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

  At last he turned the corner and surveyed the familiar haunts of the Shambles. The structures in the narrow lane tilted inward toward one another, their protruding second stories sometimes only separated by three arm lengths, making the lane dim during the day and dismal at night.

  The street lay in quiet. Soon the market bells would ring when the shadows reached the first gatepost at the far end of the lane making it after Prime. Then stalls would be unfolded from their shuttered windows. Hearths, dreaming with only the gentle puff of white from covered embers, would be stoked and billow oppressive smoke from their dormant chimneys. Yet even in the stillness of the morning, the odor of butchered meat still hung in the air.

  Poor as it was, it was better than digs in Southwark, the parish situated across the Thames, which housed the brothels, thieves, and the poorest of the poor. Crispin could not bring himself to live there, though the rent was far cheaper. If it were not possible to live at court as he used to, then he would at least live close enough to sneeze at it. London was his city, after all, and no one—no matter how high their rank—was going to chase him from its walls.

  Crispin opened the money pouch for his key and the pouch fell to the ground. He cursed and picked it up. He must remember to repair that, and gave a grudging chuckle at the brashness of the clever young cutpurse. He climbed the rickety wooden stairs, trying to keep quiet. The still sleeping tinker who owned the shop below, made his living repairing large cooking pots for beef tallow, and sharpening and mending butchering knives and meat hooks. The forge in the back courtyard sent black smoke into Crispin’s window during the day, but even this could not smother the stench of the meat markets below.

  He took out the rusty key and unlocked the door to his lodgings. He knew well the small room’s full compliment of furniture and sundries. Nothing adorned the walls, not even a crucifix. The only items he owned were the clothes on his back, a wax slate, a quill, a small ink pot, and a journal—all of which resided in the rented coffer.

  “Home and hearth,” he sighed. He wrinkled his nose. The cramped room smelled of old smoke and the smothering closeness of sweat. He reached for the wine jug and found it empty. Too weary to divest himself of the cloak, he leaned toward the pallet and tumbled onto the straw-stuffed mattress. It crunched under his weight and released the smell of musty grass. Throwing his arm across his face, he lay on his back, closed his eyes, and settled into the lumpy cot, hoping to lie there the rest of the day.

  He hadn’t slept for more than a few moments when the sound of doors slamming and pots rattling below stairs woke him. He jolted upright and stared uncomprehendingly at his surroundings. His mind reluctantly fell in step as a door slammed a second time. The Kemps, the tinker family, had awakened and begun their day. “God’s blood.” He threw his legs over the side of the bed and dropped his head into his hands. He wasn’t drunk enough anymore to simply sleep through the morning. That time had been taken up with the sheriff and the dead man.

  A dead knight. The idea fascinated. A poisoned knight. But what was this dead man to him? He only solved such puzzles when he was hired to do it. There was no profit in wasting time with such without pay. He needed to find a puzzle for which someone would hire him. Let the sheriff fool with this. He’d muck up the job like he always did. Arrest the wrong man and hang him. It was far too much work for the sheriff to muster the real culprit. And no truer a scoundrel there was than this killer. Poison. In the middle of a crowded tavern. That took gall. He almost admired the knave but stopped short. Poison was a horrible way to die. Knowing you had ingested the venom and incapable of stopping it from rushing through your system. A horrific loss of control. At least with a knife blade you had a chance to fight! He shook his head. He’d even rather die by the noose than by poison.

  Who was that poor bastard anyway, murdered in plain view? Crispin thought he was a knight not just because of the ring mail he wore but of his groomed hair and nails, his clean-shaven face. He was no mere soldier. He had jewelry and weapons. But why was his armor hidden? Was he killed because of that secret?

  Crispin unbuttoned the top buttons of his coat and reached inside to bring out the dead man’s purse. He dropped it on the table and it pooled on the nicked wood like a bad pudding. He supposed he should take it to the sheriff but not before he satisfied his own curiosity.

