Blood Lance: A Medieval Noir Read online

  “Master Crispin!” cried Robert Coterel. “Don’t be a fool, sir. Return to the safety of our shop.”

  Crispin held on to the half-timbering of the outer walls. The mud and plaster that swathed the wattle beneath had been worn away by the weather and by the harsh water, and there were plenty of handholds. He dug his fingers into the threaded sticks and carefully stepped to the next corbel. It didn’t take him long to reach the armorer’s window. But as he suspected, it was barred. He took his knife from its sheath and slipped it between the crease of the shutter and lifted it as high as he could. Fortunately, the bar was a handy height and he slipped it up and off. He sheathed his knife and easily pulled the shutter open. With a toe in the wattle he lifted himself up onto the sill, and dropped nimbly onto the floor.

  “No! Anabel!”

  Crispin stuck his head out to see what the tailor was yelling about and saw the woman making her way as he had done over the corbels. She had rucked up her skirts, exposing blue stockings gartered just below the knee, with a bit of pale leg visible above. “What the hell do you think you are doing?” he cried.

  She spared him one swift glance before she turned back to the wall, concentrating on where to put her hands and feet as she carefully but deftly made her way closer to him. “I will go with you,” she said breathlessly. “I want to help you find Roger’s slayer.”

  He was about to chastise her again, forbid her to come along, but she was already past the halfway point. Damn the woman! Frustrated but admiring her at the same time, he held out his hand until she was able to grab hold of it.

  He yanked her up and hauled her unsteadily over the side, depositing her none too gently onto the floor.

  He helped her up and scowled. “That was an extremely foolish thing to do.”

  She pulled her skirt into order again, hiding her legs. “Foolish for you, or foolish for me?”

  He did not answer, but turned instead to the room. At least the sheriffs’ men did not seem to have disturbed the room’s contents. “You say you searched here for the money he said he was to loan you?”

  “Below, yes, but I never made it upstairs. You arrived first.”

  “The bedroom is a likely place.”

  “True, but he was a most unusual man. He kept his strongbox down below.”

  “Do you see it anywhere here?”

  “It would be hidden.”

  “But you don’t know where.”

  She cast her gaze down for a moment. “I did not know if I could trust you before. I know where it is hidden.”

  He clenched his jaw. Women. Duplicitous at the very least. And to think he had paid her rent. “Show me.”

  She picked her way over the pieces of discarded armor, trying not to disturb them. Moving back toward the large window overlooking the Thames, she faced the wall beside it instead and stood before the only item left hanging on the wall: a small round shield, a buckler, made of leather with a shiny metal central boss. He wondered why it hadn’t been touched, but as he watched her he reasoned out why. The buckler was somehow attached to the wall in such a way as to prevent anyone from simply tearing it free. Reaching forward, her hands closed over its opposing edges and with a quick jerk, she turned it in place. A click and it swung away, revealing a small door—no bigger than a rabbit’s hole—situated in the wall. In the center of the door sat a brass lock.

  She gave Crispin a smile that made him realize why Roger Grey had cast his eye toward her. But her smile of triumph was short-lived. “I don’t have the key,” she said.

  Crispin gently nudged her aside. “We won’t need one.” He unbuttoned his coat and pulled out the lace to his chemise. He raised the long, metal point at the end of the lace along with the tip of his knife, and slipped them both into the keyhole. Closing his eyes, he manipulated them in the lock until he could feel the lock pins falling into place. The lock clicked and the door whispered open.

  She looked at him in shock. “You’re a slippery fellow, Crispin Guest.”

  He raised a brow, but said nothing. He opened the door wider, half-expecting to find the relic—whatever it might be. But the space was empty. Not even a money pouch.

  Strange. There should at least be some coins inside, for, no doubt, the man did good business and the wares were expensive.

  “Nothing.” He gauged her perplexed expression.

  Crispin headed toward the stairs. “His chamber was up here?”

  She nodded again, following him.

  “Damosel, perhaps, under the circumstances, you should stay here.”

