Cup of Blood: A Medieval Noir: A Crispin Guest Medieval Noir Prequel Read online

  CUP OF BLOOD

  Cup of Blood

  A Crispin Guest Medieval Noir Prequel

  JERI WESTERSON

  Old London Press

  The Crispin Guest Novels by Jeri Westerson

  available from Minotaur Books

  Veil of Lies

  Serpent in the Thorns

  The Demon’s Parchment

  Troubled Bones

  Blood Lance

  Shadow of the Alchemist

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. The eBook version cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this or the eBook version can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the publisher.

  CUP OF BLOOD, Copyright © 2014 by Jeri Westerson. All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address Old London Press PO Box 799, Menifee, CA 92586

  www.JeriWesterson.com

  Cover design by Jeri Westerson. Photography by Craig Westerson.

  ISBN-10: 1497476127

  ISBN-13: 978-1497476127

  First Edition: July 2014

  To Craig, who has always stood by me, even when it seemed like a silly idea

  INTRODUCTION

  If you have been reading the Crispin Guest Mysteries, then perhaps you were wondering how Jack came into Crispin’s life. In this prequel, your questions have been answered.

  But let’s back up a bit. Sometime in 2003, I developed the first Crispin Guest book, having never penned a mystery before. Despite capturing the interest of my agent, it failed to capture the hearts of editors. But because this was my first venture into mysteries and because mysteries like to travel in packs, that is, in a series format, and since I had also never written a series before, I jumped right into writing the second book, and then the third.

  I couldn’t have known when I wrote Cup of Blood and sent it in to my agent that this would also be the year that Dan Brown’s explosively popular book, The DaVinci Code, would hit the bookshelves. When that happened, believe me, editors were sick to death of Templars and grails.

  And so, when an agent sends out a manuscript to all his editors that he thinks will be the best fit for the book and it doesn’t pan out, agent and author decide to retire that book. That was this book. Some fourteen months later, an editor at St. Martin’s Press, who had read Cup of Blood but had sadly declined to publish it, contacted my agent. For some reason, he couldn’t get the characters out of his head, and did the author have another book in that series he could look at?

  Why yes. Yes, she did. That one was Veil of Lies and it was the one St. Martin’s published, along with five more—six in total—before they said good-bye to the series. However, I was by no means done with the series myself, and so I decided to dust off that first book, give it a hefty rewrite, and present it myself as a prequel. And here we are.

  I hope you enjoy this peek into Crispin’s life as Jack pushes his way in from outcast to servant…along with some lovely murders and swashbuckling escapades.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A whopping big thank you to Steve Mancino. He was the first to see that there was something to this hardboiled medieval detective and he was the one who got him into print. An additional big thank you to him for giving this book the once over once again.

  Another thank you goes out to the Vicious Circle of Ana Brazil and Bobbie Gosnell, offering critique and suggestions just where they are needed.

  Thank you to Chris Kasianczuk, for offering his time and his features as the new face of Crispin.

  ICG in Norco, CA has been more than generous, supplying the printing for bookmarks, postcards, and invitations. It is much appreciated.

  Thank you to Rebekah Hendershot of Semper Editingand Kris Jacen for helping out with the formatting. Thank you librarians for offering me the opportunity to swing my sword around when I visit. Thank you bookstore owners for giving me shelf space. Thank you reviewers for the nice things you say.

  An especial thank you to the fans and readers. You have stuck with me through thick and thin. I shall endeavor to be worthy of you.

  And finally, a grateful thank you to the love of my life, the Long Suffering Husband, Craig. He has stood by me throughout all my wacky ventures, always with a smile…and a drink in his hand.

  CHAPTER ONE

  London, 1384

  Cold. His fingers were cold. Digging them into his tunic sleeves did little good, as ragged and as full of holes as they were.

  Jack Tucker lifted his face to the wet sky. Droplets pelted his numbed cheeks, but he barely felt them. Yanking his hood lower over his face, he scanned the street. So few were abroad now, what with the rain and the dim moonlight peeking beyond the tall buildings and shops. The bells in the nearby churches were tolling compline and soon the Watch would be roaming the streets, looking for stragglers like him.

  “Jack.” It was almost a growl but it was only because it came out a gravelly whisper. He turned, looking for the maker of the sound and found him in the doorway of an abandoned shop. Jack’s eyes widened as he slowly approached.

  The face of the young man looked far older than his fourteen or fifteen years, and Jack swallowed, looking him over. “What you doing there, Will?”

  Will made a movement that might have been a shrug. “Spare a coin for your old friend?”

  Jack approached and then saw the leg. It was twisted and the scant stocking covering it was torn and damp from sores and running pus. He gasped and then looked again into Will’s face. Will was the smartest lad he knew, taught him some of his trade in purse-cutting. Now his bright eyes were dull and shadowed. Jack’s gaze fell again to the sour leg, the leg that was slowly killing him.

  “What happened, man?”

  Will’s mouth curved up in a slight smile. “Rat bit me. I think. So here I now sit.”

  Running a hand over the back of his neck, Jack crouched low. He couldn’t stop staring at the leg and the horror of it. “By the saints, Will. How could a small bite do that to you? You were as hearty and hale as me.”