  He looked inside. Coins, mostly silver with one or two gold. Reaching in, he pulled out a thin gold chain that held a cross potent set with small green stones. Etched on its reverse was the word pocillator. He turned the object in his hand again, feeling its heft before laying it aside. He then withdrew a pinky ring, also with a green stone, though not like the cross’ jewels. After examining it for any markings, he shrugged and laid it, too, on the table.

  He glanced toward the window and sighed. The cracked shutters hung ajar and bleary sunshine cast irregular stripes across the floor. Dawn had given way to morning. However long he slept at the Boar’s Tusk was not long enough. He passed a calloused hand over his face and felt the beard stubble for the first time. He rose to go to the basin and jug and poured the icy water into the bowl. He washed his face quickly, but a sound on the landing stopped him. He listened. Water dripped from his chin. He stepped clear of the basin and pricked his ears.

  The landing creaked.

  Crispin edged his dagger free from its sheath and crept with slow steps toward the door. He gently pressed his ear to the wood and held his breath.

  The landing creaked again. But before Crispin could respond, hard footfalls thumped on the wooden steps and hurled down the stairs.

  Crispin threw the bolt and cast open the door. The tail end of a robed figure disappeared at the bottom step.

  Crispin leapt down the stairs, two, three at a time and landed with an unsteady thump at the bottom. He took to the middle of the street and looked up the road.

  No robed man.

  He ran up the lane, splashing his boots in the gutter, pushing stray passersby out of his way.

  No one in a robe. No mysterious stranger.

  He ran his hand over his hair, damp from washing his face. Was he seeing things now?

  A tug at his coat. He spun, brandishing his knife. A lad of ten years stood behind him. He wore the sheriff’s livery but the tabard was too large for him. The boy shrunk from Crispin’s scowl and from the menacing blade, and held up his hands to fend off the expected blow. “Master Guest!” he squeaked.

  Crispin breathed. He looked at the knife in his hand and quickly sheathed it. “What is it, boy?”

  The boy gathered himself and gave the message in a rush. “M-my Lord Sheriff sent me to tell you they have captured the murderer and he commands you to come to Newgate at once.”

  The murderer? That was quick. Especially for Wynchecombe. Crispin looked back up the lane. Shopkeepers and passersby paid him no heed. “Commands, does he?” He ran his hand over his chin again and finally shrugged. “Then I suppose a shave will have to wait.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Panting, with tears blurring his eyes, Jack Tucker ran for all he was worth. “Jesus mercy,” he muttered desperately, over and over, frantic gaze searching the streets and the frosty signs swaying from a morning breeze. No one yet stirred on the deserted lanes but he didn’t care. That man, that Tracker had said that those wine bowls were poisoned and he had drunk them! Drunk every last one of them and knew he was doomed.

  Finally, his eyes caught the sight he was looking for, a sign of an apothecary, and he dove for the front door. Finding it locked, he pounded on it. “Master! Master, for God’s mercy, please open your door, I beg of you!”

  The thud of steps approached and the bar scraped back across the door. It opened slowly and only a crack revealed an eye staring beadily at Jack. “What’s all this?”

  “Please, good Master. I need your help!”

  The eye darted back and forth. “My help? It can wait an hour, can’t it? It is not yet time to open my doors.”

  “Please, good sir. I�
��ve been poisoned! I haven’t long.”

  The door flew open and a man in an open robe revealing his long linen gown beneath, stood on the threshold. “By the Virgin, young man! Did you say poisoned?”

  “Aye, Master. A cruel thing it is. Please. Can you help me? Oh! I feel faint.” A wave of dizziness overcame him and Jack sank to the stone threshold. The man caught him but just barely and hoisted him upward.

  “Now lad. By the saints! Can you walk? Come inside.” Half dragging him, the apothecary pulled Jack inside where the immediate warmth of the small shop revived him. The man sat Jack on a stool before the hearth and jammed a poker into the small fire, urging the flames to rise.

  Blearily, Jack watched the fire, a play of light and shadows that he could barely discern. His belly roiled and he clutched the stool to keep upright.

