Season of Blood Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Titles by Jeri Westerson

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Glossary

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Afterword

  A Selection of Titles by Jeri Westerson

  The Crispin Guest Medieval Noir series

  VEIL OF LIES

  SERPENT IN THE THORNS

  THE DEMON’S PARCHMENT

  TROUBLED BONES

  BLOOD LANCE

  SHADOW OF THE ALCHEMIST

  CUP OF BLOOD

  THE SILENCE OF STONES *

  A MAIDEN WEEPING *

  Other titles

  THOUGH HEAVEN FALL

  ROSES IN THE TEMPEST

  * available from Severn House

  SEASON OF BLOOD

  A Crispin Guest Medieval Noir

  Jeri Westerson

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  This eBook edition first published in 2017 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2018 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD

  Copyright © 2017 by Jeri Westerson.

  The right of Jeri Westerson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8747-4 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-862-0 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-925-1 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  To Craig, who has spent many seasons supporting me and this crazy vocation of mine.

  ‘By God’s precious heart, by God’s nails,

  And by the Blood of Christ that’s now at Hailes.’

  Chaucer, ‘The Pardoner’s Tail’

  GLOSSARY

  Chevet An addition to an apse, a small, chapel-like enclosure, usually for the purpose of housing a shrine or tomb.

  Close A narrow alley.

  Cod Archaic for male genitalia.

  Corrodian A pensioner who pays to live out their retirement within the precincts of a monastery.

  Croft Upper floor.

  Garth An enclosed garden or yard beside a house or building.

  Girdle In the medieval sense, it is a belt.

  Monstrance A usually circular, flat reliquary made of crystal or glass so the object of veneration can be seen from both sides.

  Pintle A term for penis.

  Portcullis Gate to a castle that can be raised or lowered.

  Quarter days The four days a year when rents were due, they fell on religious festivals between the equinoxes and solstices: 25 March, Lady Day (or Feast of the Annunciation); 24 June, Midsummer Day (the summer solstice or St John’s day); 29 September, Michaelmas (Feast of the Archangels, Saints Michael, Gabriel, Uriel and Raphael); 25 December, Christmas.

  Reliquary A decorative container for a relic.

  Sarding Expletive, in the sense of carnal knowledge.

  Scapular A flap of fabric, like a poncho or tabard, worn over a cassock. Often included the hood.

  Sennight Seven nights, or a week.

  ’Slud Contraction of God’s Blood. An oath.

  Unseelie Court Fairy kingdom of the dangerous kind.

  White Monks Monks of the Cistercian order.

  Wimple Covering over the head and around the face, for women.

  ONE

  London, 1390

  The hollow steps echoed off the naked alley walls, pinging like moths against the dark timbers. No question about it. Crispin was definitely being followed.

  A cold March night was no place to be alone with an unknown person on one’s tail. Crispin looked back over his shoulder. February had retreated, leaving behind slush and mud, though icicles still dripped from eaves as a reminder that winter was not yet willing to release its talons. London was now a dragon’s breath of mist, with its shadow shapes of men trudging the muddy lanes and its houses and shops disguised as louring canyons.

  There was usually no one prowling about at this hour. Proper citizens were sitting at their suppers, telling tales of the day just as Crispin longed to do, but couldn’t very well lead his pursuer home with him.

  No, there were other options.

  He continued, neither slowing nor hurrying. The echoes followed him down every winding alley, each narrow close. Did his pursuer know he was leading them in a tightening spiral?

  He counted only one set of footfalls. Light. Someone young, perhaps. A cutpurse.

  A feral smile curved his lips. Let us see where this takes us.

  He itched to grasp the hilt of his dagger but kept his hand swinging lightly at his side. Slipping into a gloomy alley, he headed for its far end. When he reached the corner, he stepped to the side, hiding under a stair, waiting for his pursuer to emerge.

  Quickened steps. Perhaps they feared they had lost him. A shadow flew past the opening and Crispin simultaneously reached out to grab a wrist and drew his dagger, slamming the hapless shadow against a wall. His knife reached a throat just as the hood fell away …

  He choked on the curse on the tip of his tongue.

  The woman stared up at him with wild, wide eyes, blue as woad.

  He stumbled back and let the knife fall to his hip. Her wrist was still encaged in his fist and, when she looked down at it, he released the pale skin as if it were a hot iron.

  He was in deep trouble.

  ‘Forgive me, my lady. I … I …’ But what was he to say? I thought you were a thief, a murderer? Still with head bowed, he waited for her escorts to cut him down.

  He waited and waited some more.

  Squinting upward, he saw she was quite alone.

  That was not good either.