  But now that he was closer, Jack noted the sallow and sweat-damp cheeks and how sunken-in they were.

  He’d been saving the hard crust of bread in his pouch for later. The last time he’d had a bite to eat was that morning and he well knew the dreadful hollow feeling. But without another thought, he threw open the flap of the scrip at his belt and withdrew the crust, handing it to Will. “Here, Will. Take it. And this, too.” His fingers lighted on a coin—the only one he had—and gave it over.

  “Ah, look at you, Jack,” he said, closing his fingers on the bounty. “That’s right charitable of you, my lad.”

  Still crouching, Jack rocked back. He said nothing as Will nibbled on the crust, tumbling crumbs onto his breast. He’d seen it before, many times. The pallid complexion, the slow movements, the deadened eyes. Will hadn’t long. And with a jolt to his heart, he knew it could easily have been him, dying alone in an abandoned doorway.

  He snapped to his feet.

  “I…I have to go.”

  Will nodded. Yes, he knew. Knew that boys like the two of them saw death regularly on the streets
of London. Saw it, skirted it, said their prayers, and moved on. Jack’s charity was a small kindness that would not last. But Jack vowed that if he could get a purse or two this night, he’d come back and share it with Will, bring him something warm to drink maybe.

  “I have to go,” he said again.

  Will merely closed his eyes and laid his head back against the doorpost. The hand holding the bread drooped over his chest.

  Swallowing hard, Jack rose and trotted away. He becrossed himself and looked back, but saw only shadows. He would return, he vowed, though his guts churned from the thought of that leg, of Death hovering so closely. The fear of it kept him moving.

  A boy on the streets courted Death, at least that’s what Will used to say. Courted her, bowed to her, but you were to always keep your distance. A clever young lad could avoid her grasping hands. But not always, they had both noted silently when they’d seen boys floating face down in the Thames, or broken in an alley from a man who hadn’t liked getting his purse cut.

  He turned a corner, just another corner like any other in London. He looked back once, and then only ahead.

  Shopkeepers urged their young sons and apprentices with a gentle nudge to their shoulders, heading indoors. Some of the boys were little older than Jack.

  An ale stake rose out of the gloom and then the sound of a pipe filtered onto the muddy lane from the shuttered window. A tavern. That meant warmth and perhaps a purse or two to cut. The painted sign was of a spiraled horn. Tusk, maybe?

  “God be praised,” he muttered, blowing on his fingers. Had to bring life back into them if he was to do a proper job of it.

  Gingerly, he pushed open the heavy oaken door and glanced about the dim room. So few men. There was one slumped over the table. His arms were crossed before him and he was surrounded by many bowls of wine. He sat next to a slumping man, a servant likely, from the badge on his arm.

  Looking across the room through the haze of smoke, he saw another asleep by the fire. And yet another man at another table, barely able to sit up as he swayed, staring morosely into his horn beaker. A piper played in a corner, and it appeared that the tavern keeper was himself asleep, leaning back against the wall on his three-legged stool.

  Jack raised his face to the heavens and smiled. Ah, blessed saints. You are looking out for a poor thief like me.

  If he could cut the drunken men’s purses and make off, he’d eat tonight. If he was able to find a baker with his shop still open and buy a day-old pie, something with some meat in it, that would fill his belly. That would be worth it. And he could share it with Will, who could use a few hours with a friendly face.

  Yes. He’d get in and get out. No need to linger. Though the warmth on his cheeks was particularly inviting.

  He slipped past the door and made his way carefully toward the hearth. He couldn’t help himself and stood before it, warming his face and hands. He almost groaned from the wonderful heat. But he knew he had a job to do.

  Turning to the first man asleep near him, he crept closer. The man’s rust-colored cotehardie looked as threadbare as Jack’s own tunic, with a few missing buttons on his sleeve and shiny at the elbows where the material—good wool, he noticed—was nearly worn through. His black hair hung long over his face, hiding his features, and the man’s fingers, curled on the table, were dirty and calloused. He wondered what manner of work the man did, but only briefly. He didn’t truly care. Only that the man’s purse had at least some silver in it, though by the looks of him, he likely didn’t have much.

  Jack glanced once more back toward the snoring tavern keeper, and drew his small knife. The piper played on and never seemed to notice what Jack was about.

  Jack listened intently to his victim, to his slow and even breathing in and out, followed by an occasional snore. Sidling closer, he looked over the man’s shoulder. His dark cloak hid his purse, but if Jack was careful, he could move it out of the way, cut the purse strings, and move on to the next man.

  Kneeling behind him, still listening, Jack gently pushed the heavy, damp cloak aside. It smelled strongly of smoke and wet wool. He moved it only enough to reveal the dangling black, leather purse. Jack knew his knife was sharp. He kept it that way by necessity. What thief would keep a dull blade? He needed it as much for his work as for protection. Holding his breath, he eased the knife forward.

  The deep breathing changed, shortened. Jack froze. Had he awakened the drunkard? After a long tense moment, the man’s breathing resumed in a lengthy, slow exhale and Jack didn’t hesitate to snip the leather ties. The pouch landed neatly into his other palm and he immediately slipped it down into his tunic neck until it rested warm and snug next to his body.

