Blood Lance (17 page)

“So be it,” said More from atop his horse again. “He is a clever boy. Jack is his name, is it not? Whence did he come to you, Master Crispin? A servant from your
former
days at court?”

There seemed a little too much emphasis on “former,” he thought, but he plastered on a faint smile. “Not at all. He used to be a cutpurse.”

With swallowed gasps, the sheriffs fell blessedly silent. He stood beside their horses, allowing the flanks of the beasts to warm his back. Still, the drizzle seemed to grow colder the longer he stood. Crispin tilted his head down and crossed his arms under his cloak. Standing like a pillar, he let the rainwater cascade around him. The horses snuffled and chewed their bits with the jangling of bridles. But the sheriffs were the impatient ones, whispering back and forth to each other, as if Crispin couldn’t hear what they were saying.

At last, Jack trotted from around the wall of the inn, and stumbled when he beheld the sheriffs. The look on his face told Crispin that the lad was deciding whether to run in the opposite direction, but since everyone had spotted him, he continued on his course. When he reached Crispin he bowed to all three. “Master. What goes on here?”

“The sheriffs are here to help me, Jack.”

Jack gathered the full meaning in one. “’Slud,” he rasped.

“Well, Master Tucker,” said Sheriff Staundon congenially. “What have you discovered?”

Eyes like bezants, he looked to Crispin for help. Crispin obliged him by turning to face the sheriffs. “My apprentice is used to dealing only with me, especially on delicate topics.”

Sheriff More frowned. “Eh? Delicate?”

“At times, my lord, the subjects of our inquiries are persons of … grand nature.”

The sheriffs exchanged glances. “Oh!” piped Staundon. “Oh, I see. You do not wish to divulge—”

“No, my lords. It is for the best.
You
would not wish to be found at fault should our subjects discover our clandestine activities, would you?”

Even their horses shied. More clutched at the reins and pulled the horse to. “No, indeed, Master Crispin!” He cast a furtive glance toward the inn. “He didn’t see you, did he, Master Tucker?”

“N-no, my lords.”

“That’s a good lad. He’s a clever boy, Crispin. Did we not say that, William? Well! Sheriff Staundon and I must be off. Do report your findings to us when you can, Master Guest.”

Crispin bowed again, hiding his smile beneath his sodden hood. “In all haste, my lords.”

“Good. Good.” He turned the horse and, with Staundon beside him, they galloped their beasts away toward London.

“God be praised,” Crispin muttered before turning to Jack. “Well?”

“It wasn’t easy, Master Crispin,” he said. They both began to walk toward London, leaning in toward each other to keep their conversation to themselves and to keep the rain at bay. “It was a small inn. But I kept me hood low and, luckily, Sir Geoffrey had his back to me. He met a man in a dark cloak and they retired up to a room.”

Jack pulled Crispin aside and stood in front of him when a cart, going a little too fast, cast up a splatter of muddy water. His cloak took the brunt of it, and he looked back at the cart with a sneer before continuing with his tale. “As soon as they closed the door I crept up the stairs, but I couldn’t hear naught through the door. Anyhow, it would have looked suspicious my standing outside it, so I went to the end of the gallery where there was a window and climbed out of it.”

“You what?”

“I reckoned I’d have to listen in some other way. So I climbed out the window and went up over the roof. It was powerful slippery, mind you, with the rain and all. But I crawled along the roof and found the room below. There wasn’t no balcony—”

“There wasn’t
any
balcony,” Crispin softly corrected out of habit.

“As I said,” he went on, “so I crept as close to the edge of the roof as I dared. Their shutters were open—a good thing, too—and I listened. But because of the rain I didn’t hear much. Only that Master Chaucer said he was doing the best he could and that the other man’s lord would have to wait. And then the other man spoke but he had a foreign accent, and it was twice as hard to hear what he was about.”

“What sort of accent?”

“I’m sorry, Master, I could not recognize it. But then in the midst of their talking, Sir Geoffrey told the man he was a Spanish dog, and by that I reckoned it was a
Spanish
accent.”

“What?”
Crispin pulled him to a stop and they stood on the muddy road on the cusp of Fleet Street. “Geoffrey was talking to a Spaniard?”

“That’s what it would seem like, sir.”