  She rubbed her wrist and her gaze dropped to her feet. Her long-toed slip
pers were covered in mud. She must have been following him a long way.

  ‘Demoiselle,’ he tried, peering behind for any other persons along the deserted alley. ‘I do apologize. I did not realize … Well. I beg your mercy most humbly.’

  ‘Good sir. Kind sir. God grant that you are the man I seek. Please, I beg of you. Tell me.’

  ‘Whom do you seek?’

  ‘Crispin Guest, a man whom they say was once a knight.’

  Stunned, Crispin stood immobile for far longer than was polite. He cleared his throat and nodded once. ‘Demoiselle, you have found me. I am Crispin Guest.’

  Her eyes fluttered closed in gratitude. ‘Not here,’ she said quietly, opening them. ‘Is there a safe place we can talk undisturbed?’ She pulled the fur collar of her cloak against her cold-reddened cheek.

  ‘Most certainly.’ He bowed again and motioned for her to follow, regretting that her poor slippers would never be the same. Stepping quickly down Paternoster Row up to Cheap, he took a left at the Shambles. When he looked back to check on her progress, her face was pale and her eyes darted ceaselessly.

  A distant dog barking and the occasional loud snore from behind a closed shutter were the only sounds on the quiet street. They reached the shop that used to be a poulterer’s and indeed still sported the crumbling remnants of a pullet-shaped sign. He stepped up to the door, unlocked and opened it.

  One glance at the small parlor told him his servant and apprentice, Jack Tucker, was not there. But the hearth ashes were carefully banked over the coals and the place was clean, proving the boy’s occasional habitation.

  It was a modest hall, some ten by ten feet with a low ceiling. The stairs behind him lying in shadow led up to two small bedchambers.

  A recent acquisition of some months, Crispin was still becoming used to such grand surroundings – grand for this portion of his life at any rate.

  A table in the center of the room had three chairs, each of disreputable origin. But they were comfortable. A sideboard and a coffer where the only accoutrements in the barren room, but they were enough.

  He pulled a chair from the table and offered it to her. A window shutter overlooking the back courtyard banged against the sill and he stepped quickly to pull it closed.

  Crossing to the hearth, he hid his anxiety by poking roughly at the fire. It wasn’t his fault she did not make herself known. Anyone could have accosted her. Foolish woman.

  Licking his lips and wiping the hot damp from his palms on his cote-hardie, he returned to the table. He lit the candles in the bent candelabra that Jack had discovered in a coffer and slowly eased down onto one of the chairs opposite her, watching the candles’ meager flames glow in her large eyes.

  ‘And so we are safe,’ he said firmly. ‘What may I do for you?’

  She seemed restless, her movements jerky. She glanced behind her though the door was closed.

  A sword in a scabbard hung by a peg beside it. A gorse broom leaned against the sword in casual repose.

  After another long pause, she spoke. ‘I have heard of your unusual vocation. That you discover puzzles. Do … all manner of services. All for a fee.’

  He cleared his dry throat. ‘Er … yes, demoiselle. I … yes. What is it you need solving?’

  ‘Solving? No. There is a man. My niece—’ She dropped her disarming gaze and clasped her hands on the table, fingers churning over knuckles. ‘I should start at the beginning.’ Her teeth dug into her lip. ‘My niece, a very young and impressionable girl, is being pursued by an unsuitable man. She has been in my care for some time. Her parents were relying on me to be her tutor in all things proper. Alas. I have failed her. She has disappeared. I fear she has run off with this man and I have pursued them to London. She was always a pious child and so my hope is that she has taken herself to a nunnery rather than soil herself with this man.’

  ‘I see. Have you no kinsmen to do such work?’

  He studied her gown. Even though the candle’s light was scant, he discerned that the fabric had frayed. There were shiny spots on the elbows. The fur was old and tattered. If merchant or courtier, she was not among the wealthy. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I do not wish to involve them. This is a private matter and must be kept secret. At all cost. I sought you for your … discretion.’

  ‘Just so. Well, then. Is this man a London citizen?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He is a London citizen.’ She rose and made her way to one of the front windows. Her finger rested on the uneven wood of the shutter. The candle glow softened the edge of her shoulders with gold. Her veil fluttered down her back.

  She turned, seemed to consider his scant furnishings, eyes restless over the coffer shoved against the wall beside the smoky hearth, the small pile of sticks in the other corner.

  Glittering eyes suddenly squared on Crispin’s. ‘So many tales are told about you,’ she said.

  ‘All good, I hope.’

  Her smile was gentle. ‘Of course.’ She waited, seeming to expect something.

  He mentally smacked his forehead. ‘May I offer you some wine?’ But even as he asked, he wasn’t certain if the jug had any in it.

