Sword of Shadows Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Titles by Jeri Westerson

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Glossary

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  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 *

  THE DEEPEST GRAVE *

  TRAITOR’S CODEX *

  SWORD OF SHADOWS *

  Other titles

  THOUGH HEAVEN FALL

  ROSES IN THE TEMPEST

  * available from Severn House

  SWORD OF SHADOWS

  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.

  This first world edition published 2019

  in Great Britain and 2020 in the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2020 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  eBook edition first published in 2019 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2019 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: 978-0-7278-8921-8 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-675-3 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0374-8 (e-book)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

  are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  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 actual persons, living or dead,

  business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,

  Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  I dub thee Sir Craig, the knight of the Long-Suffering Husband Guild, my patron.

  Who so pulleth this sword from this stone and anvil is the true-born King of all England.

  Anonymous French poet, c. 1215

  Glossary

  Ale stake or ale pole – a rudimentary sign stuck horizontally into the wall above the door of an alehouse. If wine was served, a green garland was attached. In the medieval period, this gradually gave way to signs hanging from the stake to identify the particular house.

  Anchorite – a religious who has shut themselves away in a cell built into the side of a church to live a religious life in prayer away from even those in a religious community. Their cell is called an anchorhold.

  Corn – any number of cereal crops (wheat, barley, oats). Not to be confused with New World maize.

  Chancel – the sanctuary of a church or chapel, where the altar is situated.

  Coppice – method of woodland management, cutting down the shoots of certain species of trees to their stump for the thin sapling wood to be used for building houses, fences, and for fuel, but only cutting so much as to allow it to regrow to use again.

  Demesne – usually refers to lands held by the crown or other noble, rather than a ‘domain’, which can describe any land.

  Divide et impera – Latin for ‘divide and conquer’.

  Druidae, druw – the Latin and Cornish form for druids.

  Emete – Middle English form of the Cornish word emmet, meaning ant or outsider (outsiders as annoying as ants, in other words).

  Freestone – exposed bedrock, used for rough structures.

  Gour – Cornish for husband.

  Hackney – a riding horse.

  Hærfest – Old English for ‘autumn’, pronounced ‘harvest’, a celebration of the autumnal equinox and the end of the harvest season, the beginning of autumn.

  Marghek – Cornish for knight.

  Mogh – Cornish for pigs, swine.

  Palfrey – a riding horse with an even gait.

  Petitio principii – from Aristotle, meaning, ‘assume the conclusion’, where a sixteenth-century translator rendered it ‘begs the question’, a phrase that professes the logical fallacy in which an argument assumes the very thing it’s trying to prove.

  Rood screen – a lattice or elaborate partition between the sanctuary where the altar is in a church, dividing the sanctuary from the choir and/or nave. It can be of simple wood, carved stone, or metal. Atop it was usually a crucifix, or rood, archaic for ‘pole’.

  Rouncey – an all-purpose horse used for riding as well as for carrying luggage.

  Scapular – clerical garb worn over a cassock, open at the sides but covering front and back, like a long poncho.

  Sowsnek – Cornish word for Saxon-born, in other words, an outsider. Similar in root to sassanach in Scottish and saesneg in Welsh.

  Swyve – a medievalism for sexual intercourse.

  Tintagel Castle – a castle in Cornwall, legendary birthplace of King Arthur. Pronunciation, tin-TAJ-el.

  Treknow – a village in Cornwall near Tintagel. Pronunciation, tre-NO.

  Wain – large open wagon for carrying heavy loads, usually drawn by draft horses or oxen.

  Wattle – a way to build fences and house siding by weaving sapling boughs together. See also coppice above.

  ONE

  London, 1396

  Tall, with flaming ginger hair and beard, Jack Tucker slouched against the wall with a view of the room, much as Crispin Guest had taught him to do. He had a jug in front of him and a beaker in his face, quaffing a long gulp of ale … also as Crispin had taught him. His features were hangdog, no doubt partly due to the ale that had dragged down the dark circles under his eyes, and partly from his current troubles.

  Walking up to the table, Crispin stood over him till the man noticed.

  Jack lowered the cup, flicked a glance at Crispin, and filled the cup again. ‘I suppose she sent you,’ he grumbled.
r />   He kicked at Jack’s long legs. The man pulled them in so that Crispin could sit opposite him. ‘I am not in the habit of doing the bidding of my own servants.’

