Blood Lance (16 page)

Crispin shifted on his seat. “I try
not
to think of that, Nicholas.”

“But why? Crispin, I have contemplated God’s wishes for the many decades that I have been a brother in the Church, trying as best as a man can do to fulfill my vocation. I have prayed, I have built up His mighty church, an edifice of faith at Westminster. I have followed the dictates of my king, the anointed of God. Without the sin of pride, I can heartily say that I have done more than is required in sacrifice and suffering.” He touched his heart and bowed his head, his ermine hair swaying with the movement. “I have made a great study of the relics of his Holy Ones throughout Christendom. But Crispin, I have never experienced what you have undergone when guarding or returning His most holy relics back to their proper places. And yet you tell me you do not believe in their power.”

Crispin drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair and stopped when he realized what he was doing. “My lord, I haven’t your strength of faith. I see them as objects of greed and envy, something to be bartered in the marketplaces. Something to be stolen. To kill for. I cannot see that they are a benefit to man when such ill-doings are associated with them. I’d rather they never existed.”

Nicholas gasped and Crispin cursed himself for his wayward tongue. He was used to being honest with the monk, used to arguing with him. It did not occur to him that this was not the appropriate moment for such stark candor.

“Forgive me, Nicholas. You know me. I give no quarter when my opinion is asked.”

“Indeed not, Master Guest. Your frankness has always been valuable to me. But I see that you wear a blindfold when it comes to God’s relics.”

“We mustn’t continue to have this argument,” he said kindly.

Nicholas chuckled. “You are a most stubborn pupil.” He raised his eyes to Jack, still standing stoically behind Crispin’s chair. “Is it so, young man? Do you find your master to be a stubborn man?”

Jack, startled to be addressed, paused. Finally, when Crispin twisted around to look at him, he lowered his eyes. “I must not say so, my lord.”

Both Nicholas and Crispin laughed. “And perhaps a stubborn apprentice, as well,” said the old monk.

“It’s what I deserve,” admitted Crispin.

The abbot’s chuckle became a hum and he smoothed the crisp sheets with a quivering hand. “But we distract ourselves. We were speaking of a most holy relic, no? I take it you know what it is.”

Crispin nodded. “It is the spear that a centurion used to pierce the side of Christ on the cross.”

This time it was Jack’s turn to gasp. Over his shoulder, he heard his apprentice mutter a prayer.

“When it pierced the side of our Lord, blood and water poured forth, the blood of our sins and the waters of baptism.
Lancea Longini,
” said Nicholas. “From the apocryphal gospel of Nicodemus. The spear head, at least, was said to be passed from the family of this centurion, Longinus, to other holy men, who kept it in safekeeping for many years.” He licked his lips and coughed. “Please. A little wine.”

Crispin rose but Jack was faster. He poured wine from a silver flagon into two silver-rimmed horn cups sitting on a sideboard. With a bow, he gave the first to the abbot and the second to Crispin.

Nicholas smiled at Jack. “A fine apprentice,” he muttered before taking a sip, clearing his throat, and then sipping again. “As I was saying, the spear made many journeys to many places. Eventually, the spear tip was broken off and sent to France where, as you know, it is housed in the Sainte Chapelle in Paris.”

“Along with the Crown of Thorns,” said Crispin, drinking the pale Spanish wine.

Jack leaned forward. “But Master! The Crown—”

“Is back in Paris, Jack, where it belongs.”
Minus a thorn or two,
he mused to himself.

The monk raised his hand. “However, the other piece of the spearhead disappeared. At one time, pilgrims have said to have seen it at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem, but when Jerusalem was sacked by the Persian infidels, it made its way to Constantinople.”

“Jack,” said Crispin out of the side of his mouth. “You’re breathing down my neck!”

“Oh! Sorry, sir.”

“And from thence,” the abbot went on, “it made its way to various churches, after which it seems to have disappeared. Though I greatly fear that you, Master Guest, are about to tell me where it is now and in what peril.”