  The man bent toward him. “Tell me, boy. Do you know what manner of poison you ingested?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know, Master. I drank it in the wine. But another died of it. All foamy at the mouth, struggling to breathe.”

  “Hmm.” The man nodded, placing a finger to his lips in thought. He suddenly took Jack by the shoulders and studied his face. He pulled opened Jack’s jaw and sniffed his breath and then he laid his head against Jack’s chest.

  “Here! What you doing?” Jack demanded.

  Withdrawing, the apothecary narrowed his eyes. “Are you certain you were poisoned?”

  “I swear by my Lady, Master. I saw the dead man, and I drank the same wine.”

  “Then it is likely it was merely a small dose and already purged from your system. Did you sick up, boy?”

  “Aye. I did. Right before I found you.”

  “You see. You are fine.”

  Jack grabbed the man’s robes in his clammy fists. “No! I must have a cure. Please, sir!”

  The apothecary threw his hands up and sighed. “Very well, but I am certain you do not need it.”

  Jack shot from the stool to follow the man into his shop, behind a ragged curtain. He crumpled his tunic hem in nervous fingers, all the while watching as the man pulled down canisters and bottles, and mixed the strange ingredients into a mortar. He then mixed them about and poured some ale into a beaker, carefully measuring in the now powdered ingredients. He stirred it with a metal wand and finally handed it to Jack. “There. Drink it.”

  Jack stared into the beaker and to the greasy rings floating on the top of the ale. “This will cure me?”

  The man shook his head. “As I said, you do not need a cure, but this will help you amend your belly.”

  Jack nodded and put the beaker to his lips. Holding his nose, he downed it and nearly lost the rest of what was in his belly from the sour taste. The beaker dropped from his hands and he covered his mouth.

  The apothecary stood over him. “Better?”

  Jack grimaced and licked his lips. It took a moment, but the taste and the sick feeling subsided. “Aye,” he said unsteadily. “I do feel better.”

  “Of course you do,” the man muttered. “That will be a ha’penny.”

  Sheepishly, Jack stared at his feet. “I have a confession to make to you, good Master.”

  The apothecary rocked on his heels. At any other time, it would have been an amusing sight to Jack: the man in his sleeping gown and fussy robe, and hair in disarray. But Jack’s emotions had been wrung dry in the span of a few hours. He had nothing left inside of him. He felt as hollow as a bell.

  “I confess, good Master, that I haven’t a coin to my name.” He raised his chin and met the man’s gaze. “But I swear to you on me mother’s grave, that I will repay you. I…I can work for you. Sweep your floors and fetch wood. I can do that.”

  The apothecary rolled his eyes and laid his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “I thought as much. Fear not. You have no need to repay me. I have done you a Christian deed and there is only reward in Heaven for that.”

  Jack fell to the ground on his knees and grabbed the man’s hands. “Oh sir! I am grateful for your kindness and charity. I’ll say a prayer for you, sir. Many!”

  “Thieves and beggars’ prayers!” chortled the man. “I must be mad. Off with you, then. And keep away from poisons!”

  “Good Master, I will indeed. And thank you again. The Lord’s blessings upon you and yours.” He pushed through the doors and looked back. The man waved and turned away, back to his curtained alcove and maybe to bed.

  Jack stood on the lane. The air was fresher, brighter. The sun’s light stretched down the muddy road making the shop fronts golden with its rays. The damp signs and trees glistened with droplets like gems. Jack inhaled deeply and sighed. Life! It was a precious thing to behold.

  He turned his face toward the sunshine and its feeble warmth and sighed again. Empty, he was. Of silver and of belly. He had wanted to bring Will a meal but now that was out of the question. He sniffed, catching the scent of baked bread. Or was it?

  He trotted down the lane, letting his nose lead him. It wasn’t a baker but just an ordinary shop. He stopped before it and put his eye to the shutter. A plump woman, her head covered in a kerchief, was just setting browned loaves on the table. Jack pushed his wayward fringe away from his face, stepped back, and knocked gently on the wooden shutter.

