Blood Lance (7 page)

Sighing, he nodded. “Very well, Thomas. I so swear. As you looked out for me so I shall look out for you. But—”

“Good! When you discover something, meet me at the Falconer’s Inn on Knightrider Street. I am taking accommodations there.”

“Thomas.” Crispin strode with him to the door. “I need more than that to do you justice. Why can you not tell me?”

“I’ve told you what I could. Grey explained what it was, what it looked like. But I don’t see anything like it here now.”

“Thomas! I must insist.”

He shook his head. “I cannot say. I can only trust you so much, Crispin. I fear … if you know all, you might … but no.” His eyes were a glittering pool of confusion. “If anyone can find it, it will be you. In two days, come to me at the Falconer.”

“But Thomas—” Too late. The man was gone. Crispin followed him outside, watched him mount. He turned once, waving gravely at Crispin, before he kicked in his spurs and galloped his beast toward London.

He felt Jack come up beside him. “How, by God’s breath, are we to find a relic where we have no inkling of what it is?”

Crispin sighed, coughed, and sighed again. “I was wondering that myself.”

*   *   *

THEY RETURNED TO THE
Shambles with a full pouch but also with lots of questions. When Jack had stoked the fire and did his best to brew some Flemish broth, Crispin settled in his bed, boots and belt discarded on the floor, and his cloak and blanket wrapped about him. His back lay against the cold plaster and he drowsily watched the single candle flame flickering from its dish on the table.

“This is a puzzle right enough,” muttered Jack. He stirred the eggs into the broth with a wooden spoon and allowed it to bubble into thickness. He stuck a finger in to see if it was hot enough. Satisfied, he sucked his finger, took the pot off the trivet, and poured the broth into a bowl in which he had crumbled some old bread. He put the wooden spoon in the bowl and handed it to Crispin. “There you are, sir. That will have you feeling your old self in no time.”

“Much thanks, Jack.” He dipped the spoon in the bowl and brought up the soggy bread, slurping it into his mouth. The heat soothed his aching throat and sinuses, and he sat back against the wall with a sigh, eyes closed. He brought the steaming bowl close to his face and inhaled as best he could, scooping the liquid and sops into his mouth with the spoon. He ate until the bowl was empty. Jack offered him more, but he declined and set the bowl aside, closing his eyes.

The mattress settled beside him and he cracked open an eye to spy Jack making himself comfortable on Crispin’s bed. He sat cross-legged facing him. “So the problems, as I see it,” he began, “are threefold. One, there is the matter of Roger Grey’s murderer.” He stuck up a thumb and counted them down on his fingers. “And two, the matter of the stolen rent money, though I doubt we shall be able to find so obscure a culprit. A pouch of coins is such a wayward thing—”

“This from the expertise of a cutpurse?”

Jack did not seem discomfited in the least discussing his erstwhile profession. “Aye, Master, that is the truth. A purse of coins is scattered quickly with meat being bought here and ale bought there. It disperses like smoke.”

“Indeed. And three?”

“Three is this business of a relic.” He shook his head. “Blind me, Master Crispin. How they
do
follow you.”

“It is perplexing and maddening. But I think perhaps that we have two problems, not three.”

“Eh? Which then?”

Crispin lay back again and closed his eyes. “Do you recall the missing object from the armorer’s? A box, perhaps?”

“Aye. Wait. You don’t mean to say—”

“That is merely a guess, Jack. And I don’t like guessing.”

“The relic, then. Stolen from Master Grey.”

“And not easily. He died for it.”

“Good Christ.” He crossed himself. “Then what do we concentrate on first?”

“A murderer, of course. He must not be allowed to take another life. He’d already taken three in his pursuit of this object, something that he wanted badly. Well, he seems to have it now. Perhaps he will be easier to find because of it.”

“Or she,” said Jack.

“What?”

“She. You keep saying ‘he’ when you talk of the murderer. But haven’t we been acquainted enough with women who are devilish enough to do the deed?”

He recognized Jack’s solemn expression but made no comment on it. “I see your point. I am always loath to first believe that a maiden is so capable of dealing death, but that is merely hope over experience. Very well,
whosoever
killed Master Grey has the object we seek. Find them and we find both relic and murderer.”

