The Deepest Grave Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Titles by Jeri Westerson

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  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 *

  SEASON OF BLOOD *

  Other titles

  THOUGH HEAVEN FALL

  ROSES IN THE TEMPEST

  * available from Severn House

  THE DEEPEST GRAVE

  A Crispin Guest Medieval Noir Mystery

  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 2018 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY

  This eBook edition first published in 2018 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 © 2018 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: 978-0-7278-8794-8 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-916-0 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-972-5 (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, the least grave person I know.

  GLOSSARY

  Ambry Cupboard for storing linens or clothing.

  Cabinet with a stool Implying that the ‘stool’ is a chamber pot.

  Caltrop An antipersonnel spiky weapon left on a road to impede the progress of horses or foot soldiers.

  Chequy A checkered pattern.

  Ciborium A container to hold the communion bread after consecration, similar to a chalice only with a lid.

  Degraded In terms of one’s knighthood, to be demoted, downgraded. To lose the right to be called a knight.

  Disseized To be dispossessed of one’s estates, title, and other possessions by force or edict.

  Furnager A baker of other people’s meals.

  Galette Like a pie but without a pan, the pastry simply folded inward over the filling, not quite covering it.

  Hobby horse A child’s toy of a carved horse’s head attached to a stick, on which the child could ride astride.

  Jetty Second floor of a house or shop that juts out over the lower floor.

  Liripipe A long tail of cloth attached to a hat, long enough to swag over the chest.

  Lychgate A covered gate leading to a churchyard. Lych from an Old English word meaning corpse; a place a corpse would be left – sometimes for days – to await burial.

  Paten A flat saucer usually made of precious metals, used to hold the bread during consecration at mass.

  Prie-dieu A kneeling stool for praying.

  Rectory Housing for a priest.

  Sacramental A ceremony, action, or sacred object (a blessing, the sign of the cross, or rosary, for instance), used to help an individual receive sanctifying grace (the state of one’s soul being infused by God).

  Sanctuary lamp The candle that burns in a church sanctuary near the altar ‘to indicate and honor the presence of Christ’. Usually held in a red container.

  Scopperel A child’s plaything, similar to a pinwheel.

  Sexton A man responsible for a church, its property, and certain church tasks.

  Shrive To give confession in the sacrament.

  ONE

  London, 1392

  A hand tapped Crispin’s shoulder from behind as he was finishing his business against an alley wall. ‘Can’t a man take a piss without being harassed?’ he growled.

  ‘You’re Crispin Guest,’ said the male voice.

  Crispin finished, set his cote-hardie to rights, and turned. ‘What the hell do you want?’ But then he shut his mouth when he recognized that the young man was a priest in a dark gown.

  ‘I had no wish to disturb you, but I could not find you. I looked on the Shambles—’

  ‘I am situated in the same place where I have been for these last four years, my lord. On the Shambles, in an old poulterer’s shop. I used to be above a tinker’s, but it burned down …’

  ‘So I have been told.’

  Crispin set off in that direction, hoping to make it before the streets got too dark. But of course, the sun lingered longer in these warmer months at the beginning of summer. It wasn’t likely to grow dark until near compline.

  The priest scuttled behind him, catching up to walk beside him. A client. He needed them. But clerics gave him the shivers. There had once been a day when he could trust most of them … but that day seemed to have disappeared, along with his knighthood.

  He glanced at the man sidelong. ‘And why do you seek me, Father?’

  ‘I scarcely know how to begin.’

  ‘At the beginning is generally the best.’

  ‘But I do not know when it began. Only that it has. And I fear the answer when it comes.’

  Crispin stopped and slowly turned to the man. ‘You speak in riddles.’

  ‘Do I? It was not my intention, Master Guest. Only that … I can barely explain it myself.’

  Crispin rubbed his clean-shaven chin. ‘I think a drink is in order. Come.’ He led the way just up to the Shambles, but turned sharply and headed up Gutter Lane to the Boar’s Tusk.

  He caught Gilbert’s eye as he entered, and the tavern keeper quickly deposited drink for them. He did not stay to talk with Crispin as he usually did, but curiously noted his clerical companion.

  The priest settled in and took up the cup, drinking thirstily. Crispin sipped his. As usual, he sat with his back to the wall and a view of the smoky room, with its sagging rafters and dingy walls. ‘Now then. What is it that concerns
you and needs my help, my lord?’

