Blood Lance: A Medieval Noir Page 7

  Chaucer picked at invisible lint on the fur trim of his gown. “I have never had occasion to ‘grace your door.’”

  “What are you up to, Geoffrey?”

  “Now why do you suggest I am ‘up to’ anything?”

  “Your presence here. Don’t try to lie to me,” he said, cutting off Chaucer’s reply. “What are you truly doing here, Geoffrey? Does it have anything to do with these councilors come to censure de la Pole?”

  The grin faded. “You are clever, aren’t you?”

  “I am often paid to be so. Tell me.”

  “Good God, Cris! No ‘how have you faired in the year since I’ve seen you, Geoffrey?’ No other words of greeting?”

  “Geoffrey, you know why. Why are you playing games with me? You know I have no patience for them.”

  “Indeed, not. You are the most impatient man I have ever met. Say,” he said, glancing around. “Do you have any wine?”

  “No!” He slammed his hand on the table. “Tell me what you are doing here!”

  “Very well. If you insist. I understand you have been talking with Sir Thomas Saunfayl.”

  Crispin’s senses went on alert. He was unprepared for the convergence of such diverse incidents. “I … yes. He hired me to find … something.”

  “Did he? Well never mind that for now. Where is he? Do you know?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Why do you hesitate to tell me?”

  “Because it is you who wants to know.”

  “Cris! I’m appalled. That I should garner such mistrust in you.”

  “Your patron name is Deception. I’ve known you a long time, remember?”

  Chaucer frowned. “This is most upsetting. Here I come to you in perfect friendship—”

  “Spare me, Chaucer!”

  “Perfect friendship. Expecting to be treated as a favored guest. And there is no wine and no hospitality whatsoever.”

  “Things are different on the Shambles,” he growled.

  “Indeed they are. It is like another country.”

  “Are you going to tell me what you are doing here or do I toss you out on your ear?”

  “That temper of yours,” muttered Chaucer. “Very well, then. If you are going to growl at me I might as well tell you. I am in search of Sir Thomas to aid him. He is in very grave peril.”

  Chaucer’s words were finally making sense. Thomas had been nervous and ill-tempered about something. Crispin was finally going to get to the bottom of it. “I am sorry to hear that. I have not seen Thomas in some years but I did notice he did not seem … himself.”

  “No, indeed. I am here to defend him in court.”

  “What has he done to need your defense?”

  “What has he done? Why, he is a coward. He has deserted his post amongst Lancaster’s army. I will do the best I can but there is little to be done if he continues to hide from me.”

  “Wait, wait.” His words made no sense. Cowardice? Sir Thomas? “There must be some mistake. Sir Thomas is no coward. He is a brave and formidable fighter. He always has been.”

  “Perhaps. But he has deserted, and he is being brought up on charges. There are those who will testify that he ran from the enemy.”

  “No! That is not possible. Sir Thomas is incapable of such fear. I know of no knight who is braver.”

  Chaucer straightened the liripipe artfully draped from his hat over his chest. “All I know is what I have been told. His grace, the duke, has asked me to intervene where I can. And my sources say that he was seen talking to you not more than a few hours ago.”

  “Your sources?”

  “Yes. I’m certain you have your sources.”

  Crispin suddenly thought of Lenny. More often than not, the thief served as his spy. And the man was running away from the bridge last night. What mischief had he been up to? Up until this moment, he had forgotten about Lenny.

  “What did he want with you, Cris?”

  Crispin sneezed, and he pulled that dreadful rag from his belt again to wipe his nose. He prayed for the day this damned cold would disperse.

  Chaucer watched him with a faintly disgusted expression.

  Replacing the rag once again in his belt, Crispin cleared his throat. “He … that’s between him and me, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh come now. I told you what you wanted to know.”

  “Hardly the same thing, Geoffrey.”

  “Then where is he so I may speak with him? He must report to the court.”

  Crispin sat back. “How do I know you aren’t on the other side?”

  Chaucer narrowed his eyes. “Because I am telling you.”

  “Oh yes. I can surely believe that.”