“But you couldn’t make out what they were discussing?”

“No, sir. I swear on the Holy Rood, sir.”

“You did well, Jack.”

“Master Crispin, if Sir Geoffrey was talking to a Spaniard, and our knights are fighting in Spain, then what
would
Master Chaucer be talking about in secret at an inn?”

Any number of scenarios ran through Crispin’s head. “I don’t know, Jack. It can’t be anything good, that is certain. I may just have to confront Geoffrey.”

“But he’s your friend, Master Crispin. Surely he will tell you something.”

“Something, yes. But will it be the truth?”

It took another quarter of the hour to reach the Shambles, and by then it was nearing sundown. Discouraged merchants and butchers were shuttering their shops. Business had been poor on the street again. But the business of murder seemed to be booming. Crispin sneered at his own cynicism and trudged up the stairs, but pulled up short just shy of the landing.

His door was open. Either his landlord had let in a client, or he had an unwanted visitor.

Jack pushed forward, grumbling at his master’s hesitation. But Crispin laid a hand on his shoulder to impede him.

Jack jolted to a stop.

Shadows moved past the crack below the door. Crispin eased his dagger from its sheath. He stepped up the riser to the landing, stretched out his arm, and pushed open the door.

It was almost a relief to see Chaucer standing there.

Crispin sheathed his dagger and walked into the room, heading straight for his chair. He sat, leaving the stool for Geoffrey. “I almost expected you.”

Geoffrey scowled, glared at the stool, and finally sat hard. “I’m tired of playing games, Cris.”

“So am I. What exactly are you playing, Geoffrey? It seems very dangerous. To all of us.”

His lip twitched. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Crispin hunched forward and folded his hands on the table. The small tallow candle flickered. A ribbon of smoke rose between them, clouding Chaucer’s eyes. “I don’t like the company you keep.”

Geoffrey’s eyes narrowed slightly before the shadow passed and he threw his head back with a laugh. “You have been following me.”

“What else was I to do?”

“I should have thought of that myself. I should have followed you.”

A smirk pulled up one side of Crispin’s mouth. “But I was waiting for that.”

Chaucer shook his head and scooted the stool closer to the table so that he could rest his hands upon it. Fingers toyed with the clay dish that held the pooled wax of the candle. “So. Cat. Mouse. Which the cat and which the mouse?”

“Depends on the game.”

Geoffrey leaned on an elbow and stroked his carefully combed beard. “No game. But many players. Where is Sir Thomas Saunfayl?”

“So bold a strike for your first move? Geoffrey, Geoffrey. Lancaster taught you better chess than that. ‘Do not show your opponent your strategy so soon.’”

“I don’t want to be your opponent.”

Crispin chuckled humorlessly. “Too late for that.”

“Oh, you have become hard, haven’t you? Although I can’t recall you being a particularly merry fellow in days gone by. But this? How can you say you know me and have so little trust?”

“I’m still waiting.”

“Very well.” He grabbed the edge of the table with whitening fingers. “I needed information on an object. Something of great importance. Something … I think you know about.”

Now we are getting to it at last!
“You jest. An object?”

“Dammit, Cris!” A hand slammed the table. The flat pool of melted wax spilled over into white ghostly fingers, reaching across the wood. “You know what I am talking about. You went to see the abbot about it.” A pause. “Oh, very well, I
did
follow you.”

Crispin didn’t move, didn’t speak.

“We both know what we are talking about,” said Chaucer.

“Then you go first.”

Chaucer’s ire seemed to melt away. A smile, and then he closed his eyes, chuckling. “I have so missed you. Bless me.” He turned to Jack, standing in the shadows. “Has this God-forsaken hole of a room any wine?”

Jack’s gaze slid to his master first before he answered. “No, my lord. Shall I fetch some, Master Crispin?”

“I think you had better. And make haste, Jack. Master Chaucer won’t be staying as long as he thinks he will.”

Geoffrey laughed at that, but his eyes still followed Jack as he took up the empty jug and hurried out the door.

“Now that we’ve gotten rid of him,” said Crispin, sitting back. “What did you want to say to me that you didn’t want him to hear? Mind you, I’ll be telling him anyway.”

“You see plots in cobwebs.”

