Jeri Westerson - Cup of Blood

Crispin resisted the urge to straighten his coat. No amount of tugging would hide its repairs. “I am here to see the dignitary from the French court; Guillaume de Marcherne.”

The guard squinted at him before glancing back to his companion. Although Crispin looked like a common tradesman his manner of speech gave them pause.

“And what would the likes of his worthy want to see you for?” asked the man-at-arms.

“I have business with him. I would send my man here to give him a message.”

The man glanced at Jack and sneered. “What? Him?”

“There now!” cried Jack. He gestured with a jerk of his thumb. “This here is Sir Crispin Guest, and you best show the proper respect for him. He has business at court.”

The man made no effort to move except to lick his lips. “So?”

Crispin tried on his haughtiest expression. “I am sending my man with a message. Now.”

But the guard dropped his hand on his sword pommel. “Take the tradesman’s entrance. Back there.” He gestured half-heartedly and turned his back.

Crispin felt his muscles tense and the urge to grab for his own sword was strong, even though no sword hung at his side.

Tight-lipped, he gestured for Jack to follow him and they walked around the palace by another arch. Men unloaded sacks from a cart and carried them in under the distracted eye of a man-at-arms. Crispin nodded for Jack to follow his lead and they each picked up a sack, hoisted it over their shoulders, and carried it inside. Once they were out of sight of the knights in the courtyard, they dropped their loads and entered a long corridor. Crispin found a wooden staircase and grabbed the railing. “Come along, Jack. Keep close.”

“Aye, Master,” he murmured, grasping Crispin’s cloak.

They reached the top of the landing and entered a wide hall. The space was as large as any nave in London’s bigger churches, spanned by huge trusses and ornate beams, all held aloft by two rows of pillars. The floor, painted in a large checkerboard of blue and white, stretched forward. Long banners hung from the far walls while the closer walls near a raised dais glittered with a colorful scene of men on horseback hunting a boar, and ladies plucking flowers. Crispin glanced at the shimmering banners and the many pallets still set up for sleeping servants, and headed across the expanse of floor. But Jack’s tugging at his cloak slowed him to a stop.

“Jack! What are you doing?”

“Sweet Jesus.” His voice seemed smaller amidst the hall’s echoes. “What is this place?”

Crispin wanted to hurry through. He did not want to be forced to look about the hall, to remember where he had sat many a time, recalling the great feasts and the fine food. He did not wish to bring to mind with whom he talked and the women with whom he danced. But Jack’s fear forced him to take stock and he made himself survey the place that had been home to him since before the time he was Jack’s age.

“It is the great hall. This is where the evening meals are served.”

Jack clutched Crispin’s cloak tight and peered around him. “Does the king eat here?” he asked, still whispering.

“Yes.” Crispin sighed and turned toward the dais. He pointed to the largest and most ornate chair situated in the center of the long plank table. “There, next to his ministers and now his wife.”

“Blind me! Did you ever sit up there?”

“Sometimes. That was in Edward III’s court. Before Richard was ever heir.”

Jack raised his eyes to the high ceiling and its ornate beams painted in stripes and diamonds. Gold leaf gleamed from carved leaves, and below them hung huge, round coronas filled with candles, none of which were now lit. The hall’s light came from large clerestory windows and flaming cressets.

The tapestries lining the walls rustled from a draft from the open passage doors. Above them hung the banners of knights and houses nearly as old as England itself. Crispin’s banner once hung there. The family name of Guest had thrown in their fortunes with Henry II, and for two hundred years counted themselves among the elite of court society.

The banner was gone. Every memory of it wiped clean from English recollection. Others stood in its place, proudly jutting upward toward the arched ceiling, like angels’ wings stretched protectively over the throne.

Jack turned a melancholy face to Crispin. His eyes were wide and moist. “By the saints. This is what you lost?”

Crispin turned away. He tried to swallow the ache in his throat. “Come along.”

Quickly they passed through the great hall to an outer chamber framed by clerestory windows. Here, oil lamps lit their way along more painted floors. Murals and tapestries enlivened the plaster walls.

A cluster of maids bustled ahead and Crispin drew back to allow them distance. Except that the maids had a familiar look about them. And one in particular.

He rushed forward, Jack trying vainly to catch up.

“Vivienne!”

She stopped and turned. Her maids stood before her protectively, especially the ones who recognized Crispin.

A small smile formed on her lips and she shook her head. “Crispin Guest. You do turn up at the most unexpected places.”

“As do you, Madam.” He bowed. Nudging Jack, the boy followed suit.

She glanced at her maids but seemed to decide she needed a shield. She did not dismiss them or move to stand before them. “I found it necessary to return to court. I made a, perhaps, too hasty departure.”

“Indeed. What brings you back so swiftly?”

“Unfinished business.”

“And yet I thought your business was finished.”

The smile on her lips now appeared painted there. “This is other business.”

Crispin glanced at the maids and then at a perplexed and defensive Jack. There was only so much he could say in front of an audience. “Then…I hope you will come to me if there is anything more I can do for you.”

She bowed her head and curtseyed. “You will be the first to know.” She turned on those words, and without looking back, proceeded up the corridor.

Crispin watched her leave with a wave of anxiety. He took a step forward, but stopped. He longed to ask her about Guillaume de Marcherne, but too many eyes and ears made that impossible. And he had been as good as dismissed. He knew in his current standing he had no authority to delay her.

“But she left London…” Jack whispered.

“Yes. She had.” He pressed a fist to his hip. “And now she is back. And I wonder now if I was right in not apprehending her. The sheriff will have my hide if I change my mind on it.”

“Then don’t change your mind,” Jack muttered under his breath.

Ahead, he heard voices and hoped it came from the pages he sought. He moved quickly and turned the corner much too fast and ran into a lordly man surrounded by a cadre of equally attired knights and squires.

Crispin blanched and stepped back. Belatedly, he bowed in apology and tried to skirt them by walking backwards, trying to escape before they recognized him, but the lordly man shot out a hand and grabbed his arm.

Crispin gasped and looked up. The man was older. The beard running along the underside of his jaw and his neatly trimmed mustache were black but graying, yet there was no mistaking that stern nose and those aggressive eyes.

He glared at Crispin for a long moment. His pale lips parted to speak, but in the end, he said nothing. He released Crispin’s arm and turned from him abruptly, striding quickly down the corridor with his entourage of knights. He never looked back, but his entourage did, with scowls and accusing expressions.

Crispin froze. Careless. Incredibly careless .

Jack waited for the men to disappear through an arched doorway before he tugged on Crispin’s cloak. “Who was that, Master?”