  They both were thinking of the missing apprentices, but she raised her chin. “No. I shall go with you.”

  “Very well. But stay behind me.” Crispin drew his dagger again and carefully crept up the stairs. Once his head cleared the floor he scanned the darkened room but saw no one lurking.

  Nor any bodies. If Grey’s apprentices never showed again, he suspected that their bodies had been carried far down the river with no chance of recovery.

  He hastened up the stairs. Strangely, the room looked relatively untouched. Not sacked as the room downstairs, but there was still some disarray. The mattress was rolled back, the bedhead flipped to the side. Clothes seemed to flow from the coffer. Though they were not thrown about, someone had definitely searched through them.

  “Light a candle,” he told her, and she quickly ran to comply.

  A moment later she was back, but instead of handing the candle to him, she held it just over the floor and made a circle, examining. “No blood,” she declared.

  He stared at her anew. “Just what I was thinking.” He opened his hand to her. Reluctantly, she gave him the candle.

  A crash below.

  Crispin pushed her behind him and blew out the candle. His dagger was ready when he slowly made for the stairs. But before he could get down, a ginger head popped up.

  “Master Crispin? What, by the devil’s own bollocks, are you doing?”

  “Language, Jack. Mistress Anabel is present.”

  “Oh!” He spied Anabel in the dark, smirking at him. “Beg pardon, damosel.”

  “How did you get in?”

  “The same way you did, Master. The foolhardy way.” Jack grinned and climbed up the stairs to join them. He took the candle from Crispin’s hand and found the tinderbox. The wick fizzled and the room was framed again by the small candle’s nimbus of light. “Blind me! Aye, they were looking for something.”

  Crispin’s boot turned over a chemise lying on the floor. “The question is, did they find it?” He turned to Anabel. “Did Roger Grey tell you of a relic he had obtained for his client?”

  “You seek a relic? Roger never said anything of it to me, but he did say that he expected a windfall. That through careful plotting he would soon see great rewards.” She looked about the room, rather sadly, he thought.

  “But you say he made no mention of leaving London?”

  “He never said such to me.”

  “Mmm.” Crispin stared into the rafters. “What relic would suit a knight, I wonder? Any idea, damosel?”

  She shook her head. “A relic of St. George, perhaps?”

  “Possibly. But I know of none that would make a man invincible. Sir Thomas seemed to hold great store by it.”

  “He was your friend?” she asked.

  Crispin hesitated. It wasn’t something he wished to dwell on. “Yes. Years ago.”

  “I hope, for your sake, you find this thing he desires. But I wish to know whether you intend to find Roger’s killer.”

  She was undaunted and faced him squarely.

  “So now you believe he was murdered?” She shrugged. “I assure you, damosel, that this thief is foremost in my mind. For I believe it is he—or she,” he said with a nod toward Jack, “who killed him.”

  “For a relic? God save us all.” She becrossed herself.

  “Believe, me, damosel, I have seen worse associated with relics.”

  Jack poked through the coffer. “What else coul
d it be, Master? Blood? Hair of a saint?”

  “Sir Thomas said it was something suited to a knight. What is associated with a knight?”

  “A sword,” said Jack.

  “A helm,” said Anabel.

  Crispin sniffed his runny nose. “Let us look to the armor below.”

  They tromped down the stairs and began collecting all the loose pieces of armor. There were several breastplates, even more greaves, and various other pieces that would make up the full harness for a knight.

  Jack found a splendid spear handle of wood covered with silver that was decorated with bas-relief designs of knights on horseback. It had yet to be fitted with its sharpened point. He held it up for his master but Crispin shook his head.

  A pair of sabatons, armor for the feet, were fashioned with expertise and elegance, articulated so the foot could move easily. Crispin held them for a moment, wistful, before setting them gently aside.

  One breastplate lying on its side caught his attention. On it was incised the delicate pattern of a blazon, the arms of Thomas Saunfayl. He picked it up and ran his fingers along the raised design.

