Jeri Westerson - Cup of Blood

Wynchecombe snorted and turned his back. “Go home. If I need you further, I know where to find you.”

Crispin gathered his sluggish body and rose, made a cursory bow that Wynchecombe did not notice, and dragged himself from the tavern.

He groaned again, squinting at the eastern sky visible now as a bluish-gray wash behind the dark silhouette of rooftops and spires. The morning hung in the air as cold and as damp as last night’s laundry. He put up his hood and wrapped his worn cloak over his chest to protect his chapped fingers. His empty belly complained, but he did not feel well enough to eat, even if there was bread or cheese in his larder. There might be the dregs of wine still left in his jug at home, and that thought sustained him while he leapt the puddles and trudged down gray-edged alleys.

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.”