  Chaucer jumped to his feet. “Absurd! I thought in Canterbury we came to an understanding.”

  “You lied to me over and over again. You kept secrets from me. Am I to believe you now that you appear at my door out of the blue?”

  “We’re friends, Cris. I expect you to believe me.”

  Crispin leaned forward. “Then believe this. I don’t know what sort of foolishness this is, but I know Thomas Saunfayl. He is no coward.”

  “Is that your last word on it? You won’t help me?”

  “Yes. My last word. And no. I won’t help you.”

  A shadow passed over his eyes but he shrugged and turned toward the door. “I see. You don’t trust me. We’ve been friends a long time, Cris.”

  “Then you should know that I would be loyal to my oath to him.”

  “You forget that I am a knight as well.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.”

  Chaucer’s eyes widened but just as quickly his expression fell to a blank one. “I see. I am a member of Parliament, you know. I can make you tell me.”

  Crispin raised his brows at this information but sent a cool expression toward his friend. “You could try.”

  Chaucer glared for several more heartbeats and Crispin gave back as good as he got. Finally, Chaucer headed toward the door. “Well. Farewell, then, Master Guest.”

  Guilt niggled at the edges of his conscience. He hadn’t seen Geoffrey since their disastrous trip to Canterbury over a year ago and now he was letting him go again. He rose, staring at the table. “Geoffrey, I—”

  Chaucer held up a hand. “Don’t trouble yourself, Crispin. I shall make my way. But mark me. Don’t stand in the way of the court, or of Parliament.”

  “Is that a threat, Geoffrey?”

  Chaucer set his jaw. “It very well may be.” With that, he grasped the door latch and was gone.

  Crispin stood a moment, listening to the silence. Quickly he made for the door and trotted down the stairs. He looked down the Shambles toward East Cheap and thought he caught a glimpse of Chaucer’s blue gown. He pulled his hood up over his head and went in pursuit. Geoffrey thought he was clever, did he? Well, it was time to see what the man was truly up to. Member of Parliament, indeed! Bah! Threaten him, would he? We’ll see about that! And then this business about Sir Thomas. He couldn’t quite believe it, but there was definitely something wrong with the man. Whatever it was, it had to do with Chaucer.

  He followed, staying several yards behind him. He dodged carts and riders threading their horses down the narrow lane. The occasional shout rang throughout the alleys and streets where some of the rabble met at crossroads, but for the most part, commerce had tried to return to normal.

  Crispin kept his head down when Chaucer turned to look behind him. But his eyes swept unseeing over Crispin, pressed against a wall and standing behind a shopfront awning. He waited for the poet to turn again before continuing his pursuit, and wondered where the man would lead him.

  They were leaving the city, making their way along the Strand toward Westminster. It would be harder to follow him unseen. Just as Crispin was wondering if he shouldn’t drop back, Chaucer turned and entered a tavern.

  Crispin waited a good long time before he cautiously approached the door and gently pushed it open.

  The place
was dark except for the tallow candles he could just smell flickering on the tables and for the wide hearth, flinging licking flames over the logs. Head down, he made his way to a dim corner and spied Chaucer meeting with someone at a table near the back. They were flanked by armed men. They wore no livery but it was obvious they were guards. Crispin couldn’t quite see the hooded man Chaucer was talking to, but the poet was gesturing and talking quickly, wiping the ale from his curled beard when he drank.

  The hooded man nodded, intent as he listened. Though he held a horn, he never drank from it. After a while, Chaucer looked as if he were done talking. He settled in and drank his cup before setting it down again. He rose, bowed low to the man, and turned toward the exit.

  Crispin hunkered down in the shadows, only lifting his head enough to see past the hood. He waited until Chaucer was out the door, then looked back at the hooded man, who stayed for some time, drinking slowly and deliberately from the horn. His guards were motionless but for their eyes constantly scanning the room.

  At last he rose, and with the sweep of his cloak behind him, headed for the door. Now, Crispin murmured to himself.