“I have good reason to. What, Geoffrey? Tell me, then. The only wine I can afford won’t be worth the wait.”

“The Spear of Longinus.”

“Ah. Finally. And what makes you think I am looking for it?”

“Coy? No. I
know
you are looking for it. Just as I know that Sir Thomas Saunfayl paid money to obtain it from the dead armorer on London Bridge. Just as I know it is missing.”

“You know a lot. I could have saved my feet from all that walking.”

“There is still a great deal I don’t know. Who killed the armorer, for instance, though little I care.”

“You should care more. It is likely the killer has this relic.”

“You think so? I have reason to believe he doesn’t.”

“And what reasons are those?”

“I have my sources.”

Crispin began to rock his chair gently, the soft
creak, creak
soothed him. “What sort of sources?”

“Does it matter? Cris, we don’t need to do this. We can join forces to find this thing. It needs to be found.”

“And when it is found what will happen next?”

“It will be returned to its rightful place.”

“And where is that?”

Suddenly, Chaucer’s effusiveness stilled. “Never fear, Cris. It will be a goodly place.”

He smirked again. “Why is it when someone tells me ‘never fear’ I find that I must fear very greatly?”

“Cris—”

“What do I get out of this?”

Chaucer’s thoughts seemed to stumble. “Why, the accomplishment of your task.”

“I do this work for money. It is my livelihood. I say again,
what
do I get out of it?”

“So it’s coins you want. Perhaps I was mistaken about you, Cris.”

“Geoffrey, you are a clever man, a sometimes rake, and, God help us, a fine poet. But you have never been a stupid man. Why are you playing stupid now?”

“I seem to have missed a page in this manuscript. You asked about compensation and I was incredulous that you wanted it. And so. If that is our bargaining chip, I will pay.” He unbuttoned the flap on his scrip and took out a large pouch, bulging with coins. “What will it take, Master Guest? How many marks? We can pay whatever you like.”

“We?”

“Surely you do not imagine I am working alone. If I pay you your fee then you will deliver the Spear to me and me alone. You will also speak of this to no one.” He began counting coins onto the table in neat piles. Crispin didn’t stop him. He merely watched, counting them out in his head. The fee was climbing higher by the moment.

“I will not take your money.”

Hand suspended over another growing column of coins, Chaucer looked up. “You may have little choice in the matter. It would be better, I think, to at least have the coins in hand. You never know what the future will hold.”

“I know there is no future in taking your coins, from whatever the source. I will find this object and I will decide then what I do with it.”

“You would do well to bargain with me now. I doubt that this offer will come again.”

A sudden wave of anger swept over Crispin and he gritted his teeth. “Don’t. Don’t sound like those cursed dogs I must deal with every day. Twisted men with a vile purpose. For God’s sake, Geoffrey! Don’t sound like them.”

But Chaucer’s face was hardened. “Forgive me. I suppose I forgot myself. For I have forgotten you, the man you used to be.” Slowly, Chaucer collected the coins from the many piles he had positioned on the table and dropped them back into his pouch.

Jack burst through the door, out of breath and panting, but holding the jug with two hands. His eyes caught the glitter of silver and he was in time to watch the last of the coins disappear into their pouch and scrip.

Jack’s eyes looked as if they would bulge from his head, but he controlled himself and fetched the bowls from the shelf and filled them with the wine and set them before each man.

“I’m afraid I can’t partake of your wine, Crispin. It appears I must be going.” Chaucer rose.

“Oh? So soon?” Crispin stayed where he was.

“Yes. I’m sorry we couldn’t do business together. It would have been so much easier if we had.”

“Yes. Easier. Though ‘All persons ought to endeavor to follow what is right, and not what is established.’”

“Are you still quoting that philosopher? I thought you would have grown out of that by now.”

“Not when Aristotle proves so apt time and again.”

“But he is dead and gone. He can no longer speak on these topical issues.”

“Well, we’ve all got to die sometime.”

Chaucer gave a pained smile before he pulled open the door and left, leaving it open behind him.

Jack slowly closed and bolted it and stared at Crispin. “Was he offering to pay you?”

“You don’t truly want to know.”

“You’re right. I don’t.” He picked up the bowl. “May I?”

“Why not? Here’s to your continued health, Jack.”