Blood Lance (34 page)

“It was very
ill
done! This conversation is over. Will you leave?” He rubbed at his sore arm and Chaucer stared at it.

“How did you hurt your arm, Cris?”

“I was careless.” He rubbed it harder. It was less numb than it had been but it still ached with every movement.

“Very careless. Letting the sword strike you like that.”

His kneading stopped. Crispin kept his gaze steady on the hearth. “I do not know what you are talking about.”

Chaucer leaned in and said quietly, “You think
I
can’t recognize you? Me? How many years did we fight together, side by side? Dammit, Cris, what the hell were you doing?”

“As I said.” He turned to face his friend. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

Chaucer slapped his thigh and stood. “Very well. You don’t know where Sir Thomas is?”

“No. And I have no intention of going after him. Good riddance.”

“And the Spear?”

“He’ll never use it in battle. I am satisfied.”

“But Cris!”

“He said he’s satisfied,” said Jack, emerging from the shadows. “My lord,” he added perfunctorily.

Chaucer released a long sigh. He looked at his companions, but they were silent. “Then, I must be content as well. It was good to see you again, Crispin. I’m sure we will cross paths.”

“London is a big town. We might not.”

“No, you are wrong. It is a very small town. Very small indeed. Take care of yourself. God keep you. I do mean it.”

Crispin nodded. “I know. You, too.”

Chaucer jerked his head and the others followed. They left, silently closing the door behind them.

Jack blew out a relieved breath. “S’trooth! I’m glad to see the backside of them!”

*   *   *

ALL WAS BACK TO
normal. A murderer was brought to justice, a relic had disappeared once more, a man’s honor was preserved, and Crispin was left alone again, even if his money pouch was, for once, full.

The days dragged on, cold autumn succeeding into the first signs of winter, even in the last days of October. King Richard’s troubles began in earnest and he tried to escape them by retreating from Westminster to his estates at Eltham, but Parliament would not countenance it and forced his return by refusing to do any business at all. His chancellor, Michael de la Pole, earl of Suffolk, was relieved of his duties and Bishop Arundel became chancellor in his place, along with John Gilbert, bishop of Hereford, who took on the duties of treasurer.

Crispin sniffed at that. Purse strings would be kept tighter now, he supposed, but much damage had already been done. The problem was Richard himself. If he could not see to mend his ways then Crispin did not see a very rosy future for him.

It was early November when Crispin saw his way back to Westminster. Not to go to the palace, of course. No, he fully intended to steer clear of that! But he finally had time to visit Abbot Nicholas. A few small jobs had come his way after the Spear disaster and he was glad of the distraction as well as the purse.

He left Jack behind as he made his way down the Strand, holding his cloak tight against his body, protecting it from the wind boring down on him from the Thames. His eyes roved over the scaffolding erected over the abbey’s façade. There was always some construction going on, some new creation enlivening the cathedral. And was it not all the abbot’s doing? He stopped and watched for a time as stonemasons measured with plumb lines and pored over drawings and charts. He did not notice the horses drawing up behind him, or the sound of someone dismounting. The clack of a spur on the cobblestones finally awakened him and he spun. Henry, Earl Derby, was striding toward him with a smile on his face. Crispin dropped his head in a bow.

“Ah, Crispin! How happy I am to see you again.”

“Your grace.”

The younger man rested his hand on Crispin’s shoulder and turned him to face Westminster Abbey again. “The work is going well.”

“Yes, your grace. It will be as fine as any cathedral in Christendom. Not that it isn’t now.”

“Indeed. The grave of many a king. The place where heads are crowned.”

Crispin measured Henry out of the corner of his eye. “Which is more infamous, I wonder; the coronation or the funeral?”

He clutched Crispin’s shoulder and laughed. “You are a saucy fellow. I have truly missed you.”

Crispin smiled in answer.

“Have you recovered well?”

“My cold is long gone, your grace.”

“I do not mean your cold.” He leaned in and said more quietly, “I mean your trials … on the lists?”

Crispin tried to pull away but Henry had a good grip of him. “Don’t worry. Only those who knew you well could tell it was you.”

“Chaucer,” he hissed through his teeth.

