Blood Lance: A Medieval Noir Read online

  “The coroner will arrive anon,” said More. He inclined his head toward Staundon and they both made for the door.

  “My lords,” said Crispin. They stopped and glanced back at him. “Er … is that all? You will leave this now for the coroner?”

  “There is little left for us, Master Guest. Unless…” Staundon leaned toward Crispin, and More did likewise. There was a mischievous gleam in both their eyes. “You have information you are keeping from us.”

  “I for one would be most interested in what you may wish to offer,” More interjected excitedly.

  “I have nothing more to offer, my lords. If the man took his own life then that is that.”

  Staundon smiled and ticked his head. “You know something.” He turned to More. “Care to wager? That Guest will be on the prowl within the next few hours?”

  “I shan’t take that bet,” said More, making merry over it as if a dead man weren’t lying only a few feet away. “For I know it is just as likely. Ah, Master Crispin. I wish I could take a peek into your mind. It is all cogwheels and pulleys rather than bone and tissue.”

  Crispin struggled not to roll his eyes. For God’s sake! There was a dead man here and these men were making of it a mummery. God save him from disciple sheriffs!

  “It is a suicide!” he said far louder than he meant to.

  Staundon huffed a sigh of disappointment. “Very well, Guest. We shall leave you to the coroner. Such a pity. Er … about the man’s soul, that is.”

  “Yes, a pity,” sneered Crispin at their retreating backs. He rubbed his dripping nose on the blanket and struggled to his feet. How long did he have to endure waiting for the coroner? Certainly the others, those from the bridge who knew the man, were better equipped to give their testimony. After all, one man who knew him thought it was a suicide. Crispin crossed himself. To give up one’s life. He couldn’t fathom it. Hadn’t Crispin been in dire straits himself? But he had never given up, never given in to the melancholy that threatened to drown him. But this man took his own life. Surely it was a demon that inhabited his soul to make him fling himself from his own window to drown in the Thames.

  Wrapping the borrowed blanket tighter about himself, he staggered to the doorway and leaned against it, gazing at the body that was lying in the street surrounded by wary onlookers.

  The image of the man in the moonlight was seared on his eyes. He saw it again, the body falling from the upper story and arcing into the Thames. When the image played a second time in his mind, he straightened. If the man were leaping to his death, shouldn’t he have … well, flailed a bit? Dived away from the window? But, clearly, as he saw it again, the silhouette against the bright moon showed the man, limbs limp, simply … falling … from the window.

  His head snapped up as a dim figure tore from the night and skittered to a halt before him, kicking up mud. “Master!”

  “Jack?” But it was the boy, freckled cheeks red from running. His ginger fringe was plastered with sweat to his forehead under his hood. “What are you doing here?”

  “I heard that the sheriffs were off to see to a man who drowned in the Thames … and that there was some fool who jumped in to save him. I was mortally afraid that fool might be you.” He stared at Crispin’s wet coat and stockings. “I see that I was right.”

  Crispin grumbled a sound in answer before a deep shiver overtook him.

  Jack was at his side in an instant, gripping him with strong, long-fingered hands. “Are you hurt, Master?”

  “No. Only frozen to the bone.”

  “And you with a head cold already. Come to the fire.” He dragged Crispin back inside and sat him down again by the glowing log. He grabbed another chunk of wood that was sitting beside the hearth and tucked it into the coals. “A proper fire,” he muttered, gazing in envy at the stacked logs. Then he cocked an eye at Crispin. “Why’d you go and do a fool thing like jump in the Thames? Haven’t you got any sense?”

  Crispin squinted up at his apprentice as the boy began to pace, arms flailing.

  “It’s mad what you do sometimes,” Jack went on, his tirade becoming louder and more desperate. “And then I’ve got to pick up the pieces. It’s not right, sir. Not right at all.”

  “Are you chastising me? I’ll have you know that I’ve been doing even more dangerous deeds since before you were in swaddling! Don’t lecture me, Tucker!”

  Jack stopped and looked down at Crispin with a sorrowful expression.

