.”

“In truth, I’ve had enough this day. Take it.”

Jack did and drank it thirstily.

Crispin watched him for a moment more before he sat on the floor next to him. He clasped his legs, rubbing his bruised shin, and positioned himself with his back to the flames as well.

“I think we both learned a lesson today.”

Jack wiped at his face, sniffing. “Aye. I learned not to be smart to my betters. I’m not you, after all. What did
you
learn?”

Crispin stared straight ahead at the legs of the table and at the shadows climbing up the door and walls. “I learned that I must remember you are still only fourteen.”

“But sir!”

“Do you dare naysay me, you with a raw back? I should have inflicted those wounds myself. I still should.”

“Aye. You’d be in the right.”

“Of course I would! You’ve no right going about London behaving as arrogant as … as…”

“As you?”

He backhanded Jack on the ear, but out of the corner of his eye he could see the boy smiling. “As a lord. What the devil did you think you were doing?”

“I was questioning them. And they didn’t like it.”