Blood Lance: A Medieval Noir Page 11

  Jack continued at the fire, breaking off a piece of peat and laying it on the glowing flames, watching it catch. The firelight flickered over his face and glossy eyes. It was only then, in the safety of their lodgings, that Jack’s emotions seemed to give way, and big, round tears overflowed his eyes and streaked trails down his cheeks. He stifled a sob and that was when Crispin rose from his bed.

  He knelt beside the boy. “Does it hurt much?”

  With tears still gliding down his face, Jack turned his amber eyes to his master. He slowly shook his head.

  “Come now. That coat must be scratchy.”

  “But it’s cold.”

  “Here. I’ll help you put it on backwards.”

  Jack allowed Crispin to help him off with his coat and then slip his arms in so the back of the cotehardie covered his chest. “Now turn your back to the fire and you will be warm enough.”

  Crispin crossed the room to retrieve the wine jug and then a wooden bowl from the pantry shelf. He poured what was left into the bowl and handed it to Jack.

  “No, sir. That is all we have.”

  “In truth, I’ve had enough this day. Take it.”

  Jack did and drank it thirstily.

  Crispin watched him for a moment more before he sat on the floor next to him. He clasped his legs, rubbing his bruised shin, and positioned himself with his back to the flames as well.

  “I think we both learned a lesson today.”

  Jack wiped at his face, sniffing. “Aye. I learned not to be smart to my betters. I’m not you, after all. What did you learn?”

  Crispin stared straight ahead at the legs of the table and at the shadows climbing up the door and walls. “I learned that I must remember you are still only fourteen.”

  “But sir!”

  “Do you dare naysay me, you with a raw back? I should have inflicted those wounds myself. I still should.”

  “Aye. You’d be in the right.”

  “Of course I would! You’ve no right going about London behaving as arrogant as … as…”

  “As you?”

  He backhanded Jack on the ear, but out of the corner of his eye he could see the boy smiling. “As a lord. What the devil did you think you were doing?”

  “I was questioning them. And they didn’t like it.”

  “Of course they didn’t. All they saw was a scrawny apprentice harassing them.”

  “I’m not scrawny,” he muttered.

  “So you saw that lot on the bridge?”

  “Aye. They was—were—standing in the back of the crowd, looking pleased about something.”

  Crispin rocked on his haunches, thinking. “Did they tell you anything of worth?”

  “No, Master. When I pressed them they did look surprised but then they got cross, as lordly men are like to do with my ilk.” He peeked at Crispin under the curled fringe at his brow. “Some get angrier than most.”

  Crispin hid his smile by laying his cheek upon his upraised knees. “No doubt. Though I wonder at their mercy. I was surprised to get off with a bruised shin and nothing more. They were well within their right to kill me or have me arrested.”

  “Perhaps they did not wish your attention, Master. The one man knew you.”

  He lifted his head. “From that night or by my reputation?”

  “Dunno. Either way, it is a good thing. But you are right in that they wish to be rid of you, which means they bear more scrutiny. Though … from a distance.” He studied Crispin’s profile. “I know why I suspected them, but why did you?”

  “For one, I trust your judgment … mostly.” Jack’s cheeks reddened. “And for another, Anabel’s witnesses said as much.”

  Jack sniffed and lowered his head. “So she is a better apprentice than me.”

  “Don’t be a fool.”

  Jack blinked, staring into the shadows until he slowly turned his face back to Crispin. His eyes were dark pits with the merest hint of a glittering reflection. Softly, he said, “I’m sorry, Master Crispin, for getting you into trouble.”

  “I certainly don’t need help to get into trouble. I do it very well on my own, thank you.”

  “Still.” Jack pulled fretfully at the frayed sleeve cuffs of his cotehardie. “I’m a terrible apprentice. I can’t even question people properly.” The hitch in his voice shouldn’t have disturbed Crispin since he was angry at the boy, but he suddenly realized that his anger had abated a while ago and now he was only relieved that Jack was alive with only a striped back. It could have gone much worse for him.