  The priest poured more and drank another dose before he finally set the cup down. Close and in the light, Crispin could study his dark gown, threadbare in some spots, patched in others. The priest had a square jaw, darkened by beard stubble. His eyes were small but glowed with an intensity of fear. His hair could only be described as luxurious, black, in thick waves, unlike Crispin’s own dark hair that hung lankly nearly to his shoulders. The priest’s facial features were pleasant and slightly patrician. Crispin wondered vaguely which noble family he might have come from. He thought the man would be just as at home in mail as in his clerical garb.

  ‘It is horrific, Master Guest,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I can scarce speak of it.’ He leaned into the table and spoke confidentially, his heavy brows clutched together over his eyes like fists. ‘They walk. At night.’

  Crispin leaned in. ‘Who does?’

  ‘Them. The … c-corpses.’

  Crispin slowly sat back and measured the man. ‘You jest.’

  ‘I assure you, I do not. Come. See for yourself. After the sun sets.’ He took another hasty gulp. ‘You’ll see them.’

  Crispin eyed the man’s unsteady hand on his cup and wondered if strong drink were not more to the point. He leaned in again. ‘Has anyone else seen these … these apparitions?’

  ‘You think I’m mad. I thought so, too. Until the gravedigger saw them as well. I was telling him about it, exhorting him to get inside, to stop tending to the grass so late after dark. He was as skeptical as you are. I warned him to go inside. And it wasn’t more than a quarter hour later that he was pounding on my door, begging to be let in. White as bone, his face was. Eyes as wide as mazers. “Yes,” he said, he’d seen them. Dragging their coffins over their shoulders, treading through the churchyard into the mist. He called out at first, and then one of them turned to face him. Oh, he gave such a description that would curdle your blood, Master Guest. The same I knew in my own heart when I looked upon those poor devils. And not only them, Master Guest, but my own brother Noll not long from All Hallows Barking, remarked that he had seen similar strange doings. He will not come to my church. I have scarce seen him since. My own brother!’

  Crispin raised an admonishing finger. ‘Now hold. You all saw these supposed walking corpses?’

  ‘There is nothing “supposed” about it. We saw them.’

  ‘And … did they cause … er, mischief?’

  ‘As soon as I spied them, I fled into the rectory. The next morning, I went about the churchyard, sprinkling holy water. I found …’ He licked his lips. ‘Disturbed graves. Some were opened, clods of earth cast aside, and those that had coffins, I found the lids ajar. When I inspected further – with fervent prayers and the large crucifix from the altar, mind you – what I saw … Oh, Master Guest! I do not know what mischief they might have got up to, but when I moved the lids, I saw blood upon the linens covering their faces. Blood … on their mouths. They had become bloodsuckers!’

  The man seemed genuinely alarmed, and Crispin had no doubt that something had awakened such dread in him, but he could not reconcile it to this fantastic tale. ‘Something has disturbed you greatly, Father … Father—?’

  ‘Bulthius Braydon. Of St Modwen’s Church.’

  ‘Father Bulthius. Something is amiss. I shall … I shall investigate it for you tonight, if you wish. My fee is sixpence a day.’

  ‘I will pay it. Anything is better than going on with this demon’s march night after night.’ He struggled at his belt, and dug deep into his pouch, pulling out more than sixpence. ‘Here, Master Guest. Sixpence, and more. For I cannot imagine it shall all be resolved in one night.’

  ‘You might be surprised, my lord. Depending on what I find.’

  ‘You will find demons. And when you do, then I will gird myself and help you dispatch them.’ He rose. ‘Meet me at my churchyard. The vicarage is near All Hallows Barking.’

  ‘In the shadow of the tower. I am aware of it.’

  ‘Tonight, Master Guest. And then you will see. God save us.’

  TWO

  When Crispin entered the old poulterer’s, the heavenly aroma of cooking food greeted him instead of the smell of chickens. Isabel Tucker tended to the fire and the meat pie baking in its pan beside it. Her apron could barely encompass her swollen belly and, as she straightened, one hand went to the small of her back, fingers digging in and kneading the muscle.

  She had been barely seventeen when she’d married Jack last year and, though a slight thing, she had proved her worth carrying in the water and fuel, and never shirking hard labor. She possessed a wit that more than once offered Crispin and Jack a practical direction to follow on their rounds of investigating. Yes, she was an asset, right enough, though with a forthcoming babe she’d be too busy to intercede in their work again. More’s the pity, he thought. For those bright hazel eyes of hers would spark and light with a fact neither of them had spotted, though he was loath to give her too much credit.

  ‘Master Crispin,’ she said with a smile. She had freckles on her nose, but not as many as his ginger apprentice. ‘I’m glad you’re home for supper.’

  ‘As am I. It smells delightful.’