  ‘That would be … very pleasant.’

  Of course it would be, if he actually had any. He approached the sideboard and opened the cabinet. There was cheese wrapped in cloth on a wooden plate, a wizening apple, a small basket of eggs, two wooden bowls, two wooden goblets and a cracked horn-beaker. The jug still had a good amount of wine left in it and he poured a scant amount into both goblets. It was to her credit that she didn’t wince when she tasted it. She seemed the type used to better fare despite her gown’s deficiency. Courtier? Possibly, though why she was unescorted so late at night troubled him.

  She sipped and glanced up at him through her lashes. He felt a definite warming in his belly. ‘And so. This man …’

  ‘Yes.’ She glanced over the hall again but the view held nothing except shadow and poverty. ‘I fear …’ her voice dropped low, ‘… I fear he knows of my quest. I might have been followed.’

  Rising, Crispin went to one of the front windows. He pushed the shutter gently and peered out to the street. He had memorized each stall, each window, every shadow, and saw nothing out of place. Just the same, he pulled it closed. Easing away from the window, he returned to his seat. ‘I saw no one.’

  Her shoulders sagged in relief. ‘God be praised.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what to do. I fear the wrath of this man. He is dangerous, though my poor niece would hear nothing against him. Oh, if only her father were still alive!’

  Crispin teased his goblet with his fingertips. He waited for more.

  ‘They say you are much like a private sheriff. That is why I sought you. Though my method was unorthodox, I admit.’ She took up her goblet again and sipped delicately, her lips tracing the rim. ‘If I tell you what I know … you will keep it secret?’

  ‘I give you my word, demoiselle. If these are secret things you need to tell me, then I will be silent about them. Your fee can buy you much.’

  ‘Fee? Oh, yes.’ She stood and scrambled at the scrip tied to her girdle, but Crispin magnanimously waved her off.

  ‘There is no need for that just yet. Perhaps you should tell me …’

  She nodded, fluttering her veil. Standing above the table, she seemed at odds with sitting or remaining standing. Sitting won out. ‘You see, the man – that horrible man who has seduced my dear niece – is married.’

  Crispin suspected as much. What a cur to use a maiden so! He couldn’t wait to get his hands on the man.

  ‘And worse still,’ she continued, ‘I understand he used to be the Lord Sheriff. Of London.’

  His hot blood froze. ‘What?’

  ‘Simon Wynchecombe is his name,’ she said. ‘I am certain he has taken her.’

  Shock kept Crispin’s world suspended for a moment. And when he opened his mouth to speak, nothing came out.

  Simon Wynchecombe? A common seducer? It almost seemed too good to be true. Six years
ago, Wynchecombe had made his life miserable with his belligerence and bullying. The man would sooner clout Crispin than talk with him. With one side of his mouth he’d insult Crispin’s heritage and on the other would hire him to do Wynchecombe’s dirty work without so much as a by-your-leave.

  ‘Surely you must be mistaken. I have been acquainted with Master Wynchecombe and I do not think he would … would be the cause of such mischief.’

  She pushed her goblet aside and leaned on the table. Crispin, unable to stop himself, mirrored her actions. ‘What if I were to tell you that I have proof of it? Are you man enough to accuse the former sheriff?’

  Was he? Wynchecombe was no longer the sheriff, true, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be again. Or even become the Lord Mayor. Wynchecombe was an alderman, a highly regarded citizen. If Crispin accused him and Wynchecombe were found innocent, where would that leave Crispin?

  On the other hand, if he were guilty he could not be allowed to steal this niece’s virtue.

  His frown was grim. ‘I will do what I must.’

  Her eyes seemed satisfied. ‘I believe you will. Very well. I will tell you what I know. And so.’ Delicately, she opened her scrip and pulled out a small, embroidered pouch. She reached in and placed six small silver coins on the table. ‘Sixpence a day, is it not?’

  He nodded.

  They both stared at the coins for some time before Crispin slid them toward him and dropped them into his hand off the edge of the table. He clutched them tightly in his fist before slipping them into the pouch on his belt. They fell over one another with a hollow clink. He opened his mouth to ask for her proof when a deep thump, thump nearing his door stayed him.

  He glanced at the closed door, cocking his head toward the footsteps clearly making their slow march toward his lodgings. Too heavy to be Jack Tucker’s. He flicked his gaze at her. ‘Your escort?’

  She shook her head, her eyes confused. ‘I came without an escort.’ She sprang to her feet, knocking over the chair. He drew his dagger and pushed her behind him, staring at the door as the heavy footfalls drew closer. When they reached the threshold, the steps stopped and then silence. They waited, looking at one another.