  “You’ll learn. Take your time. And always, always show respect, especially to your betters. Do not be schooled by my actions for I have a long history with men of that station. Do as I tell you and not as I do.”

  “Yes, Master Crispin.”

  Fourteen. He recalled quite well what he was like himself at that age. Always ready to go fiercely forward to some dangerous enterprise. But he had had arms training to cool his blood and keep his itchy limbs occupied. He had even gone to war with Lancaster when he was only fifteen, but he was already well accomplished on a horse and with arms. Lancaster had made him glow with pride when he told him what a quick study he was, how well versed on battlefield tactics and how quick with a sword.

  Jack was like a colt tied in a stable. He longed to stretch his legs and run wild.

  “Let us both eat and then get some rest, Jack. We’ll have a busy day tomorrow.”

  * * *

  IN THE MORNING, JACK seemed to have recovered and was in fact whistling while preparing the hot water for Crispin’s morning ablutions.

  Crispin, on the other hand, was nursing a headache from the previous night’s drinking. “Must you do that?” he grumbled.

  “You look none too steady this morning, Master. How about I shave you?”

  Crispin eyed him warily but decided the boy wanted to make up for yesterday. He nodded and let Jack assemble the basin, towel, soap, and razor on their table. Crispin sat with the basin in his hands while Jack soaped his face. Crispin sat very still as Jack, with face screwed up in concentration and teeth biting his overhanging tongue, carefully dragged the iron razor over Crispin’s cheek. It took longer than Crispin might have done, but both master and servant were pleased with the results.

  Jack wrung the wet towel in the basin and dumped the water out the back garden window. “How come you don’t favor a beard, Master?”

  Crispin wiped the remaining soap from his face with the back of his fingers and shrugged into a clean chemise. “I never cared for the look on me, Jack. Simple vanity.”

  “You have a good strong face, sir. You don’t need no beard.”

  “Flattery, Jack?” He pulled on his cotehardie and began buttoning. “I already forgave you for yesterday.”

  Jack, face red as he put the razor back on its shelf, turned away from Crispin. “I know, sir. I just … want to make it up to you.”

  “And you will. You will comport yourself better, will you not? You represent me when you conduct my business, Jack. I expect better.”

  “Y-yes, sir.”

  “Very well. That is done. I will work you hard today. We have a stop at the bridge and then to Islington.”

  “What’s in Islington?”

  “You’ll see.”

  * * *

  JACK REMAINED QUIET BUT alert. A little stiff from his beating, but he seemed to have recovered well, as the young often did. He strode alongside Crispin down the Shambles where it became East Cheap, swinging his long arms and darting his eyes to this and that, even turning his head and then his whole body to watch a pretty maid carrying a baby goat over her shoulders with a dog at her feet, urging her small braying herd of goats ahead of her. He walked backward and grinned at her. The girl noticed him, too, and turned to look back, offering a dimpled smile.

  “Stop thinking with your cod, Tucker,” said Crispin out of the side of his mouth.

  Jack turned a beaming smile toward him. “I can think with me brain at the same time, sir.”r />
  He chuckled. “I’ve never met a man who could.”

  A drizzle began, graying the streets before them. Some ran for the eaves of the shops and chatted with shopkeepers within. Others, like Crispin and Jack, lowered their faces, letting their hoods cover them as they trudged on.

  After the bells of the churches rang Terce, they reached the bridge, paid their toll, and passed through the gatehouse. The rain was steady now, and they trod the rain-slickened lane to the armorer’s once again. The door was still boarded and there was a parchment with the seal of the sheriffs nailed to the door. Crispin didn’t bother to read it. He opened the window shutter, climbed up onto the sill, and jumped inside. Jack followed and they stood in the dark and musty shop side by side. Crispin strode immediately to a rack that held swords and lifted two of them free. He handed them both to Jack without a word.

  They clattered in Jack’s clumsy embrace. “Er … sir? Are we … stealing these?”

  “Of course not,” said Crispin, searching the room for what he sought. “We are only borrowing them. Ah!” He found a flail and a wooden shield sheathed with leather and handed those, too, to Jack. Jack fumbled with the new additions and cursed under his breath, trying to balance it all.

