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

  The first man struggled to his feet and, with a surprised look toward his companion on the ground, swung at Crispin.

  Crispin dodged but not soon enough to escape hard knuckles glancing off his cheek. He felt his teeth crack and tasted salty blood. He shook his head to clear it.

  Crispin swung his foot out and kicked the man’s knee cap. The man went down in a howl of pain and the fugitive swiveled and then fell on his assailant and pummeled his face with his fists, cut ropes flailing.

  The first attacker came to and pounced on Crispin. Crispin dug his fingers into the man’s face until he growled in pain. Pushing him back, Crispin kneed him in the groin. While the man bent over, Crispin swung an uppercut and flattened him in the mud. The man lay stiff and still. Only low moans escaped his lips.

  The other man wriggled away from the fugitive’s beating and scrambled to his feet. With one glance at his companion on the ground, he limped away down an alley. Crispin pursued for a few half-hearted steps, but let him go.

  The fugitive lay on his face huffing and panting until Crispin reached down for the man to take his arm. With lowered face, the man took it and rose.

  “I must thank you,” grunted the man before he looked up and froze.

  Crispin stared into the man’s face and spit the blood from his mouth. “God’s blood,” he said before a spiteful smile curved his lips. “Sir Stephen.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “I do not care who you are, Wynchecombe,” rasped Stephen through cracked lips. “Why the hell am I here?”

  “I do not believe you understand the seriousness of your situation, Sir Stephen,” said the sheriff. The stuffy chambers at Newgate closed in on them. Its hearth light flickered off their faces. The other sheriff, John More, was, as usual, nowhere to be found.

  Stephen sat while the sheriff circled him like a raven looking for an opportunity to swoop down on a carcass.

  Crispin leaned against a far wall in the shadows. Lips rigid, he studied the proceedings.

  Stephen snorted at the sheriff’s last remark. He wiped at his bruised face and again straightened his torn coat. Though he sat with legs wide in a seemingly relaxed manner, his features winced when he moved and the red blood on his left temple shone bright against his pale skin. He rubbed his wrists. They were ringed red with raw abrasions. “As I see it, my situation is no longer serious. I have been rescued.” He smiled an unsavory grin at Crispin. “And I have you to thank.”

  Crispin said nothing. He moved only to breathe long, slow breaths.

  Stephen dismissed him and glared again at Wynchecombe. “So why does it appear I am under arrest?”

  “For the simple reason,” said the sheriff, pouring himself some wine, “that you are.”

  Stephen launched from his chair. The sheriff shoved him back down with one hand. “Be advised, my lord, that my men are within hearing.” Wynchecombe sat on the edge of the table and resumed pouring his wine. He lifted the cup to his lips and drank, wiped his mustache with his fingers, and set the cup aside. “You are here because of murder.”

  “Murder?” Stephen rolled his shoulders and slid to the edge of his stool. “What murder?”

  “The man at the Boar’s Tusk two nights ago.”

  “Gaston D’Arcy,” said Crispin from his corner.

  Stephen’s lips parted. A retort appeared ready on his tongue. But he glanced swiftly at Crispin and then at the sheriff. Stephen slowly sat back and set his mouth into a thin line. “I know not what you speak of.”

  Wynchecombe rose, walked the few paces to Stephen’s chair, and loured over him. The sheriff stood a head taller than most men. His dark features made him even more imposing, though Crispin suspected he could not intimidate the dour knight.

  “Come, come, Sir Stephen,” said Wynchecombe. “You were seen arguing with the man and not long thereafter he was dead.”

  Stephen scowled and stared at his feet. “I will say nothing.”

  “That does not bode well for you,” said Wynchecombe. He stood with his feet apart and his hand on his sword pommel. “Did you know that this dead man—this Gaston D’Arcy—bore the mark of a Knight Templar?”

  Stephen stiffened but remained mute.

  “This surprises you?” asked the sheriff. “Or are you just surprised we know?”

  “Say what you want, Wynchecombe. It changes nothing. You have no evidence. Release me.”

