Blood Lance (26 page)

Of course, if Chaucer was trying to obtain it for a Spaniard, then Sir Thomas would be a hero.

Crispin searched through the rest of the documents, but they were either more receipts or matters inconsequential to their present circumstances. He gave them back to Jack. “Return these where you found them. They’ll be as safe there as anywhere else.”

Jack did as ordered and then jerked up his head. Crispin wondered at it until he heard it, too. It sounded like someone in the place next door. The tailor’s.

They hurried downstairs and out the shuttered window. The door to the Coterels’ home was ajar and Crispin crept to it, pulling it open. A shadowed figure picked through a small coffer, head bent low in its search.

“I’d stop right there, if I were you,” said Crispin.

The pale face of Robert Coterel shot up and stared with wide eyes.

Crispin let out the breath he was holding. “God’s blood,” he muttered. “Tucker, light a candle.”

It took a few moments with some stumbling and scuffling, but soon Jack had one, then two candles lit. Coterel’s frightened expression did not change but he turned and groped for a chair. Without a cold clogging his sinuses, Crispin could now tell that the man reeked from wine.

“Master Coterel, did I not give you strict instructions not to leave the inn?”

“Yes, yes, but I needed my needles. I had left some behind in our haste to leave.” His fingers moved restlessly over the small ivory cylinder in his hand. But he seemed in no hurry to leave just yet.

Crispin watched him, his uncertain swaying over the chair, his tongue licking sluggishly over his lips, the day-old beard that came in grayer than the hair on his head. He couldn’t waste this opportunity, even if it meant taking advantage of the man. “Master Coterel, can you tell me about … Master Grey?”

Hesitantly, he jerked his head toward Crispin and blinked, as if only just remembering he was there. “Master Grey? What would you like to know of him?”

“Was it true he was to marry your daughter?”

“Marry Anabel? Oh my, yes.” He shook his head sloppily from side to side. “He was devoted to her. Did my heart good to see it. A man worries over his daughter, you know. Do you have children, Master Guest?”

Crispin resisted glancing at Jack. “No. Were the banns posted?”

“No, not as yet. Anabel said he was waiting for something. Some great opportunity was coming his way. In fact, she spoke of the possibility of leaving London. How right he was.”

“Leaving London?” And yet Anabel insisted this was a lie. “For where?”

“I don’t know. She said he had plans to make. Always plans.”

“So he had formally asked for her hand?”

“Let me think. No. No, he never actually asked me. It was Anabel who told me. Told me of all his plans.”

A sinking sensation swooped in Crispin’s gut. He refused to look at Tucker. “It was Anabel alone who told you these details.”

“Yes, yes. Such a good daughter. Whenever we seem on the brink of destruction, it is Anabel who pulls us from the fire. She can always find the funds when they are needed. God be praised for such a wise and thoughtful daughter.”

“How does she find the funds?”

“Well, she sells small portions of our cloth.”

“Oh? Why then did she not do so when you needed to make the rent?”

He wagged a finger. “Ah, but then she found
you,
did she not?”

Crispin felt his jaw clench. “Indeed. She did.” That swoop in his gut was now turning into a ball of anger.

“She is always making friends. Friends who help us when we are in need. I am afraid to say that sometimes … well.” The tailor crooked a finger to bring Crispin closer and the fumes of wine were strong when he huffed an embarrassed laugh. “Sometimes I drink too much. And then I gamble. And before I am aware of it, our funds are diminished. I have tried to be less of a sinner, but alas. I do penance but then I return to the tavern and the dice games before I ever realize that I have fallen back into sin.” His smile faded, his eyes glistened, and soon tears rolled down his cheeks. “I am a poor father indeed!” Dropping his face in his hands, he sobbed.

Crispin stared at the wreck of a man before him. He had been negligent. He should have talked to Coterel much sooner. Instead, he had relied on his heart to lead him, an unpredictable organ at best.

“I’m gladdened that she has such good friends,” he whimpered. “Men who watch over her when I cannot.”

Crispin tried to keep his voice even. “Are there many such men, Master Coterel?”

“A few. There is the carpenter, Master Mark; the law student, Master Jonathan; the clerk, Master Lucas, the cordwainer, Master—”

“I beg your pardon. Did you say a clerk by the name of Master Lucas?”