  “That’s enough for now. Let’s go.”

  Crispin, unencumbered, climbed out the window easily and waited on the street for Jack.

  The shield made an appearance first on the window sill and then the arms clattered behind it, with only a tuft of ginger hair in the rear. “Master! I cannot climb with this burden.”

  “Give it here.” Crispin snatched shield and swords and leaned them against the shop wall as Jack made his way over the window and down. He closed the shutter and picked up his burdens again.

  “Where to now?” Jack looked around anxiously, and a few bridge folk did look at them with peculiar frowns.

  “To Islington. To practice.”

  “To practice what, sir?”

  “Arms. You are sorely lacking in instruction, Jack. It is well past time I teach you to fight properly.”

  * * *

  IT WAS STILL RAINING when they reached the fields outside of London. The archery butts stood alone and unmolested at the far end of the field but there were soldiers lingering under the trees, watching them warily.

  As soon as Jack understood what Crispin meant to do with the weapons, he had a spring in his step and never complained at his ungainly burden. But once they reached the place, he dumped the weapons to the ground with an apologetic expression. He shook out his hands and stood silently, waiting for instruction.

  Crispin smiled. The boy liked learning things. He had taken to reading and writing readily enough. But he could see now that the lad was more than ready for this particular tutelage.

  “I want you to realize, Jack, that never should you raise a weapon to one of your betters. I am a different case, as you know. I did so with those knights last evening … and it was a mistake. I never should have done that. I was … perhaps a little in my cups.” It was embarrassing admitting it, but he knew that Jack knew it well. “And so this is only to teach you to defend yourself. Never should you challenge a man for a point of honor. That does not suit your status. Neither will you likely be carrying a sword … but one never knows. You can learn to fight with it at any rate, and use any other weapon like it to your advantage. So. Pick them up and give one to me. I will show you the basics.”

  “Do I not need a shield, sir?” he said, eyeing the shield on the ground while he picked up both swords and handed one to Crispin.

  “No. A good fighter does not need a shield. Indeed, it can sometimes get in the way.”

  “Of one’s flesh, you mean,” he muttered.

  “I wish Master Grey had had wooden practice blades but we will do our best not to injure each other, eh, Jack?”

  “Aye, sir.” Jack clutched the hilt, blade down.

  Crispin curled his hands around the grip of his weapon and felt the heft of it. It was a good sword. Good weight, good balance. He held it aloft and gave some practice swings, cutting the air with a whistle. Rain pattered off its shiny surface and he couldn’t help but smile to feel it in his hand. It almost made him feel like himself … yet that was all so long ago, and with an alarming pang in his heart, he realized that he didn’t know if he could quite recall anymore who he had been.

  “Now Jack, observe. The blade, an edge on both sides. The guard.” He ran his other hand along the cross guard. “It protects your hand, gives you balance, and can be used in a manner of ways which I will show you anon. Here the pommel. Feel how heavy, how solid it is. It can also be used as a weapon.”

  Jack followed his lead, holding the sword as Crispin did and running his hand over each part as Crispin enumerated them.

  “Jack, you face your opponent, knees bent, ready for anything.” Jack did likewise, bouncing on his knees.

  “And then—”

  Crispin lunged, sword raised over his head to chop down.

  With a shout, Jack raised his sword to block it. But metal did not touch metal.

  Crispin slowly lowered the blade and laughed. “Excellent, Jack. You have superb instincts. We’ll do bladework first before I show you what your body should be doing.”

  Crispin instructed him on using the sword, not only for chopping, but for swinging like a club, using as a hook with the cross guard, like a hammer with the pommel end, and then how to disarm with feet, dagger, and hands. Despite the rain, they were both in a sweat.

  The boy never complained of growing tired, wet, or sore from his striped back. Jack’s eyes told Crispin all he needed to know. The lad gloried in arms training just as much as Crispin had. Such a pity that they had so little time with these weapons.

  A crash in the underbrush. Crispin pivoted, brandishing his sword.

