Jeri Westerson - Cup of Blood

He smiled and gently withdrew, becrossing himself with quiet thanks to the Almighty. The man slept on and he quickly turned his attention to the other, the one surrounded by wine bowls. Jack licked his lips. The wine was tempting. He was thirsty, truth be told, and now seemed a good time to snatch a bit of spirits.

He moved away from the man by the warm hearth and crossed to that far table with its two occupants, one a hooded servant in dark blue livery with a broach pinned to his breast, and the other asleep, his face lying in the nest of his arms. At that moment, the first of the two, the servant, snapped from the bench as if his seat were afire. It was an easy thing for Jack to stumble into him and he fell into Jack’s accommodating arms. The pouch wasn’t within reach but the broach was, and he snatched it from the servant’s breast and secreted it like the others.

The man stumbled away, none the wiser. Jack knew his fingers were nimble and his touch light. But a drunken man was ten times easier than a sober one, and by the time the man realized what happened, Jack would be long gone.

He knew his luck would soon run out and this last one needed to be dispatched as quickly as possible. Sliding onto the bench next to the sleeping man, he toyed with the wine bowls. There were plenty there with still the dregs of wine within, and he took up one and slurped it down. It warmed, and the tangy berry flavors filled his mouth like a gift.

He measured the man beside him with a sly look and noted a necklace in the shadows and folds of his gown. ‘Slud! he thought. Jewelry was always hard to come by and here it was, like it was being handed to him. But first and foremost, the purse. He scooted along the bench until he was right up against the man. He was dead to the world, was this one, and Jack easily snipped off his purse without his ever moving. It was just as easy to reach up and unhook the necklace and he slipped both jewelry and pouch into his tunic. And now the wine! He slid a bowl toward him, took a long drink and sighed. He would eat tonight. And now he even had his wine. Not bad for a scrap of a thief.

“Oi!”

Jack looked up at the first man by the fire, who seemed to have awakened. The man swayed, his cruel gray eyes narrowing. “Thief!” he cried, lurching to his feet.

Uh oh . Jack didn’t hesitate. He dove across the table, tipping a candle and spattering hot wax. Like a startled rabbit, he wove in and out of the tables and slipped out the door, leaving a wake of turned heads and puzzled faces.

Down the lane he ran, but God’s teeth! That man in the rust-colored cotehardie followed right after him! The sound of feet pounding behind forced him from Gutter Lane to the swell of West Cheap. The smooth road gave way to rutted mud and gray puddles.

He rounded a corner and turned, panting. A gray silhouette against the dim light of a sputtering cresset appeared in the middle of the street. The man hadn’t seen him. Jack crept forward, stealth foremost on his mind. His foot slid on the wet paving and he nearly lost his balance. He spit a loud curse and instantly realized his mistake.

The man turned. His moonlit face was a shield of stark white and dark eyes. His gaze locked on Jack bent over and wind-milling to keep his footing. The man pursued at a run, and Jack put heel to mud, zigzagging away down a crooked alley.

Jack scrambled over a low fence at the end of a long lane and dashed across a dark courtyard into the gloom and came up against a wall. It was so deeply shadowed he reckoned he could hide in the darkness until the man passed by and then he could double back. He waited, slowing his breathing, touching the pouches that jumbled against his skin under his tunic.

A low growl rumbled next to Jack’s ear. Eyes wide he turned slowly and stared into the face of a dark, shaggy mongrel. Teeth bared, it growled a bark.

Jack was on his feet in an instant, ran back through the yard, and leapt for the fence.

Out of the blackness, the man lunged and caught Jack in midair by his hood. Yanked back, he struggled and swung a fist, but the man dodged, and darted his own fist forward, landing a solid blow to Jack’s jaw. Stars exploded behind his eyes and he sagged like a rag doll. He was shoved to the ground with shoulders pinned, and his last thoughts were, Here I am in no better stead than Will .

Taut at the end of its tether, the dog barked until someone hurled a bone from a window and hit the mutt in the head. After a prolonged howl and a yip, the dog took the bone and padded away.

The man shook Jack till his senses returned.

“Harken! I have you.” Immediately, Jack began to struggle, but those hands were strong on his shoulders. “Stop it!”

As if a string were cut, Jack surrendered, flopping back. There was no way out of this. But he sent up a prayer anyway, hoping for something swift and painless. Jack shook his curly ginger hair out of his eyes and raised his chin, deciding that he wouldn’t beg. Face Death like a man, that was the idea. “Aye, m’lord,” he said, his voice a bit more strident than he liked it to be. “You got me. And for what, I’d like to know?”

The man smiled. His gray eyes fixed on Jack’s. His accent was that of a lord’s, though a shabby one. His dark hair, hanging nearly to his shoulders, was a match to those heavy brows. He had a sharp nose and a self-satisfied twist to his lips that seemed to suggest amusement, though the situation was far from amusing.

Jack’s heart hammered, but he tried to appear calm and innocent, even as the man reached into his tunic and pulled out both stolen pouches.

“For these, perhaps.”

Christ! The man had known all along. Jack knew he had awakened! “Them’s just purses I come by,” he said quietly.

“Came by them, did you? Well one of them came by way of my belt.”

“O-o-o-h! So you’re the lord what lost it.”

With knees pinning Jack’s shoulders, the man picked out his pouch from the two. Since the straps were cut, he maneuvered the flap over his belt and managed to secure it there one-handed. “As for you, what’s to be done? Turn you over to the law?”

“For what, m’lord? I done naught. I told you. I come by them purses.”

“Not afraid of the law, eh? Do you know what they do to thieves in London?”

“I’m not afraid of gaol,” he said, though his voice quivered.

“Gaol? You’d be lucky to be thrown in gaol. No, for your type of thief, the sheriff prefers to cut off that sinful hand of yours.”

Jack gasped. Hadn’t meant to. Fear closed his throat. If the man turned him in he’d be hanged for sure!

With a flourish, the man suddenly brandished his knife. “Perhaps I should do it myself.”

The brave façade fell. Terror welled up in him and he squirmed, eyes pouring forth tears. “M’lord! Have mercy. I’m just a poor lad all alone in the world! I got naught. Please, m’lord, have mercy!”

The man considered. He looked once at his blade before he shrugged and replaced it. “Then what shall we do? Go to the sheriff?”

“There’s no need to trouble him, is there, m’lord?” He sniffed and longed to wipe his dripping nose on his sleeve, but his arm was still trapped at his side by the man’s knee. “You have your property back. I would say that is all fair and done with. Wouldn’t you, m’lord?”

“Not all. There is this other pouch. And I have a mind that you should be the one to personally restore it to its owner.”

Jack grimaced. “Aw now, m’lord. He might not be as fair-minded as you are. Can’t you take it to him and be done with it?”

“Not possible. ‘First be reconciled with thy brother.’ You have sinned against your fellow man. You will take it to him yourself, or we will go to the sheriff now.” The man released him and rose.