  Oh. The boy had been worried. Crispin suddenly felt very foolish and ducked his head into the blanket.

  “Well … I’m not drowned, as you see.”

  “Where did you get the bruises, sir?” He gestured. “To your face.”

  “A run-in with the Watch. I won, by the way. Until all this happened. Now I suppose I’ll be fined.”

  “Here. Give over the money pouch, then.”

  Without a second thought, Crispin reached his hand into the blanket and untied the sodden pouch from his belt. He handed it to the former cutpurse. Faster than he could tell what happened Jack had secreted the pouch somewhere on his person. At least those coins would be safe. For now.

  A clatter of horses outside took Crispin to his feet, and he was in the doorway again. The coroner, John Charneye, had arrived with his retinue. He swept the crowd but when his eyes lighted on Crispin, he frowned and dismounted. Instead of approaching the dead man, he went straight for Crispin.

  Jack bowed and backed away, finding a place behind his master.

  “Guest,” said the coroner. “Should I ask what you are doing here?”

  “I saw him fall, my lord. They say—” And he gestured at the crowd. “They say it was a suicide.”

  “God have mercy. And you. What do you say?”

  Crispin shrugged. “These men knew him better than I.”

  Charneye turned to a man standing nearby and pointed a gloved hand at him. “You! Did you know the dead man?” The coroner’s clerk hurried to his side, quill poised over his waxed slate.

  The man’s face was mostly hidden by his hood, but his eyes widened. He bowed to the coroner and nodded. “Aye, my lord. He was Roger Grey, an armorer. A sorrowful man. God’s mercy.”

  “Do you say it was a suicide?”

  “Oh aye, my lord. Funny, him speaking of leaving London. I would have wagered good money he meant to do it the usual way. No accounting for it, is there?”

  “Married? Children?”

  “Neither, my lord.”

  Charneye pursed his lips and looked back at the dead man. “I suppose summoning a priest is out of the question, under the circumstances,” he muttered.

  Crispin squirmed. This was abominable. The man was dead and therefore calling a priest was moot, but still. In all decency, a priest should be called. Though a suicide’s fate was known to all. They could not have a funeral mass, they could not be buried in hallowed ground. Excommunicated even from the dead.

  “My lord,” Crispin said slowly, “I … am of the mind that this was not a suicide.”

  Charneye whipped his head toward him. “What? Would you naysay this good man, Guest? You just said you did not know him. How can you say this now?”

  Crispin shook his head. “I know all that, my lord. But I saw him fall. He did not leap, at least not of his own free will. And if I had to think about it, I believe it possible that he was already dead when he was tossed from the window.”

  The coroner stared, his jaw hanging open wordlessly. Well, that’s done it. Crispin shivered and sneezed, clutching the blanket over his shoulders.

  3

  THE BRIDGE DWELLERS CHATTERED all at once and the coroner’s clerk scrambled from man to man collecting his notes. Jack shook his head, grimacing into the shadow of his hood.

  Crispin could have left it alone. He could have made himself believe the man was a suicide and left it at that. Escaped to his own lodgings to warm himself and maybe get some much-needed sleep. But he well knew what he saw, and he feared there was murder afoot. Just as
those two miserable sheriffs predicted he’d say.

  Charneye was still glaring at him. Well, Crispin was not a man to hide from the truth. Everyone knew that. Unpleasant truths, especially. By Jack’s cringing and moaning, it was obvious that the boy agreed that it was rather inconvenient at times.

  “Perhaps we should look at the body,” Crispin offered.

  The coroner only grunted his reply, but he didn’t stop Crispin as he headed toward the shrouded figure lying on the ground with a wide circle of curious onlookers around it.

  Kneeling, Crispin pulled back the sheet from the dead man’s head. Still, pale, and wet, the man had a dark beard and his closed eyes sat in smudged hollows. Someone was holding a torch and Crispin beckoned to him to come closer. The torch was lowered and Crispin probed the man’s head through his wet hair. A dent. A good-sized one in the skull. He supposed he could have hit his head on a pier. His nose, also, appeared to be broken and there were bruises around his neck. Crispin was certain there would be others on his person, but this was not the place to look. He rose and stared down at the still, waxy face, crossed himself, and tossed the sheet back over him.