“Aye, Master.”

“But for now, a little sleep.” He eased down the wall to settle on his bed properly and Jack took the bowl away and pulled the blanket over him.

Crispin drifted for a while, listening to the fire crackle and to Jack moving about the small room, splashing water into a pot, breaking sticks over his knee to add to the small fire, and humming tunelessly to himself.

Crispin had just reached a state where he could easily fall asleep when all hell broke loose outside.

He sat up, blinking. The woolliness in his head kept him immobile for a moment before he leaned over and opened the shutters. The blast of cold air took his breath away and caused his nose to run, but he wiped at it with his blanket and leaned out.

The street erupted with men shouting. Men on horses trapped between the hordes tried to rein in their crazed mounts. Fistfights broke out in their midst and there was a general shoving and disorderliness that rankled Crispin’s senses.

“Jack, go out and see what the problem is.”

“Aye, sir.” He rushed for the door and grabbed his cloak from the peg.

“Be careful, Jack.”

Jack nodded, lifted the latch, and disappeared out the door. Crispin listened for the thud of his feet down the stairs and saw him join the melee a moment later. Jack was jumping to see over the heads of the rabble but he was soon being swept up in the tide, all heading toward Newgate. Crispin leaned farther out but Jack quickly disappeared. He hoped the boy would be all right.

He lay back. He tried to relax, tried to sleep, but the noise and his worry over Jack would not allow it.

“God’s blood!” Whipping the blanket away he threw his legs over the side of the bed, looking for his boots. He grabbed his belt with the dagger sheath still attached and secured it around his waist as he headed toward the door. He fastened the last few buttons on his cloak and grabbed the door latch when it suddenly swung open.

Jack was breathing hard and was startled upon seeing Crispin in the doorway.

“Master! Get back to bed at once.” Before Crispin could speak, the boy had grabbed him and was ushering him back to the bed. He twisted him around, unloosed his belt, and shoved him back. He fell onto his lumpy mattress.

“Tucker! I am not a child!”

“Who said you were.” He grasped Crispin’s ankle, nearly upending him, and yanked off one boot and then the other. “Now lie down.”

“Tucker!” Crispin scrambled up onto his elbows. “What is going on?”

Jack went to the door, peeled off his cloak, and hung it again on its peg. He shuffled to the fire and poked at it with an iron. “Well, it’s a right mess, that is certain. The king has sent out a proclamation that there is to be no French invasion after all, that all is well. So now the merchants are upset as no one is stockpiling anymore and the people are upset for spending money they did not have to. And then the talk fell, as it always does, on taxes. And when taxes are brought up, fights break out. Men have been shouting of the days of old King John and mayhap the barons need to tell the king what for as they did in the olden days.” He shook his head. “There’s some talk of the king’s chancellor, Michael de la Pole as well as Robert de Vere, but I do not know the nature of it. Did you know them, Master Crispin?”

Crispin sat up, draping his wrists over his knees. “Yes, I knew them.”

“Thought you did. What is all the talk of them for?”

“I’m uncertain. I know that the chancellor has been responsible for raising taxes and de Vere for … well. For being a burden on the royal income. They are favorites of the king and as favorites, not well liked.”

“Well, the talk out there is rough, sir. Talk of hanging, even.”

“As much as I would like to gloat, there is much to concern me.”

“Why? These men are nothing but favorites to the king, pushing in where they don’t belong, receiving rewards they don’t deserve. No wonder the people are unhappy.”

Jack had obviously absorbed the talk that Crispin and Gilbert Langton often shared while dousing their sorrows at Gilbert’s tavern, the Boar’s Tusk. It gave him the idea that perhaps he should go there to get more of the news. As good an excuse as any. He scooted to the edge of the bed again. But Jack aimed the poker at him.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“I am going to the Boar’s Tusk.”

“It’s mad out there.”

“I cannot sit here idly while this is going on. I must know more news. With Lancaster out of the country we are in great peril.”

“Blind me,” Jack muttered, lowering the iron.

Crispin donned his boots again and strode toward the door. “Come along, Jack.”