  “On the contrary. We have nothing but evidence against you. If you will not speak now, perhaps some meditation in a cell will do you good. Arise, my lord.”

  Scowling, Stephen rose and stood toe to toe with the sheriff. Wynchecombe opened his hand. “Your sword, Sir Stephen.”

  Crispin’s chest filled with a warm flush. “Yes,” he said just over Wynchecombe’s shoulder. “Surrender your blade. See how it feels.”

  “You are behind this,” Stephen said to Crispin. “Have you not learned enough? Do you require more lessons in humbling?”

  “I am learning more each day.” Crispin’s mouth cracked into grin. Between clenched teeth he echoed the sheriff, “Surrender your sword.”

  “Very well, Lord Sheriff. I will pay whatever surety you require and we may end this.”

  “I have not yet prepared your writ for the jury, Sir Stephen. We will talk of sureties later. For now, I demand your sword.”

  “You mean to go through with this? To imprison me?”

  “Indeed I do. Your sword.”

  Stephen’s nostrils flared. With stiff fingers he unbuckled his baldric and handed strap, sheath, and sword to Wynchecombe, never taking his icy gaze from Crispin’s face.

  Crispin beamed.

  The sheriff held out his hand. “Your knife.”

  Stephen yanked the frog from his belt and slapped the sheath into the sheriff’s palm.

  “And now a cell,” said Crispin.

  Stephen lurched forward with fists clenched, but Wynchecombe stopped him. His hands flattened against the knight’s chest. “Peace,” Wynchecombe said and glanced once at Crispin before motioning for Stephen to precede him to the door.

  “You are making a mistake, Lord Sheriff,” growled the knight. “I will have your head for this.”

  “Careful, Sir Stephen. If you wish to eat, you’d best be civil to the man who commands your gaolers.”

  “I will not be here long. When the king hears of this—”

  “I will send my writ to him forthwith with all its evidence. King Richard loves the law but loves not lawbreakers. You will be my guest. For how long? Well, that is what your trial will decide. A gibbet is a simple thing to build.”

  Stephen’s lips pressed tightly and paled. “The noose is already about my neck before I am even indicted, is it? Your folly, Wynchecombe, is to listen to Crispin Guest. He will get you both killed. No jury will convict me.”

  “You forget,” said the sheriff, “I pick the jury.” He thrust Stephen into the corridor. The knight stumbled against two gaolers. “This way, Sir Stephen,” he said politely.

  The gaolers took up their positions on either side of Stephen and escorted him toward an open cell, followed by the sheriff and finally Crispin. The gaolers pushed open the door and gestured him forward and Stephen walked onto the straw-covered floor before the gaolers closed and locked the door after him.

  Wynchecombe looked through the small barred window. “Crispin played little part in putting you here,” he said. “Perhaps you must look to your own actions. It is a man’s actions, after all, that truly condemn him.”

  The sheriff turned away from the cell and glared once at Crispin to follow him before striding down the passage.

  Crispin stared at the cell. He longed to gloat over Stephen in his disgrace. Hadn’t he waited seven years for this? But he trailed the sheriff instead. They walked all the way back to his gatehouse chamber.

  He should have been pleased that Stephen finally sat in a cell with the shadow of the hangman stretched over him. Yet there were many loose ends, too many questions yet
to be answered.

  The sheriff’s voice startled.

  “Well? You’re free to go. Is not your business here complete?” Wynchecombe threw back his head with a huff of recollection. “Oh, I see. There is a matter of sixpence. Here.” He dug into his pouch and pulled out the coins, more than six pence. “I feel generous today. Take these with my thanks.”

  Crispin took no notice of Wynchecombe but stared into the hearth. He sagged against the doorjamb and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Guest! Did you hear me?”

  “My lord,” he answered distantly. “When I first brought Stephen here, he had bindings on his wrists. And he thanked me, however grudgingly, for his ‘rescue.’ Yet neither of us have been able to determine why Stephen was in such a disreputable state with bindings.”

  “You heard him. He refused to say.”

  “And that is good enough for you? Why did he need rescuing? And where is the grail?”