  ‘It’s just a bit of pork pie and pottage. Not as grand as it could be, but not as bland as it might have been.’

  He hung his cloak by the door, and doffed his shoulder hood, hanging it beside the heavy mantle. ‘You are a miracle-maker with what little you have to work with.’

  ‘With two proud men to feed, I must do my best.’

  ‘And so you do. Is Master Tucker here?’

  There was a clatter at the door as it was kicked open, and Jack, arms full, slipped through.

  ‘Speak of the devil,’ muttered Crispin.

  Jack smiled. ‘Master! I have news. Look. Come see what I’ve brought.’

  Crispin winked at Isabel and gave his apprentice his attention. Jack set the cradle down upon the floor.

  ‘Oh Jack, you got it!’ Isabel set her spoon hurriedly aside and rushed to the cradle, kneeling beside it. ‘Just look at that.’

  ‘Where did you come by it?’ asked Crispin.

  ‘I did a service for the furnager and he paid me in kind. He had this cradle, and since his wife and son had passed over a year ago – God rest them – he had no further need of it.’

  ‘That was enterprising of you.’

  ‘I try, master. It’s hard to spend good coin on such when we haven’t any to spare.’

  ‘It won’t always be so,’ Isabel said to him, and kissed his cheek. He reddened, and took her by the widened waist, though he had little to grab hold of these days.

  ‘But it is so for now, my love. How’s our boy? Is he still making a merry jig in there?’

  She rubbed her belly and sighed. ‘Aye, he likes to rest while I work, and dance while I rest. You tell him to calm himself.’

  Jack leaned over and spoke gently but firmly to her round belly. ‘Here now. Did you hear that, my lad? Your mother is weary and needs her rest. You take your ease when she sits, do you hear me?’

  He smiled up at her and she grabbed his curly head in an embrace.

  Crispin turned away from the domestic scene. Something in his heart ached with the sight of it. He was not a part of that intimate moment, though there were times when he was treated more as the patriarch of their little triad, rather than merely the master of the house.

  When Crispin turned back, Jack had taken a spoon and dipped it into the pottage from the iron pot and lifted it to his pursed lips, blowing on it as he noisily slurped. ‘Is it ready, woman?’

  ‘It is. Bring the ewer for Master Crispin so he can wash his hands.’

  Jack grabbed the basin and ladled some warm water from the other pot on the hob into the ewer, and with a towel draped over his arm, presented the basin to him. Crispin pushed up his sleeves and held his hands over the basin, while Jack poured the warmed water over his fingers.

  Isabel had brought these nicet
ies. In the intervening years between Crispin’s banishment from court and when he had met the boy, Crispin had set aside his courtly manners, even his prayers before eating. But Isabel insisted on it. At first, he had balked, but eventually he was pleased at her persistence. It was good to get back to the routine of a civilized life.

  Jack followed suit, and set the ewer and basin by the fire. He sat opposite Crispin and waited as Isabel served. Upon her moving in after they had wed, both of them served Crispin and waited for him to eat before they partook. And, as proper as this was, it wasn’t expeditious, particularly if Crispin needed Jack in some pursuit of justice. It left the boy hungry and unfocused. Crispin had to put his foot down. The men were to eat. And if the men ate, then it sufficed that she would serve and then sit with them to eat as well. His insistence had made of them a strange family: servants and master, all together, as it had been with Jack alone. Sometimes the arrangement caused a twinge of discomfort, but sometimes – as it did now – he welcomed the feeling that seemed to fill that empty place in his soul that had stood by itself for so long.

  Crispin sliced the fat but squat pork pie, laying a modest wedge on his bread slice, distributing wedges and pottage until they got their fill.

  Chewing the last of his bread and wiping his hands on the tablecloth, Crispin glanced at the twilight sky visible through the shutter sitting ajar. ‘An excellent repast, Isabel, my dear. But Jack. I didn’t tell you about our own adventure tonight.’

  ‘Tonight, sir? What have we to do tonight? Did you get another client?’

  ‘Indeed, I did. A priest, Father Bulthius of St Modwen’s Church, near All Hallows by the tower. And you’ll never guess what he would have us do.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘We are to watch and wait in the churchyard for walking corpses.’

  Jack spit his beer across the table.

  When Crispin looked up with distaste, Jack wiped his bearded chin with the tablecloth. ‘I’m sorry for that, master, but what did you say? Surely I didn’t hear you aright.’

  ‘You did. We are to watch for walking corpses, for he claims that in his churchyard, the dead walk again, like Lazarus; but then, like boys under curfew, return to their graves after their nightly ritual.’