“Did I?”

“You did,” said Jack, drawing forward.

“Then I did.” He nodded vigorously.

“Do you know his surname?”

“Stumpy, Stately…”

“Stotley?”

“Of course, it must be.”

Crispin curled his hand around his dagger hilt. He did not like the shape of this.

“You cannot remain here, Master Coterel. You must return to the inn. Jack, see that he gets there.”

“Yes, Master Crispin.” He tugged Coterel to his feet, and the man stood reluctantly. “Come along now, good master, it is time for you to return to your inn. No doubt your daughter is waiting.”

“If she is back she might very well be.”

Crispin turned as they reached the door. “If she is back?”

“I heard her come in very early this morning, but now she is gone again. She has her many friends to consult. Many places to be. She always returns with a small bit of coins. A good daughter, is my Anabel.”

“Yes, perhaps she is back and wondering where her father is.” He didn’t mean it to come out with such vitriol, and Jack frowned at him for it, but Master Coterel did not notice as Jack led him outside and down the lane.

Crispin closed the door and locked it with the use of his knife in the lock. His hand shook from anger but he kept it in check. He’d save it for later. He’d need it for facing Lucas Stotley, convenient Samaritan from the Boar’s Tusk and, if he was not mistaken, also acquaintance of Lenny.

*   *   *

HE TOOK HIS ANGER
with him as he stomped through the streets of London. His intention was to return to the Shambles and brood. The multiple levels of deception were an outrage to his sensibilities. But as he turned a corner, his eye caught an ale stake angling into the street. He could do with a cup of wine to cut the edge off his wrath. He veered toward the unfamiliar tavern and pushed open the door.

It was dark inside the raucous interior, but it took only a moment for his eyes to adjust. When they had, he stopped dead. In a darkened corner stood Chaucer, talking furtively to a man. And who should that man be but Lucas Stotley.

He drew his dagger and pointed it. “You!” cried Crispin. Stotley whipped his head toward Crispin. Terror swept over his face and Chaucer quickly pushed him away and gestured for him to escape.

“Oh no you don’t!” The crowd was in his way, and Crispin tried to push through, to no avail. He growled his frustration and leapt onto the nearest table, to the outraged cries around him. He jumped to the next, making his way toward Stotley over the tables. Stotley moved furiously through the crowd toward the door, looking back at Crispin with widened eyes.

Men sitting at the tables shouted and fell out of Crispin’s way as he strode along the surface, oblivious to their curses. His feet kicked wooden cups and ale spilled out in cockerel tails through the air.

Stotley scrambled toward the exit, pushing men out of the way. Crispin changed direction after him, still bounding from table to table, now knocking over candles and spilling wine jugs, some crashing to the floor in scattering shards.

Crispin leapt and hit the floor. He lunged, nearly reaching the clerk, when hands pulled him back. He lost his footing, slipped, and careened backward, barking his shoulder on a bench.

“Stop him!” he cried, but Stotley was out the door before anyone could react.

Crispin twisted around to see who had had the audacity to hinder him and wasn’t surprised to see Chaucer’s face. He hauled back a fist and punched him.

Chaucer’s head snapped back and he wobbled but was able to whip his head about and shake it off.

“God’s blood, Geoffrey! What the hell do you think you are doing?”

Geoffrey moved his jaw back and forth, testing it, before he frowned with a painful squint to his eye. “Damn you, Crispin.” He swung but Crispin ducked, coming up with a fist in Chaucer’s gut.

Geoffrey doubled over, took a breath, and head-butted Crispin.

Crispin crashed backward into a tray of bowls and jugs. Everything scattered and splintered and he found himself gasping and sitting on his bum surrounded by a pile of broken crockery. He sneered and jumped to his feet.

By then Chaucer was standing upright, balling his hands into fists. He drew one back and swung forward, but Crispin caught it in his hand and twisted. Chaucer yowled and sank to one knee and bit Crispin’s leg on the way down.

It was Crispin’s turn to yell, and he kicked, not caring where the blow landed.

It landed in Geoffrey’s side. The man spun away, clutching his ribs, and glared back over his shoulder. He made a sudden lunge and grabbed Crispin’s coat, hauling him close. “Come with me!”

But Crispin fought and grabbed Geoffrey’s gown at its furred collar.