  “This would appear to belong to Sir Thomas, my friend. Did you know anything of this work?” he asked her.

  “Roger was in the business of making armor. I would not have known these arms from any other.”

  The breastplate was still shiny and was shaped so that a lance or arrow would glance easily off its planed surface. Clean lines, understated styling. Crispin would be proud to wear such a thing … were he allowed to, that is.

  “I must inform Sir Thomas that his armor, at least, is here.” He laid it carefully on the worktable.

  “If a man were to kill another to steal something he possessed,” Anabel began, taking care stacking like pieces of armor together as she had, no doubt, seen her betrothed do, “What would he do with the stolen object? Sell it? Keep it for himself?”

  Crispin examined a carved and bejeweled metal dagger sheath. “Both are possibilities. But in my experience, a coveted object like a relic is often stolen to keep.”

  “Yet the relic might also be sold?”

  He looked at her steadily. “Perhaps. We have yet to determine the nature of this thief.”

  “Why won’t your friend tell you what it is?”

  “I do not know. Perhaps because he does not trust me. He seems to be overly … cautious.” Crispin fingered a gauntlet before setting it aside.

  “You seem troubled,” she said quietly, tossing her head to look up at him. Her hair was in twin looped plaits wound over her ears. A short veil just covered them. Her eyes were kind but in them he could see her own troubles. How long had Master Coterel been without a wife? How long had Anabel had to shoulder the burdens of a household where a father was enamored of drink? And now their funds were stolen and her betrothed was dead.

  “I have had … distractions. It is nothing important.”

  “Distractions, yes. I think that there are a great deal of distractions plaguing us all. Do you know what I did yesterday after you left? I went to the home of Roger’s apprentices. When they heard the news that their sons were missing, they wailed in fright. It was a sore thing.” She lowered her head and clasped her arms under her cloak as if cold. “The sheriffs arrived not long thereafter and I slipped away. How can this evil be, Master Crispin? How could there be such suffering in the world?”

  “I have no answer for you. It is best asked of a priest.”

  “Yes. But I was not anxious to talk to a priest. Instead, I went about the bridge, talking to my neighbors, trying to ascertain if anyone had heard anything. The haberdasher, though a kind man, is deaf as a post.”

  “Yes,” said Crispin. “I have already made his acquaintance.”

  “Oh? Well, I further inquired and there had been men hereabouts that were unknown on the bridge, though our craftsmen do cater to those in London’s many parishes.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  “The presence of a triad of knights was repeated more than once.”

  “Three knights?”

  “Yes. Not particularly identifiable except for one. He was blond and sported a scar just here.” She motioned from the top of her left eye down to her chin. “This was news to me. And though I am not well versed as you are in this sort of inquiry, I did find it … interesting.” She smiled, briefly. “I see why a clever man could immerse himself in such a vocation.”

  He was still caught by that flash of smile before he shook her gaze loose. He cleared his throat. “Yes. Well.”

  “You investigate by asking questions, by using your wits, by observation. I would help you in this. I find the prospect of doing so … intriguing.”

  He leaned toward her but Jack insinuated himself between them, scowling at them both. “So what does that mean, then, eh? Three knights? The man was an armorer, after all.”

  She glared at him. “So, too, did I speculate. When I questioned the bridge folk they cast their eyes downward. They would not look at me. When I probed further, they became agitated.”

  “Interesting,” said Crispin, easing the boy back. “How many did you query?”

  “Five told me of seeing these knights.”

  “Wait! I recall them, too,” said Jack eagerly. “The night the armorer died. Three knights together.”

  “I would help you if I may,” she said. “Investigating as you do … it is invigorating to the blood.”

  Crispin shrugged. He supposed that was one reason he liked his vocation. He wasn’t burdened by the whims of a master or at what hour of the day he could do his task. It was almost the same sort of freedom he had enjoyed as a lord. Without the benefits.

  “Master Crispin don’t need no help, especially from the likes of you.” Jack had moved forward again. He postured before her, standing with his back to Crispin.