When they reached the bottom of the stairwell, Crispin measured the crowd. The king’s horsemen were trying to disperse them, but the lane was so narrow it was difficult to move that many people out of the way. Crispin grabbed Jack’s cloak and they allowed themselves to be swept toward East Cheap and when they reached Gutter Lane, they took to the left, stumbling away from the melee. Crispin watched the men pass for a moment before he turned away and headed up the lane to the square building with the ale stake leaning into the street. A curled boar’s tusk hung from a rickety sign, and by that as well as the ale stake passersby knew that the Boar’s Tusk was open for business.

They entered the dark interior full of smoky smells and spilled stale beer. Crispin moved quickly to his favorite spot—back to the wall, eyes on the door—and waited for Gilbert or his wife Eleanor to bring a jug of wine.

It was Gilbert with the jug, and he hurried over, no doubt anxious to exchange news with Crispin.

“Greetings, Gilbert.”

He set the jug and bowls down, pouring wine into each of them. Crispin noticed—and so did a sour-looking Jack—that Gilbert still refused to bring a bowl for the apprentice. “How you managed to get here in one piece, I’ll never know,” said Gilbert, wiping the sweat from his wide brow. He took a quaff and set the bowl down, leaning in earnestly. “I was hoping you’d come.”

“Jack tells me the barons are restless.”

“Aye, that they are. I have it from a steward who frequents the Tusk, that thirteen lords have been appointed as a special council.” Crispin sat up at that. This was indeed serious. Michael de la Pole, Suffolk, though loyal to the duke of Lancaster, was swiftly becoming a liability at court. He, like Richard himself, would seldom take the advice of his colleagues. Did he think that having the ear of the king was enough? Why was history so easily forgotten at court? The place where history was made.

“They have just arrived in London,” Gilbert went on. “And riding in on the news that the king does not expect an invasion. Well. I do not know what to think of that. Was it all a ruse to redirect our attention away from his own troubles?”

“I think if the French did not strike when Lancaster’s army was well away to Spain earlier in the year, they had not the funds or the vitality to do so. I think the king is correct in this, yet it does serve as a good distraction.”

A swell of noise rushed just outside the doors of the Boar’s Tusk, and the men in the tavern lifted their heads momentarily before it passed on again to another street.

“Although not distracting enough,” Crispin amended.

“And the joust,” offered Jack. “Don’t forget that.”

“The joust?” asked Crispin.

“I heard it a day or two ago. There’s to be a joust on London Bridge. For the knights who were left behind to guard the city, so they say.”

Crispin snorted. “Beguilements in a time of war? Yes, more distractions indeed.” So that was why the bridge folk were washing their walls and hanging garlands. The constant noise of hammering made sense, too, for viewing stands needed to be constructed.

Gilbert slammed his hand to the table. “Then all those stores he bid us buy? Useless!”

“Not so, Gilbert. You will make use of it. Eventually.”

“Pfft. I could have spared the expense. Now the prices are high due to lack of supply. I have as little patience for these games as does this new council.”

Crispin sipped the wine, easing the tension in his limbs. “Did you by any chance hear who is on this council?”

“I have heard that the Archbishop of Canterbury is in the retinue.”

Jack gasped and Crispin silenced him with a gesture. Gilbert looked from Jack to Crispin. “Oi Crispin. You were in Canterbury last year. Did you … acquaint yourself with the archbishop, by any chance?”

Jack snorted loudly but that was all Gilbert needed.

“Not the archbishop!” he rasped. “Crispin, have you not enough enemies?”

“Then what’s one more?” He smiled and took a drink, licking his lips.

Gilbert shook his head and rubbed nervously at his brown beard. “Crispin, I wish you’d have a better care. This tracking has made you hasty, foolhardy even. You cannot afford to offend the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

“I think that ship has sailed, Gilbert. But what more have you heard? With Lancaster out of the way, I am concerned as to what might transpire in the government when he is not here to crush dissenters.”

Gilbert scooted closer. “Dissenters? Crispin, what do you think this council means to do?”

“Who else is on the council?”

“I only heard a few names. The king’s uncles, the duke of Gloucester and the duke of York. Richard, earl of Arundel. Oh, and Richard, Lord Scrope. He was Lord Chancellor before, was he not? He would know if anything was amiss.”

“Indeed. An august body. Well, knowing what I do about the players, they mean to punish Suffolk by impeachment.”