  Wynchecombe leapt from his chair. “God’s teeth, Crispin! Are you still bringing that damn grail business into it?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  The sheriff gestured into the air. “I’ll have none of it. Does the thing even exist? Rumor is not enough. I will believe only when I see it.”

  “So said Doubting Thomas.”

  “Nevertheless.” Wynchecombe reached for his wine and paused. “I have never seen this side of you, Crispin. Why are you so willing to believe?”

  “You saw the grail knight.” He shouldered into the room and hovered near a chair long enough for Wynchecombe to relent and offer it to him.

  Crispin sat heavily. “And I talked to other Templars, his companions. It’s not that I believe in the grail itself, but that there is a cup that has been stolen. Surely it is valuable to these men for they wish for me to find it.”

  “You would make of this a conspiracy. I say lay it to rest. The murder is solved.”

  “Is it?”

  Wynchecombe’s wine poised at his lips when he slammed the goblet on the table. Red splattered onto his papers. “Now see here! Enough is enough. The murderer is in that cell.”

  “It remains to be seen.”

  “You heard him. He would not speak of it.”

  “A man is not necessarily guilty just because he is silent.”

  “And that’s where you’re wrong. According to the law, silence is affirmation. If he has nothing to hide, why not speak?”

  “Perhaps he has something else to hide.”

  “Crispin…” Wynchecombe shook his head and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palms. “Why must you always make more of it than there is? Is it the six pence? I already said I’d pay you extra for your trouble. Just take the coins and vex some other worthy.” He tossed them to the table and Crispin watched them clatter and land, gleaming in the fire light.

  “It is not for that, my lord, and you know it!”

  Wynchecombe gulped from his goblet and gazed at Crispin steadily. “What is it that truly vexes you?” he said quietly. “I know your history. All of court knows it. By the mass, all of London knows it. So why are you suddenly so reluctant when before you were hot for his blood? Come now. You might as well tell me.” He reached for his pouch and laid another two coins carefully on the pile already on the table.

  Crispin licked his lips, eyes darting toward the bounty. “Stephen—despite my feelings and my personal history—has always been an honorable man. If he were guilty…I think he would admit it.”

  The sheriff glared at him, grinding his teeth. He jolted to his feet. “Very well. We will get it out of him. Now.”

  Crispin moved swiftly to block him. “Allow me to do it.”

  The sheriff guffawed. “I should let you interrogate him?”

  “Commission me then.”

  “And what will that cost me?”

  “My lord…” Crispin closed his fists and bowed his head. “I give my word as a tool of your office to interrogate him and behave in a fitting manner. For no fee.”

  They both fell silent. Even the crackling flames muted in the still air. Wynchecombe considered. His brows fumbled and his mustache buried his lips. He took his time deciding.

  “Very well. See to it, Guest. But I tell you now, if you are wrong and he complains to the king, it’s your head in the noose, not mine.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Jack hurried through the streets, a tight happy feeling filling his chest. Four years ago, he hadn’t wanted a master. The slovenly man his mother had served wasn’t interested in cultivating an apprentice and certainly had no need of Jack, nor of feeding, housing, or paying him. The man was as relieved as Jack was when Jack left him for good, though it hadn’t been long after that he would have gladly doffed his pride and begged to be back for the scraps to eat and a warm fire to sleep by.

  But here was a master worth having! Master Crispin seemed like no ordinary man. And his vocation was strange and unusual. Jack knew he could learn the habits of a varlet but he liked better doing such tasks as Crispin had set him to today. Finding Lady Vivienne and following her would be simple, for he knew the streets of London better than the rats. Yes, it was good to find a home at last. He found he wanted to make the man proud of him, for he had the feeling that Master Crispin didn’t suffer fools, and neither did Jack.

  Crispin had said that Lady Vivienne would go to the Spur, an inn on Friday Street. Jack made his way there with no hesitation.

  He held his chin up. For once, he was not skulking in the shadows, creeping upon his prey. He was walking in the clear light of day, taking in the passersby, watching curiously as boys—some his age, some younger—worked furiously for their masters by fetching water, carrying heavy loads, or sat crouching over tables and working their nimble fingers on some intricate trade.