  What is that boy on about? If he didn’t know better …

  “He’s already got an apprentice,” Jack sneered.

  Crispin burst out with a laugh. “By the Rood, Jack. You’re jealous.”

  “What? I never! I’m not jealous. W-what would make you say such a thing, Master?”

  Crispin slapped the boy on the shoulder. “Jealous! Of Mistress Coterel. Jack.” He shook his head.

  The boy’s face flushed. He frowned and curled his hands into fists. “I’m not!”

  “Now Jack,” said Crispin, chuckling at the boy’s deepening frown. “You do not have to worry. Your position is safe, I assure you.”

  Jack pushed away from Crispin and stomped toward the door. With a sigh, Crispin went after him. “Jack…”

  “I’ll show you who’s an apprentice and who is not,” he muttered.

  “Jack, stop that this instant.”

  Jack pulled at the front door but it would not budge. He flushed even more when he realized the door had been nailed shut. He cast about and reached for the window shutters. Remarkably, the sheriffs’ men had neglected to secure them. Jack threw them open and climbed onto the sill.

  “Jack! Stop this foolishness.”

  The lad looked at his master once more and with a scowl jumped to the ground. When Crispin reached the window the boy was already halfway down the bridge. “God’s blood,” he swore under his breath. God save him from moody apprentices!

  “He’s a hotheaded lad,” Anabel remarked, suddenly standing beside him.

  “Yes. And disobedient. I suppose I should have beaten some sense into him more often.”

  “He’s growing into a man. He does not know his own mind. All he knows is that he is different and that you see him differently.”

  How did she get so wise? “Have you a brother?”

  “No, but I have seen many an apprentice and journeyman. Boys are all the same, whether they are fourteen or two score.” That gamine smile again. Crispin wasn’t as charmed this time. He shuffled and looked about the room again.

  “I seem to be shy an assistant. And I wanted to question the bridge folk.”

  �
�Come with me, then. I will be your assistant. I want to. Besides, they may not talk to you. I do not know the way of it in other parishes, but those on the bridge seem especially closemouthed to strangers.”

  “Have you lived here all your life?”

  “Yes.” She began to climb over the sill, but with a huff of exasperation, Crispin lent her a hand. He closed the shutters once he climbed through. Shoppers were staring at them but he ignored it. “I was born on the bridge,” Anabel went on. “My mother, too.”

  “Where is your mother?”

  “Died. Three years ago. That’s when Father began to drink.”

  “Forgive me, damosel, but you seem to have a blithe manner when it comes to your family’s troubles … and to death.”

  “Do I?” She tilted her face up toward his. A bit of sun caught the curve of her cheek and kissed it with a blush. “I have always been a practical woman. One cannot wallow in sadness. We haven’t the luxury.”

  “But your betrothed was killed only yestereve.”

  “What’s done is done.”

  They walked, Crispin following her. They talked to various shopkeepers and apprentices and it was as Anabel said: Some had made mention of three knights who kept to themselves. Three knights were sometimes seen near the armorer’s shop.

  Anabel’s arms pumped as she walked. Her hands were clenched into fists and she kicked her skirts with each bold stride. Crispin caught a glimpse of blue stockings again, thinking only of the pale thighs above them. She swiveled her head once to make sure he was still behind her. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes seemed to glitter with the challenge ahead. It made him wonder all the more about Roger Grey and what manner of man he was. And what of these schemes he was involved in? The relic, certainly. He did not know how much Thomas had paid the man, but it sounded like a great deal. Enough to purchase a house somewhere off the bridge? Did he aspire so? Anabel did not think so but she was more and more a puzzle to him.

  He glanced her way again. She was close-lipped on the matter, at any rate. Was it any of his business? You’ve become quite the spy, Crispin, meddling in matters that are beside the point. Still, he was finding of late that a woman of Anabel’s status was becoming more interesting to him. No doubt it started with Philippa Walcote—but he must not think of her. No! No more.