  Jack had the grace to look abashed and sat up straighter. He set the cup down and stared at his lap. ‘I’m sorry, master.’

  ‘As well you should be. Should I have to go traipsing all over London to find my own apprentice when he is wanted?’

  ‘Oh. I am sorry, sir.’ He moved to rise, but Crispin leaned over and shoved him back down. He picked up Jack’s cup and took it for himself, sipping the fragrant beer.

  ‘It isn’t urgent,’ he said, eyeing his apprentice. Jack slumped again in his seat, looking as forlorn as any mummer in a play. ‘God’s blood, man. It isn’t the end of the world. Every man has arguments with his wife.’

  ‘But she never seemed so angry before.’ He turned anxiously toward Crispin and beseeched with his hands. ‘She threw a spoon at me!’

  ‘I’ve thrown worse at you.’

  ‘It’s not the same thing, sir.’

  Crispin took a deep breath. Yes, she had seemed enraged. Red in the face. But she always seemed overly emotional when she was with child … which she was, for the fourth time running.

  He shook his head at himself. Imagine him, dealing with the intimacies of his own servants. Well, it was another day indeed. There had been a time when his steward took care of such squabbles and Crispin would never hear about them. The steward would have slit his own throat rather than let his lord be troubled by such trivialities. But since Crispin was no longer a lord, he had to take it upon himself to settle it on his own. After all, their lodgings were far too small for any bickering to go on. He tried to appease with, ‘You know how she gets when she’s …’ But was that too personal an observation?

  Crispin didn’t have to finish his thought out loud since Jack was nodding. ‘I know, sir. And she’s always with child, it seems. But this time seemed different. She was right angry with me for disagreeing with her. And she never got that angry before.’

  ‘I think, perhaps, it was because of the nature of the argument.’ Jack looked up with a puzzled expression. Crispin sighed. ‘You hurt her feelings. Here she thought she was making something nice for you. And you laughed instead.’

  ‘I wasn’t laughing at it, sir! I was amused that she would make a sleeping cap for me. Isn’t that for someone more like … well, you?’

  ‘That isn’t the point, is it? She took the time and trouble.’

  ‘I got you in the middle of it. I should be beaten for it.’

  ‘Yes, you should. So what are you going to do about it, Tucker?’

  Jack slowly shook his head. ‘She can’t do this to you. Sending the master out of his own house! I’m going to go right home and do what I should have done in the first place.’ He stood. ‘I’ll grovel.’

  Crispin set the cup down and rose, slapping the man on the back. ‘That’s the spirit. But isn’t there something we should be doing first?’

  ‘What, sir?’

  ‘Your dagger.’

  Jack looked down forlornly at the dagger and took it from the sheath. There was only half a blade and Jack shook his head at it. ‘I don’t know how it happened, sir.’

  ‘That will never do, Jack. Let’s go.’

  ‘Where, sir?’

  ‘To a swordsmith, of course. I can’t have my apprentice possess a faulty blade. Who’d be there to defend me should I get into a rough situation? We’re getting you a new one.’

  ‘Oh, sir, I don’t deserve one …’

  ‘God’s blood, Tucker, I will clout you if you make one more remark.’

  Jack clamped his lips shut and followed Crispin out to the street. They headed up to the Shambles and turned north near Greyfriars to the many shops of smiths. They came to a shop with swords, knives, and every form of dagger to be had, with plain scabbards as well as elaborately designed leather sheaths hanging from the rafters.

  An apprentice kept the forge glowing in the background, but near the window the smith himself was polishing a blade with an oiled cloth. He looked up when Crispin approached. ‘Good sir,’ he said, putting down the dagger. His gaze slid to the sword at Crispin’s hip before that glance climbed to his eyes.

  ‘My apprentice is in need of a new dagger. Show him your blade, Jack.’

  Jack pulled the knife and, with a miserable expression, showed it to the man.

  ‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ said the swordsmith. ‘Not a bad blade. Not one of mine, was it?’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir,’ said Jack, placing it on the man’s worktable. ‘I got it long ago.’

  ‘It’s clear you need another. One with a hilt that fits your hand. You must have got that one long ago indeed, for your hands are much bigger now.’ He rose and looked at his many wares. ‘Now, I could try to fix that blade, but as I said, the hilt … well. I’d have to fabricate so much of it, you might as well get a new one.’