  He smiled and gently withdrew, becrossing himself with quiet thanks to the Almighty. The man slept on and he quickly turned his attention to the other, the one surrounded by wine bowls. Jack licked his lips. The wine was tempting. He was thirsty, truth be told, and now seemed a good time to snatch a bit of spirits.

  He moved away from the man by the warm hearth and crossed to that far table with its two occupants, one a hooded servant in dark blue livery with a broach pinned to his breast, and the other asleep, his face lying in the nest of his arms. At that moment, the first of the two, the servant, snapped from the bench as if his seat were afire. It was an easy thing for Jack to stumble into him and he fell into Jack’s accommodating arms. The pouch wasn’t within reach but the broach was, and he snatched it from the servant’s breast and secreted it like the others.

  The man stumbled away, none the wiser. Jack knew his fingers were nimble and his touch light. But a drunken man was ten times easier than a sober one, and by the time the man realized what happened, Jack would be long gone.

  He knew his luck would soon run out and this last one needed to be dispatched as quickly as possible. Sliding onto the bench next to the sleeping man, he toyed with the wine bowls. There were plenty there with still the dregs of wine within, and he took up one and slurped it down. It warmed, and the tangy berry flavors filled his mouth like a gift.

  He measured the man beside him with a sly look and noted a necklace in the shadows and folds of his gown. ‘Slud! he thought. Jewelry was always hard to come by and here it was, like it was being handed to him. But first and foremost, the purse. He scooted along the bench until he was right up against the man. He was dead to the world, was this one, and Jack easily snipped off his purse without his ever moving. It was just as easy to reach up and unhook the necklace and he slipped both jewelry and pouch into his tunic. And now the wine! He slid a bowl toward him, took a long drink and sighed. He would eat tonight. And now he even had his wine. Not bad for a scrap of a thief.

  “Oi!”

  Jack looked up at the first man by the fire, who seemed to have awakened. The man swayed, his cruel gray eyes narrowing. “Thief!” he cried, lurching to his feet.

  Uh oh. Jack didn’t hesitate. He dove across the table, tipping a candle and spattering hot wax. Like a startled rabbit, he wove in and out of the tables and slipped out the door, leaving a wake of turned heads and puzzled faces.

  Down the lane he ran, but God’s teeth! That man in the rust-colored cotehardie followed right after him! The sound of feet pounding behind forced him from Gutter Lane to the swell of West Cheap. The smooth road gave way to rutted mud and gray puddles.

  He rounded a corner and turned, panting. A gray silhouette against the dim light of a sputtering cresset appeared in the middle of the street. The man hadn’t seen him. Jack crept forward, stealth foremost on his mind. His foot slid on the wet paving and he nearly lost his balance. He spit a loud curse and instantly realized his mistake.

  The man turned. His moonlit face was a shield of stark white and dark eyes. His gaze locked on Jack bent over and wind-milling to keep his footing. The man pursued at a run, and Jack put heel to mud, zigzagging away down a crooked alley.

  Jack scrambled over a low fence at the end of a long lane and dashed across a dark courtyard into the gloom and came
up against a wall. It was so deeply shadowed he reckoned he could hide in the darkness until the man passed by and then he could double back. He waited, slowing his breathing, touching the pouches that jumbled against his skin under his tunic.

  A low growl rumbled next to Jack’s ear. Eyes wide he turned slowly and stared into the face of a dark, shaggy mongrel. Teeth bared, it growled a bark.

  Jack was on his feet in an instant, ran back through the yard, and leapt for the fence.

  Out of the blackness, the man lunged and caught Jack in midair by his hood. Yanked back, he struggled and swung a fist, but the man dodged, and darted his own fist forward, landing a solid blow to Jack’s jaw. Stars exploded behind his eyes and he sagged like a rag doll. He was shoved to the ground with shoulders pinned, and his last thoughts were, Here I am in no better stead than Will.

  Taut at the end of its tether, the dog barked until someone hurled a bone from a window and hit the mutt in the head. After a prolonged howl and a yip, the dog took the bone and padded away.

  The man shook Jack till his senses returned.

  “Harken! I have you.” Immediately, Jack began to struggle, but those hands were strong on his shoulders. “Stop it!”

  As if a string were cut, Jack surrendered, flopping back. There was no way out of this. But he sent up a prayer anyway, hoping for something swift and painless. Jack shook his curly ginger hair out of his eyes and raised his chin, deciding that he wouldn’t beg. Face Death like a man, that was the idea. “Aye, m’lord,” he said, his voice a bit more strident than he liked it to be. “You got me. And for what, I’d like to know?”

  The man smiled. His gray eyes fixed on Jack’s. His accent was that of a lord’s, though a shabby one. His dark hair, hanging nearly to his shoulders, was a match to those heavy brows. He had a sharp nose and a self-satisfied twist to his lips that seemed to suggest amusement, though the situation was far from amusing.

  Jack’s heart hammered, but he tried to appear calm and innocent, even as the man reached into his tunic and pulled out both stolen pouches.