Crispin choked on his wine and Jack thumped his back until he turned to give the boy an evil eye.

Setting his wine aside, Crispin straightened his coat. “I merely wished to discover its provenance, good abbot. It has not yet crossed my path, though … as you have guessed, I am charged with finding it.”

“Bless me!” Agitated, the abbot jerked his hand and the cup spilled a patch of wine onto the sheets. “Oh! Look what I have done!”

Jack pressed forward but it was Brother John who swooped in like a sparrow and with a cloth, blotted the golden wine until the abbot waved him off with an impatient mutter. “Don’t fuss, Brother John. You know I cannot abide it.”

“My lord,” he said with a bow and stepped deftly away from the bed, glancing at Crispin as he passed.

Nicholas wagged a finger at Crispin. “Master Guest, take care. This is a dangerous object. The owner of the Spear is utterly invincible.”

“The thorns from the Crown were supposed to have the same influence.”

“No. It is much more than the thorns from the Crown of Thorns. The thorns protected the man who was pure of heart. They made him invulnerable to harm. But the Spear is different. It imbues the owner with an invincibility unmatched. Why, he could conquer his enemies, wage war and be the victor, he could—”

“Win a joust?”

The abbot’s pale blue eyes scoured Crispin’s gray. “More than win it. He could win far more than that. But he need not be pure of heart, as the thorns demanded.
That
is what makes this a most dangerous relic. It wields its own power.”

“Master!” whispered Jack.

“Hush, Jack.” Crispin handed his cup to the boy, who set it on the sideboard. “Nicholas, I have sworn to turn this relic over to … someone. I made an oath.”

“And your oaths are worth more than gold. I only hope that this can come to a happy conclusion. You have seen much sorrow, my young friend. I hope, that in the end, you will make the right choice.”

Nicholas said no more. He seemed content to merely stare with disconcerting concentration.

“I will do my best as always, my Lord Abbot.”

“See that you do. Now Young Master Tucker, convey your master hence so that I can get my rest. This is troublesome business, dying.”

“God keep you, good sir,” said Jack, bowing and standing beside Crispin, who rose from his seat. The abbot sketched a cross over them both in blessing.

“And no more talk of dying, old man,” said Crispin with a brief smile. He took his leave, and with a gesture to Brother John, quit the bedroom.

In the hall, Crispin took Brother John aside. “I know he is ill, but—” Crispin frowned. “I saw him only yesterday! You were helping him with his armor.”

The monk shook his head. “He has not eaten in some days now. He takes only small quantities of wine with a little bread. He is an old man and I suppose the body knows…” He looked back at the closed door, but it was more to conceal a tear than to worry whether the abbot could hear him. He wiped at his eyes. “I fear the king will be choosing a new abbot soon.”

It was like a blade twisting in his heart. Crispin could barely breathe. But the man was seventy-five if a day. He was due his rest in the arms of God. Such a selfish heart to want to keep him here.

He clenched his jaw, nodded to the monk for he did not trust his voice, and led Jack out the door.

He stood on the path and looked back at the manor house, at the vines crawling up its stone face, at the pleasant fields surrounding it. He thought of the man within, whom he had known well for nearly two decades, and at the quiet tragedy unfolding.

He whipped his hood up over his head and strode quickly down the path to the road.

*   *   *

SUBDUED FOR MOST OF
the journey back to Westminster, Jack finally spoke when they reached Charing Cross. “He always seemed like a kind old gentleman. Not like a monk at all.”

Crispin smiled. “A fine compliment. He would be pleased. I shall tell him when next I see him.” And then he wondered when that would be.
If
it would be.

Jack stopped abruptly and threw an arm across Crispin’s chest. About to admonish his servant, Crispin saw his eyes. They were hard gems. “Master Chaucer,” he whispered, and gestured with the tilt of his head.

Geoffrey Chaucer rode down the Strand, moving his horse with purpose toward the direction of London. Crispin said nothing to Jack, but they both hurried their pursuit.

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.”