“Yes, but he only confirmed my own suspicions. Impetuous. Foolish. You could have been discovered and my royal cousin would have had no choice but to execute you where you stood. I am glad I did not have to witness that. You should be more cautious. I realize you were most likely compelled to do it by some point of honor.” He waited for a reply but Crispin kept his lips firmly shut. Henry sighed. “I only remember how kind you were to me and my siblings. I did not know the half of you. But I’m keeping watch now.”

Crispin could not tell by his tone if it was meant as a compliment or as a word of warning.

“I shall try to be a model citizen henceforth.”

Henry laughed, but it was more restrained this time. “Will you? I shouldn’t like to see that.” His smile faded as he took in the abbey again. “I hear you are friends with the abbot of Westminster. I pray you, go to visit him in all haste at La Neyte. His physicians warn he hasn’t long.”

“I am going there now.”

“Good. Give him my best wishes and prayers for his soul.”

“I will. Farewell, my lord.”

“This is not ‘farewell.’ Merely
adieu
. We will meet again.” He saluted Crispin, who gathered his presence of mind to bow.

He watched Henry mount and then turn his horse to follow the road to the palace. Crispin, on the other hand, took another road and headed on foot toward La Neyte.

*   *   *

HE WAS GREETED AT
the door by Brother John, who looked more drawn and harried than the last time Crispin had come. Looking at Crispin with sorrowful eyes, he led him silently to the abbot’s chamber.

Nicholas was abed, propped up on pillows against the bedhead. He seemed much smaller than the man of wide girth he had been. Much smaller than he had looked only a fortnight ago when Crispin visited him for the first time in his convalescence. Pale and drawn with lids papery thin, his head listed to the side, jaw hanging loose.

Fear stabbed at Crispin’s chest, thinking that he was too late, but Nicholas took a sudden deep breath and expelled it through his jowled cheeks. He blinked and then opened his eyes. It took a moment, but they focused at last on Crispin.

He raised a hand feebly before letting it fall to the bed. “Crispin.” The rasping voice was very different from the usual strong tones. “I am grateful you have come.” Crispin moved forward and sat on the chair beside the bed. He pulled it closer.

“Of course I am here. You were a good friend to me.”

“Already I am past tense,” he croaked good-naturedly.

Crispin cringed. “I did not mean—”

“I know.” He smiled and Crispin took his hand. “I have heard of your latest exploits.”

“Oh?”

“Another murderer was brought to justice. And honor upheld.” Were there no secrets at court? If all knew about the joust then what good had it done?

The abbot seemed to read Crispin’s mind when he gave his hand a frail squeeze. “Only a handful of us, Crispin. Only a handful know. And the king is not among that handful.”

Crispin said nothing, but a gust of breath through his nose told of his relief.

“Ah, my friend. It is clear to me that you need more counsel, but I am afraid I shan’t be here to perform it.”

“You have always been most valuable to me as advocate, confessor, and friend.”

“And you have been my greatest challenge.”

“My lord?”

“Don’t feign ignorance. For that is the one thing you are not. You have been a challenge to me, for many have taken my spiritual counsel but you have always questioned it.”

“I am a stubborn man,” he admitted.

“Indeed you are, but it is more than that.” He took longer between sentences. His breath labored.

“I am taxing you. I should go.”

“No. Stay. This is my last … my last counsel to you.” He took a deep breath but it would not seem to go as deeply as he tried to do. The rattling in his chest spoke of mortality and Crispin left the chair to kneel beside him. “Two things, Crispin.” His voice was now as light as smoke and Crispin leaned in to hear him. “One, a man should marry.”

He shook his head. “I have told you before, Nicholas. How could I bring a decent woman into uncertain poverty?”

“‘Better to marry than to burn,’” he said with a slow wink.

Crispin smiled. It was then he felt the tears that had reached the edges of his mouth.

“And two … two…” He paused to gasp a breath and Crispin shook his head at him.

“Hush, Nicholas. Save your breath.”

“No. I must tell you. Crispin, these relics that have come to you. There is a reason. You … you must forget what you think you know … Beware of what you find…”

Even with his ear planted close to the abbot’s dry lips he could not hear the last. Only a long exhalation of breath that seemed to go on and on.