  Careful to keep his face shadowed by his own hood, Crispin made his way forward, strategically colliding with the man. “Oaf,” the man grunted, and shoved Crispin into a set of stools surrounding a small table.

  His quarry lifted his hood, giving Crispin a momentary look. Stunned, Crispin staggered back and barely recovered before the guards shoved him with such force he clattered to the floor, knocking over a stool. On his knees, he stared after them as the three guards followed the man out.

  Crispin pushed himself slowly to his feet. There was no mistaking the face under that hood. Chaucer’s clandestine meeting was with the earl of Suffolk, Michael de la Pole, chancellor to the King of England.

  8

  LOST IN HIS OWN thoughts, Crispin walked, heedless of the direction the meandering lanes took him.

  Chaucer, Lancaster’s man, conspiring with Michael de la Pole? This was madness. If Suffolk’s ouster was imminent, then all those associated with him were in grave danger. His dismissal—possibly even execution—would be a great insult to the king and leave Richard on very thin ice. He wondered if Richard could even appreciate the extent of the damage being done, if he understood what he was in danger of losing.

  And now Chaucer was involved. Crispin walked slowly down the muddy streets and tried to make sense of it. Geoffrey and Crispin had both served Lancaster and had become the best of friends and confidants. Though Geoffrey was older—the same age as Lancaster, ironically—they treated each other more like brothers. It hadn’t made a difference to their jests and pranks.

  The man had a family, for God’s sake. How could he throw them into jeopardy? At least Crispin had sacrificed no one but himself when he stepped into the role of traitor nine years ago.

  That settled it. He’d have to go to see Abbot Nicholas and beg answers. But should he not first go back to the bridge? He had craved rest before but now his blood was up, and he knew he had more questions to find answers to before this day was out. Bridge or Westminster? They were at opposite points of town.

  He took a step forward and stopped. A crouching figure dashed across the avenue. Looking back at Crispin, the man winced and darted into an alley.

  Goddammit! Lenny!

  Off he ran, but the cursed man was slippery. Crispin reached the alley but no one was there. He halted and cocked an ear. Silence. How could he have lost him twice in so many days? The man wasn’t that clever. But he was surely that scared. What had he done that he feared Crispin so desperately? “Lenny, Lenny. I don’t like this feeling in my gut.”

  He made more halfhearted attempts to search for him, but gave it up.

  Thoughts of whether to go to Westminster Abbey or London Bridge disappeared.

  He turned toward Knightrider Street.

  * * *

  THE FALCONER WAS A fine inn with bright, lime-washed walls and a formidable door. Crispin swept in and called for the innkeeper. He was an ordinary man with bland, sandy hair. When Crispin asked for Sir Thomas, the innkeeper eyed Crispin with suspicion. A coin pressed into the man’s hand soon allayed his fears.

  Crispin waited by the fire, warming himself until his thighs were toasted through.

  A step behind him. Sir Thomas, still clad in his surcote as if reluctant to relinquish it, wore a face twisted into an angry scowl. “What are you doing here?”

  “I have come to ask you questions, my lord.”

  “I told you. I only want to hear from you when you’ve found the … the object. Have you?”

  “No. But I—”

  “Then there is nothing to say, Guest.” He spun and pushed his way none too gently past some traveling men bundled in cloaks and with bulging scrips.

  “Why didn’t you tell me of the charges against you?” said Crispin.

  Thomas’s step faltered to a halt. He turned his face only halfway back. Shadows hid his features but not the tightening of his shoulders. “What are you talking about?”

  “It seems I had a visit from your defender, Geoffrey Chaucer.”

  Thomas stalked up to Crispin and grasped him by the upper arms. “What did you tell him?”

  Crispin glanced down at those whitening hands with disdain. Quietly, he said, “Do you truly wish to discuss this here?”

  Thomas looked around wildly. His lips curled downward, and he released Crispin. He stomped toward the stairs and hissed over his shoulder, “Come with me!”

  Crispin straightened his cloak and with as much dignity as he could muster, followed the man up to his room.