  The smells of the mid-morning wafted around him. Smells of cooking fires, dead fish, horse dung, sweet hay, wet wool, and roasted meats, all swirling together in an odor that said “London.” Church bells began to chime, each claxon making its own unique sound, but all telling him it was terce, well before noon. He squinted up toward the gray sky but it was overcast and offered very little in the way of warm sunshine.

  From West Cheap he turned down Friday Street and slowed as he neared the inn. A painted wooden spur hung from an iron hanger right before the inn door and Jack scanned the street around him. It was a strange thing, this task. For always before, he felt he was a little bit invisible. By necessity he had worked hard not to be noticed. But for some reason, now he felt gilded with a motely of colors, as if all eyes were upon him and knew what he was about. He tucked his hood down almost over his eyes and shuffled in place, kicking at a stone and stuffing his hands into his sleeves for warmth.

  Don’t be daft, Jack. No one’s looking at you any more than they ever did.

  He warily stole a look out from under his hood and saw that it was true. No one paid him any heed. He was just a boy, after all. What mischief could he be up to? Drawing his hands from his sleeves he adjusted his tunic and stalked forward across the dung-littered inn yard as if he belonged there. He crossed the threshold and pushed open the door.

  The inn’s hall was a riot of noise but the warmth and savory smells of food drew him in further until he was standing beside a table with a group of laughing men. They were enjoying their beakers of ale and spooning pottage from wooden bowls. Jack watched them for a moment, licking his lips, his belly growling, before he lifted his gaze to the rest of the hall. Tables and stools, all occupied with mostly men in traveling clothes. Some nuns sat off to the side and kept to themselves, their veils hiding most of their faces in shadow. Some other women in cloaks and sturdy gowns laughed alongside their male companions with bright eyes and smiles on their faces. Gowns in blues and cheerful crimson, yellow stockings, green cotehardies, gaily embroidered houppelandes. It reminded Jack of colorful chickens clucking in a barnyard.

  He moved slowly through them, itching to cut a purse that was so carelessly hanging outside a cloak, o
r nab those laid on a table without a protective hand covering them. He pulled himself up short. He was here for a purpose, one Master Crispin had set him to and he was going to perform it as best he could. He rubbed his palms instead, keeping them occupied.

  He listened as he moved, wondering if he’d catch some word or phrase that could help him. But it seemed a futile move, for nothing told him of Lady Vivienne. What made Master Crispin think she would come here?

  He went to the stairwell and stood at the bottom. A gallery above the hall wound about three sides. Doors were tucked up there in the smoky gloom but they told him nothing.

  He scanned the room again and caught sight of a familiar cloak on feminine shoulders. Just as Master Crispin had said. How had he known?

  Jack moved back into the shadows of a pillar. He watched Lady Vivienne move away from the fire and go to the stairs. With her skirts raised, she walked up the treads and made her way to the second door on the gallery. She tried the handle but it was locked. Putting a finger to her lips, she turned suddenly, her cloak and skirts whirling out around her, and she descended the stairs and caught the sleeve of a man that Jack soon reckoned was the innkeeper. She talked quietly to him for a long time. He seemed disinclined to something she asked until she reached into the money pouch at her side and handed him a coin. He bowed and led the way up the stairs to the locked room, took a set of keys from a ring hanging from his belt, and unlocked the door. In she went. The innkeeper did not follow, but looked about shiftily before retreating down the stairs.

  Jack hesitated. Should he follow? But wouldn’t she notice him if he did?

  A moment later she emerged and Jack thanked the saints for staying him. She walked all the way down the stairs and through the hall to the front door whereupon she passed through it to the outside.

  Jack rose swiftly and followed, pushing the door slowly and peering through the slim opening before he stepped out himself. She was making fierce strides down the lane and Jack scrambled to keep an eye on her from a good distance behind. He side-stepped a gaggle of geese. One stretched out its long neck to snap its bill at him and he got out of its way just in time. “Sarding gander,” he murmured, looking back.