  Hesitantly, the shutter opened. The woman, rosy nose and cheeks, stuck her head out. “Eh?” she said upon spying Jack. “Are you knocking on my window?”

  Jack lowered his face and curled his tunic hem in his fingers. “Good damosel, I smelt your bread from the street and God’s angels and saints urged me to ask. For to ask ye shall receive. So I knocked and you answered. I come asking if you could spare only a small portion of them loaves you just baked.”

  Eyes downcast, he knew he looked humble and yet sympathetic. It was still an advantage his being so young with a voice high and light. God help him when his bollocks dropped.

  Silence greeted him and he slowly looked up through his ginger fringe. She stared at him with her hands at her hips. But she hadn’t slammed the window shut, so that was a good sign. He becrossed himself, for piety was highly prized by those to whom charity was given, and he even formed his hands in an attitude of prayer. It never hurt to go that extra mile.

  He could see in her features that she was relenting and she left the window momentarily and returned with half a loaf. “You’re a scoundrel,” she said, handing it to Jack’s eager hands. “But you are a charming one. Off with you, lad.”

  “Thank you, kind damosel!” He saluted with the warm loaf and ran.

  As he ran he put the loaf to his face, feeling its warmth and inhaling its sweet aroma. He couldn’t resist taking a bite and it was just that much Heaven.

  He stopped under an eave and leaned against the wall and slowly ate a small portion. The fact that it was fresh was a novelty. He certainly was used to rougher, older fare. This was a treat to be prized. And yet. His thoughts fell again to Will and he pulled the crusty bread away from his lips. He tucked it into his tunic, where the bread kept him warm, and he trotted on, back toward Gutter Lane and to find Will.

  The early warmth from the sun had faded behind a sheath of clouds and he yanked his muddied cloak across his chest, warding off the cold wind. He hadn’t thought beyond giving Will the small remnant. He didn’t dare think what he could do for the lad, for he had no home to go to himself. But God’s grace would surely show him the way as He had done many times before—he had no doubt of that—and so he hurried, turning the corner and heading directly for the small alcove where he had left his friend the night before.

  Will was there, hunched over in the damp shadows, his head lying on his chest.

  Jack dropped to his knees in front of him and touched the good leg. “Will, look who it is, but Jack Tucker. And lo! I’ve brought a feast.” He withdrew the bread and brandished it, a smile curling his lips.

  But Will didn’t move. “Oi, Will,” he said again, shaking the boy’s shoulder. The head lolled back and Jack yelled and fell back on his bu
m. Will’s eyes were open but they were dry and clouded.

  “Oh, no.” Jack sat and stared. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen corpses before. He had, many times. But they hadn’t been anyone he had known.

  Slowly, he reached forward and touched the cold cheek. Nothing moved. Not an eyelash. Not a flicker of breath. Eyes and mouth dry, Will didn’t know pain or hunger or even loneliness any longer.

  It was Will who had helped him on the streets when Jack had run away from a master who hadn’t wanted him. Though the man had, at least, spent the coin to bury Jack’s mother, who had also been his servant. But it was Will who taught him to cut a purse, taught him which man to target and which to stay away from. Will was the master of it. And though they had often gone their separate ways, they always managed to find one another again, either at the alms door of a church, or at crowded gatherings outside ale houses, or watching processions. Without ever exchanging a word, they’d catch each other’s eye in the crowd and begin to coordinate their thievery, and meet up later, sharing a bowl of wine or ale, and laugh and laugh.

  Will was unstoppable, bright, wary, invincible, immortal! But maybe…not as much as Jack had thought.

  He sat in the mud, staring. His throat was thick and hot, but he had no more tears. Will wouldn’t have wanted them in any case. Jack becrossed himself and sent up a silent prayer.

  After a long moment, he picked himself up and stood, staring down at his friend, but aware that people would soon be on the streets. “I know you will forgive me,” he whispered, “but I cannot be seen with you. Besides, what do you care? You’re with God now.” And despite what he thought before, tears did streak their way down his dirty cheeks.