  It was spare but in better order than his own back on the Shambles. The fire was larger, for one, and the two chairs both had high backs and arms. Thomas paced, running his hand over his beard. “What did he say?”

  Crispin edged toward the fire and stood before it. “He said … he said you were charged with cowardice and desertion. Did you desert?”

  There was a long silence, broken only by the faint sound of a whimper. Crispin grimaced. God’s blood! Could Geoffrey possibly be right?

  Thomas felt around for the chair, grabbed it, and pooled into it. His shoulders sank, head drooping. “So now you know. My disgrace. You can’t begin to imagine, Crispin. You can’t know … I think … I think it was the noise of it. The cries of the men and the clash of steel. My heart thumped so hard I feared it would bolt from my chest. And never would it rest during the heat of battle and even afterwards. Christ Jesus help me! I … I tried, Crispin. I tried to ignore it, thinking it merely a momentary befuddlement. But when it would not abate, even in our pavilions at night, I truly feared for my sanity. Even the sound of marching men, of armor clattering around me, caused my skin to crawl. I … just couldn’t take it any longer.” He raised his face and long silvery trails of tears marred his cheeks. “Crispin, you know me. I was never a coward. Could I have been bewitched?”

  Crispin stared. He’d never seen the like. This man was the most courageous he had ever known. What could it be other than witchcraft to have turned him to this sniveling coward before him. He swallowed his revulsion.

  “I know nothing of such things, Thomas. But Chaucer is looking for you.”

  The man looked afraid. “You didn’t tell him where I am, did you?”

  “No. I held my tongue. Is he here to defend you, as he said?”

  “Yes, I suppose.”

  Crispin couldn’t stand it anymore and kicked at a basket of kindling, sending it tumbling over. “I don’t understand this, Thomas! You have served Lancaster almost as long as I have. How could you desert him? How could you ever leave the field without consent?”

  “I know, I know. Trouble me not, Crispin. I have flogged myself enough over it.”

  “Not enough, obviously.” He took a deep, calming breath. “What are you up against?”

  “What am I up against? Death, of course. They will condemn me to die for my sins. And I cannot blame them.”
/>
  “And you can just sit there—”

  “No!” He jolted to his feet. “No. I came to England to that damned armorer to save myself. I’d be invincible. I would not lose and in so arming myself, I would not f-fear to face an opponent on the lists.”

  “Trial by combat?”

  “Most likely.”

  This was damnable. “You must face it sooner than later.”

  “I know. Find that relic, Crispin, and I can.”

  “I can only hold off Chaucer for so long.”

  He offered a weak smile, the first Crispin had seen on him. “You are a good friend.”

  “I made an oath to you. I do not forswear myself lightly.”

  Thomas studied him. “No. Not even when they put you on trial for treason. There is not a shred of cowardice in you, Crispin Guest. You can be proud of that.”

  “Yes, well. That was a long time ago.” He shuffled uncomfortably before settling in front of the fire again. “Can you tell me anything of Richard’s chancellor?”

  Thomas seemed bewildered by the question. “Suffolk? What has he to do with me?”

  “I wondered.”

  Thomas shook his head. “There is nothing. Lancaster used to speak well of him but lately he only says the name ‘Suffolk’ in disparaging tones. And so I keep my association with him at a minimum. But this is foolish talk. There is nothing to discuss but the relic. Find it, Crispin.”

  “It would help to know what the hell it is!”

  The knight shook his head and turned away toward the fire. “You should go.”

  “Thomas … I … it would truly help me to know. Can’t you give me some sort of … hint? Why keep it such a secret?”

  “A soldier. A proper soldier would have such a thing. Such a great thing.” His eyes were on Crispin again, gazes locked. “No one else must know. But you’ll find it. God help me if you do not.”

  Crispin stared at the man for several heartbeats, willing him to capitulate. He said he didn’t quite trust Crispin. Why? What was this relic that caused such distrust? But Thomas was adamant. He had turned away, dismissing him, and Crispin supposed that was that. Exasperated, Crispin muttered, “God keep you, then,” and strode quickly toward the door. He is the only one who shall.