  “Well?” Charneye asked.

  Crispin scanned the loitering crowd. If murder it was, then the guilty party might still be present.

  Before he had a chance to speak, a figure in a cloak was pushing its way through the gathering and finally reached the coroner. He turned his vexing scrutiny away from Crispin and directed it toward the figure, talking earnestly. Crispin could not hear the exchange but the coroner looked just as pleased by that as he had by Crispin.

  Perhaps this is my cue to leave. Tomorrow will be time enough to tell the coroner what I know. “Jack, let us go. I am weary and cold and need my bed.”

  Jack lent Crispin an arm when the coroner and the cloaked figure both turned toward him.

  Dammit.

  They approached and the mysterious figure tossed back the hood, revealing a woman’s face.

  Crispin eyed her lustrous dark hair and haunted eyes. She was nineteen, perhaps younger. A sister of the dead man?

  Without preamble she said, “Master Grey committed suicide. But you insist he did not. Why? Do you know him?”

  Crispin stood and bowed. She did not acknowledge it. He could tell by her garb that she was a merchant or craftsman. The cut of her gown was fine but not that fine, and the material a bit coarser than that of a rich merchant. The hands clutching her cloak at her chin were red and raw, meaning she did the work. His eyes kept tracing the thickness of her lips, chapped, but sensual in their plumpness.

  “I saw him fall, damosel. He did not seem to me to have gone out the window under his own power. I would venture to say that he was dead before leaving the bridge. Upon my examination of the … of him, I would say definitively that he was murdered.”

  “That is mere speculation,” said the coroner.

  “It is based on years of experience on the battlefield, my lord,” Crispin countered. “I know a murdered man when I see one.”

  Charneye smiled grimly. “And yet you jumped into the water to save him. If you knew he was dead before he hit the water, why then did you risk your own life?”

  Jack snorted beside him in agreement.

  “It … happened so quickly. I moved on instinct. It wasn’t until I saw his face and gave it some thought that I realized the truth of it. And the witness of my eyes.” He gestured toward the shrouded figure. “Though he may have gotten his bruises if he hit one of the piers, there were marks on his neck. He could not have gotten them from the river.”

  The woman grabbed Crispin’s arm and pulled him back into the room with the hearth. “No! That cannot be. He was a … a man of sorrows. I know he took his own life.”

  “One man claims that the dead man said he was leaving London, and that he meant in this way.”

  She shook her head. The hearth flames gleamed darkly in her thick tresses. “He never said he was leaving London. That is a lie!”

  The coroner had followed them inside. He rested his thumbs in his thick belt. “Who are you to Master Grey? A relative?”

  She ducked her head, hiding her reddened cheeks in her hair. “No. We were … we were betrothed.”

  Charneye expelled his breath and rolled his eyes. “It is for a jury to decide.” He waved to his clerk and the both of them ambled toward their horses.

  She followed them only a few steps and stood stiffly in the doorway, staring after them with hands clenched white and taut at her sides. After a moment she swung back toward Crispin, eyes wide and angry. “And you! Do you dismiss me as readily?”

  Crispin sighed and stared at his feet. He spared a glance at Jack, who was discreetly picking at his nails, eyes downcast.

  “I see,” she said. She turned to depart when Crispin spoke.

  “I do not believe as the others do, damosel. That Master Grey killed himself. I think that he was murdered, and if you have further information on that, then I should like to hear it.”

  “He took his own life, I tell you!” She grabbed her cloak and bunched it tight over her breast. “Why would you meddle in this?”

  “Here now,” said Jack, stepping forward. He gestured back at Crispin. “You don’t know who you are talking to. This is the Tracker. Maybe you’ve heard of him. Unless you’ve been living under a rock.”

  Her eyes perused Crispin, from his soggy boots to his black hair hanging in wet locks to his shoulders; to his, no doubt, reddened nose. He sneezed again, his whole body wracked.