“No, you’re coming with
me
!”

They struggled for a bit with the sound of ripping cloth before both came to a halt. Glaring got them nowhere until Crispin heaved a disgusted sigh. “Let’s have this out.” He pointed to the alcove with a curtain and Chaucer silently agreed, though neither one let go of the other’s gown.

It was obviously a place for a servant to sleep, nothing more than a space for a mean cot and a niche for an oil lamp, but Chaucer pulled the curtain closed and pushed Crispin hard against the wall. Crispin recovered and shoved Geoffrey into the opposite wall and kept pushing, fists curled around his now torn collar.

“Are you a murderer, Geoffrey?” he rasped, mindful of the thin curtain separating them from the tavern. The scrape of bench and table being righted and men talking loudly about the disruption masked something of their conversation. “Are you aware who that man is?”

“I’m not a murderer, you idiot! Let go of me!”

Crispin shoved harder. “Tell me, dammit, or I swear I’ll … I’ll…” With a growl he released his friend’s gown and stepped back, running a trembling hand over his mouth. He shook his head and grimaced. “Lancaster put you up to this,” he whispered. “Answer me.”

Geoffrey didn’t fix his clothes. His expression warred between rage and disbelief. He seemed to be deciding, shoulders tensing. And then he let it go, all of it. His body became fluid and he leaned against the wall, head back, throat rolling as he swallowed. “Cris. Damn you. Why did you have to be involved?”

Crispin flopped against his own wall, needing the plaster and stone to hold him upright. “Answer the question.”

“Of course Lancaster charged me! He is my master.”

“To kill?”

“No! What do you take me for? I am no assassin.”

“And yet you track with them. What of Lucas Stotley?”

He didn’t think Chaucer could look more shocked, but his face configured that way. “He is not a murderer, nor did I contract with him to that end.”

“But you did hire him. To do what?”

Chaucer sighed and sat on the cot. The straw crunched beneath his weight. “He was to find a thief to steal the Coterels’ rent money so that they would be evicted so that the shop would lie empty, allowing us to do our work.”

It was everything Crispin suspected, but knowing it was true did not give him pleasure.

“But
you
fouled it up when
you
paid their rent,” Geoffrey continued. “I thought you were without your own funds.”

“Thanks for your confidence. Yes, that is generally true, but I was flush from a recent venture. How did he know where the money was hidden?”

Chaucer shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t care. All I know is that Stotley was accomplished and did his part well. Until you showed up.”

“Lancaster wants the Spear.”

“Of course he wants it. Wouldn’t you?”

“How did Sir Thomas get wind of it, then? Of your transaction with the Moor?”

Chaucer’s cheeks flushed. “How the devil did you know that?”

Crispin crossed his arms and simmered.

Geoffrey ran a hand through his hair and only just realized he’d lost his hat somewhere. He looked around for it for a moment and then gave up. “I’m not certain. Possibly he overheard my discussing it with someone. His messenger was faster, his gold heftier. He slipped in right under my nose.”

“Is that why you are after him?”

“Among other things. He
is
being tried for cowardice. And you need not hide him any longer, for I have found him. He is in custody now.”

Crispin slumped. Not good news.

“So there is no more a reason to hide the Spear either, Cris. You should hand it over to me as soon as possible.”

Crispin raised his head and studied his friend, his torn collar, his mussed beard and hair. So fastidious, but not today. Crispin’s voice was rough and low when he asked, “Why were you conspiring with the earl of Suffolk?”

Chaucer’s lips parted but Crispin interrupted whatever he was about to say. “You need not lie. I saw you with him. At a tavern.”

With brows raised the man nodded. “I have forgotten how thorough you can be. Well … he, too, wanted the Spear for Lancaster. He has supported the duke in the past, you know. I told him my plans and he agreed.”

“Are you certain it was for Lancaster?”

He frowned and would not look Crispin in the eye.

“I think you are over your head in this one, Geoffrey. I think he might have changed loyalties. He either wants it for the king or more likely for himself, for he is in sore need of it.”

“So I have heard.”

“Nevertheless, no matter how much you must have trusted him, he did not reciprocate the feeling. He hired his own men to kill Roger Grey and be done with it. Those men also killed his innocent apprentices, brothers, aged fifteen and ten. One of their bodies was recovered by the sheriffs.”