Brother John was there in an instant, nudging Crispin aside. He brandished a goblet of wine in his hand. Kneeling beside Crispin, he took the abbot’s wilted white hand out of Crispin’s grasp. “Do you renounce Satan and all his works?” muttered the monk to his abbot. Nicholas nodded and took the wine that John pressed to his lips. A little dribbled out the side of his mouth in a crimson stream and then he moved no more.

The monk sank his head to the bed and wept on the hand of the dead abbot. Crispin stayed on his knees, feeling no compunction to leave.

*   *   *

IT WAS HALF OF
the hour later that Crispin left at last, and that was only because he was warned that the king’s emissaries were coming. He trudged back to the Shambles, his mind filled with mortality. When he reached the tinker shop he stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked up the rickety wooden structure. In the winter, the stairs were icy. Inside there were drafts and the roof leaked. He owned none of the furniture and only a few of the items that inhabited the place. Nicholas was a dear man and had cared for Crispin almost as much as Gilbert and Eleanor did, but he could not know the extent of Crispin’s degradation. Crispin knew that alone he was only half a man, but he could
not
bring a wife to this.

Trudging up the stairs he finally came to his door, but instead of having to dig for his key, it opened and Jack Tucker stood there, a worried look on his young face. He stepped aside and Crispin entered.

“It is done,” he said to the boy. Jack becrossed himself and released a whimpered sob. Crispin had done his weeping. He stared into the fire.

“He was a good man, Master Crispin. A good soul.”

He nodded, still thinking of his words. The man had tried to tell him something about the relics. Always relics coming into his hands. Why? While in that strange territory between Heaven and Earth, had Nicholas glimpsed the world’s unanswered questions? Had he found reason in the chaos?
Was
there a reason these relics seemed to come to Crispin, and Crispin alone?
You must forget what you think you know. Beware of what you find
. What did that mean? It had been a tantalizing morsel that Nicholas unwittingly dangled before him.

Now it was nothing but a headache.

And the other. To marry. Before he could stop himself, he cast his eyes toward his bed, to the mattress, beneath which lay the portrait of Philippa Walcote. She had asked him, and he had refused. Partly it was because of his poverty but partly because of his pride. She wasn’t fit to be the wife of a lord.
She
wasn’t fit. And yet
he
wasn’t a lord. He would laugh but he hadn’t any jollity left in him.

Instead, he rose, and despite the presence of Jack, he knelt by his bed, reached under, and pulled the portrait out. He returned to the fire and plopped down into the chair, staring at the little picture so carefully painted. Such an unusual thing to have a small portrait of a person, not a saint, not a king. But he knew that Lancaster had such a thing. It was probably in the hands of his mistress, Katherine Swynford. She would have such a keepsake and keep it dear.

“She has a babe, you know,” said Jack quietly behind him, nodding toward the portrait.

Crispin’s heart lurched at the thought. “No. I didn’t know.”

“Aye. Married well and good. It … it’s best to forget her, sir.”

“I know.” He swept his thumb across her perpetual smile, over those sleepy eyes. He thought of stuffing the image under the mattress again, but he decided to keep it in his pouch, keep it close. A constant reminder that he had once been a great fool and it had cost him.

The small fire was a comfort. Jack’s silent presence beside him even more so.

Afterword

Just which lance are we talking about in this latest Crispin adventure? When we talk of the Holy Spear or the Spear of Destiny or the Spear of Longinus or the Holy Lance, there seems to be a surprising number of them to talk about.

There is possibly the most famous one, which has been used in movies and fiction before, and that is a lance that belongs to the
Reichskleinodien,
or the imperial regalia of the Holy Roman Empire. In 1796, it was moved to Vienna to keep it safe while the French revolutionary army marched near Nuremburg, where it had been stored. It was supposed to stay in Vienna only until the war was over, but by then the Holy Roman Empire had ceased to be and Vienna saw no reason to return it to Germany. Finders keepers. It is a long blade, broken in the center, and imbedded with a nail. That broken piece was bound with silver and then with an engraved gold band.