  “You’re Crispin Guest. Yes, I’ve heard of you. What business is this of yours?”

  “You might have noticed the state of my clothes. I jumped into the Thames to save him.”

  “Oh.” She nodded and moved back into the room. “I thank you for that. It was a kindness and most brave.”

  “I was not looking for compliments. What do you know about the man? What could make him so melancholy?”

  She raised her chin. “Roger was a quiet man. Who can tell what lies deep in a man’s heart?”

  “What was his vocation?”

  “He was an armorer. He made fine armor for many knights of the court.”

  “Any idea who’d want to kill him? Did he lack for funds? Was he over his head in debts?”

  “No. He was well situated with no debts, praise God. Yet he took his own life.” Teeth tugging at her lower lip, she shook her head. Those plump lips pressed together, and her dark eyes studied him silently.

  His betrothed, was she? She seemed not so much distraught but distracted. What else was here?

  A shiver wracked his body and he pulled the blanket tighter. “I’m no good to anyone in this state,” he grumbled, snuffling. “I’ll be back in the morning after a change of clothes and a good night’s sleep. At least what’s left of it.” He rose and Jack walked with him to the door. The dead man was at last loaded into a cart and slowly wheeled toward the bridge’s gate. The crowd still lingered and Crispin gave it one more sweep when he saw a familiar face.

  He strode toward the man. Wide-eyed and frightened, he ducked back into the crowd. Crispin dove after him.

  “Master?” cried Jack.

  “It’s Lenny. You go that way. I’ll head him off at the gate.”

  Crispin ran, satisfied that Jack would cut off Lenny’s escape toward the Southwark side. Wherever that man appeared, no good ever came of it. And to be so near a murdered man? Well, he couldn’t quite believe it of the old thief, but one never knew. The man was getting bolder since Crispin had made a solemn promise not to turn him in for his sins. He was regretting that offer daily.

  His soaking clothes did not help the pursuit. The cold, the heaviness of it, seemed to drag him down, but he pushed his way through the crowd and searched the shadows for signs of the misshapen thief.

  The moon, though not as high as before, slipped past the protection of clouds for only a moment, revealing the lean path along the bridge, only some twelve feet wide. It was framed on either sid
e by encroaching shopfronts and houses. There! A shadow streaked across the face of a darkened tavern and disappeared again when the moon hid beneath its sheath of cloud.

  Crispin could see nothing but he followed his instincts and felt the heavy footfalls ahead. Lenny was guilty of something, else he would have remained to take whatever bribe he could get from Crispin. Even as he ran heavy-limbed in pursuit, Crispin was loath to discover what the thief had done this time.

  The pursuit led inevitably to the gate, shut up tight at night and only opened to collect tolls in the daytime. But because the sheriffs and the coroner had passed through, it had remained opened. A single guard at the portcullis watched from the shadowing arch as the cart with the dead man creaked through. Crispin saw the guard get shoved by a dark figure before righting himself and brandishing his spear. The guard took a few steps past the gate but stopped, head swiveling from side to side.

  Too late. Damn the man!

  Crispin reached the gate and gulped in a breath before addressing the wary guard. “Did you see which way he went?” gasped Crispin.

  The guard, a stumpy-nosed fellow, stared at Crispin with mouth agape. “Who?”

  “The man who pushed you aside.”

  “Him? A demon must have taken him, for he flew like the wind. That way, toward Thames Street.”

  Crispin rushed forward only to stand still at the end of the bridge, listening. He could hear no steps over the rattling of the dead man’s cart. Damn Lenny! “I’ll catch up with you yet, you scoundrel.”

  He shivered again and looked back over his shoulder toward the bridge and the lighted square windows of its shops. He’d make everything right in the morning. The coroner would see eventually. Jack would make his way home, Crispin had no doubt of that. And if he didn’t get home himself in short order he might freeze to death on the street. He remembered his encounter with the Watch and what might come of it and he did not relish dealing with that. But home called and he trotted along the lane, trying to keep warm. It was still a long way back to the Shambles and to a dry bed.