  But it was only Ned, the scullion at the Boar’s Tusk, stumbling upon the wet grass with an exhausted breath. “Master Crispin,” he huffed as Crispin helped him to his feet. “I’ve been looking all over London for you!”

  “For me?” His heart gave a shudder. “Gilbert and Eleanor? Are they in danger?”

  “No, no, Master. Nothing like that.” His eyes took in the swords and then raked over Jack with a tinge of envy. “Your landlord, Master Kemp, came looking for you and Master Gilbert sent me to find you.”

  “How did you know to come here?” asked Jack.

  “I’d exhausted everywhere else and your master has been known to practice with the bow on the butts.” He turned to Crispin. “Your landlord, sir, says you are to come home at once. The sheriffs are awaiting you and will not leave until you make yourself known to them.”

  Crispin exchanged looks with Jack before he handed his sword to Ned. “Ned, make sure these are returned to their owner. Er … give them to Master Coterel the tailor on London Bridge. And here. Two coins; one for your passage and one for your trouble.”

  He dug into his pouch for the coins and left the weaponry behind as he ushered Jack quickly across the field to the road back to London.

  12

  CRISPIN ENTERED HIS LODGINGS, catching the sheriffs going through his things. There wasn’t much to go through, but an uncomfortable feeling still slithered up his spine. He shut the door harder than he meant to do.

  “My lords,” he said, and Sheriff More, startled, dropped Crispin’s wax slate back into the coffer. He turned with an apologetic smile on his face, which quickly transformed to a somber expression when he noted Sheriff Staundon’s carefully schooled demeanor.

  “Ah, Master Guest,” said Staundon in funereal tones. His usually cheerful face conveyed an unaccustomed expression of solemnity, as if he were addressing a great crowd. “We came to tell you that last night a young lad was found washed ashore from the Thames, upstream, and I regret to say that he has been identified as one of Master Grey’s apprentices.”

  “The younger one,” put in Sheriff More, closing the lid of the coffer. “God have mercy.”

  Crispin cro
ssed himself and set his jaw. “And so now you believe me.”

  Staundon looked to More and nodded. “Indeed. There is no sign of the other one, but the inquest jury was quick to declare the deaths murder. All three. We…” He gestured to More. “We wanted you to know, Master Crispin.”

  “I thank you, my lords.”

  They all fell silent. Crispin thought by their grave expressions that that would be the end of it and they would leave him to it, but no such luck.

  Both sheriffs hesitated before leaning forward, rolling on the balls of their feet. Staundon’s somber façade dissolved. “Well? Have you discovered anything more of any consequence, Master Crispin?”

  “Yes,” said More. “We are most anxious to help. For it is most definitely murder now.”

  Crispin curled his fingers around his dagger hilt. “I have no further information to share.” They frowned and Crispin tried again. “That is to say, there are no further tidings.”

  Disappointed, the sheriffs commiserated silently before moving toward the door. “I see,” said Staundon. He glanced back at the coffer, at the wine jug on the sill. “You will let us know how the investigation progresses, will you not, Master Crispin? You have promised.”

  He bowed. “I give you my solemn word, Lord Sheriff.”

  “Hm,” he snorted before grabbing the latch.

  More gestured toward the coffer from the doorway. “I used to read a little Greek. When I was a boy, I had a foreign tutor. But it has been a while. Pray, what does the wax slate say?”

  Crispin had written it for Jack to copy out. He set his features to a blank expression. “‘Righteous indignation is a mean between envy and spite; the man who is characterized by righteous indignation is pained at undeserved good fortune, the envious man is pained at all good fortune, and the spiteful man falls so far short that he even rejoices.’”

  More paused. His brows lowered over his eyes. “Oh. Well. An interesting philosophy, I suppose.”

  “I am fond of the wisdom of Aristotle.”

  “So I have heard. But ‘envy and spite’?” He reddened. “Surely there is room in between for true righteous indignation. For those, er … interested in seeing justice served. I daresay, these are strong words and from a pagan, no less. How can his opinion hold such store today?”