  With a new price, thought Crispin, mentally counting the coins he had brought with him. But he was prepared to pay a decent fee for it, more than he would have for an ordinary servant.

  The man lectured Jack about this blade or that one. Crispin wandered away, their voices becoming noise in the background as he admired the swords and their elaborately designed hilts. He picked one up, hefted the weapon, and examined the delicate wirework of the hilt and the engraving in the crossguard … when he noticed a man in the shop looking at him. He offered the man a nod, and turned away, laying the sword aside. But when he picked up another sword, the man had moved closer and was pointedly staring at him.

  ‘Do I know you, sir?’ asked Crispin.

  ‘No. But I think I know who you are. You’re Crispin Guest, if I am not mistaken.’

  Crispin turned back to examining the blade. ‘You are correct.’ He offered nothing more.

  The man was persistent and drew even closer, almost too close. ‘You were once a knight but you plotted against King Richard and were charged with treason.’

  Crispin’s shoulders stiffened. Why did people insist on spooning him his own history? Did they think he had forgotten it? He evened his shoulders and kept his back to the man. ‘You know me, then.’

  ‘But now you find things, don’t you? They call you the Tracker.’

  ‘For a price, good sir.’

  ‘Oh yes. Of course.’ His voice took on an eager quality.

  Crispin set the blade down and turned. ‘And … do you wish to hire me to find something for you?’

  ‘Why yes! It’s perfect. It’s divine intervention! For I hadn’t thought of you before. But it is indeed the Lord blessing my enterprise. For here you are!’

  Crispin refrained from rolling his eyes. ‘Yes, here I am. Just what is it you would have me find?’

  The man suddenly glanced around. ‘Not here. Meet me on Trinity, at the Harper. Within the hour!’ And then he was gone from the shop, striding quickly down the street.

  Crispin watched him go and wondered. Well, coin is coin.

  Jack chose a serviceable dagger, and Crispin paid for it. Jack seemed particularly humbled, which was a feat indeed for so tall a man. ‘Master, you should have had that swordsmith grind me old one down. That would have done me well.’

  ‘But not me. I have a reputation to uphold. I can’t have my apprentice walking about London with half a blade, sharpened or no.’

  They had been walking for a bit and passed their lodgings on the Shambles. ‘Er … Master Crispin, where are we going?’

  ‘I have a possible client. We’re to meet him at an alehouse.’

  ‘Who, sir?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea. But it seems to have been divine providence that has put me in his path.’

  ‘Oh. Another of those.’

  ‘Yes. It’s best to see what he has to say and get it over with. It might mean a bit of coin. And we’ll need it to recover what we spent today.’

  ‘You should take it from me own pay, sir. It was my fault I
broke the blade.’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘But sir—’

  Crispin halted and faced the man. ‘Jack, when will you learn to keep your own counsel. It is done and finished. I am satisfied. Should that fact not satisfy you?’

  Morose again, Jack lowered his face. ‘Aye, sir.’

  He spoke no more as they wended their way through the busy streets of London. Late summer was giving way to autumn with a chill wind whipping through the narrow passages of tall shops and houses. The streets were muddy again and foul with the stench of droppings mingled with the mud. He was grateful to move along to the streets with cobbled-stone paving, stamping the mud from his boots, and make his way to the ale stake he saw jutting from the truss ahead. Hanging from it was a sign carved in the shape of a harp.

  He led Jack inside and cast about the smoky interior, looking for the man from the swordsmith’s shop. When he glanced to his left, the man was waving long-armed at him from the end of a rectangular table.

  Crispin reached him and the man swept his hand forward, offering Crispin a seat across from him. They both sat and the man pushed another cup toward him, pouring ale within it.

  ‘And this must be your man, Jack Tucker. I’ve heard of him, too. Greetings, Master Tucker.’

  Jack nodded his greeting, appearing somewhat pleased that someone had acknowledged his fame as well.

  Crispin took the cup, drank, and then set it down, resting his arms on the table. ‘And you are …?’

  ‘Forgive me! I am Carantok Teague.’

  ‘I thought I detected a bit of an accent. Cornish, are you?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. Tell me, Master Guest, are you as skilled as they say? I mean, I have heard some courageous tales of you.’

  ‘You can be certain,’ said Jack before Crispin could speak, ‘that my master is all you have heard and more. Never has there been a more valiant and trusted man as Crispin Guest. He’s like them Knights of the Round Table.’