Jeri Westerson - Cup of Blood

Crispin breathed again, unaware he had held his breath. “That was John of Gaunt, duke of Lancaster.”

“Jesus mercy,” whispered Jack and becrossed himself.

Crispin did not move except to shake his head. “It was a mistake to come here.”

“But you have to question de Marcherne, do you not?”

“To what end? I cannot arrest him. He could easily escape to France before the sheriff ever decides to make his writ. Wynchecombe already has his murderer, remember?”

“Then what are you going to do?”

His body felt numb, his limbs limp. “I do not know.” Curse his impetuosity! It had been a proud choice to return to court. He believed that if he summoned the courage to do this, then nothing, not even the cold reality of Rosamunde’s broken chastity, could crack him. But he was wrong. This was too insurmountable.

The Tracker . He snorted. He could not even find his own dignity. He thought he did find a portion of it through feats with the lower classes, but all of it was mummery.

The palace walls closed in on him, trapping him in the illusion of the freedom he mistakenly thought he possessed.

“Crispin Guest?”

Crispin spun and stared at a young page. His fears gathered about him again. “Yes?”

“His grace the duke wishes to speak with you.”

Crispin felt his skin go cold. “With me?”

“Yes. Follow me.”

Crispin looked once at Jack before he lifted his deadened feet to trail the page. Jack followed a little further behind.

They entered a small door to an anteroom where Lancaster sat on a sumptuous chair.

“Your servant can wait outside,” said Lancaster.

Jack seemed only too happy to oblige and he bowed to the duke very low and once more to Crispin before exiting.

Warm. Familiar. Crispin recalled gazing at this room’s rich tapestries many a time, losing himself in the adventures depicted on their clever panels. He and his fellow squires and knights used to warm themselves by that same fire, sharing cups of wine and speaking of deep things that only men who had shared the experience of war could discuss.

Being Lancaster’s protégé, Crispin had been allowed in the next chamber, Lancaster’s bedroom. Pleased to serve as Lancaster’s personal varlet, Crispin’s training began with these menial tasks for his lord. He had cut his meat at dinner and he had served him cups of wine. They never seemed like lowly chores then, for he loved the man who raised him, knighted him, trained him, and took him on his campaigns.

Yet now, Crispin stood before him like the menial he had become. He kept silent knowing he no longer had the right to speak freely.

Lancaster studied him. “It has been a long time, Crispin,” he said at last.

Crispin tried to smile but could not recall how. “Yes, your grace. A very long time.”

“I did not know of your return to court.”

Crispin tapped his scabbard with nervous fingers. “I have not exactly been brought back, your grace.”

“Oh?” Lancaster’s gaze began its slow travel over Crispin’s shoddy clothes, lighting last on his left hip, the place where his sword should have been. “Well,” he said, seeming not to know just what to reply. “You look well, at any rate. A bit thin, perhaps. What do you do with yourself?”

Never had Crispin felt so aware of his lack of a sword, as if he were standing naked before Lancaster. “I solve puzzles, your grace,” he managed to say. “I recover stolen goods, bring criminals to justice, right wrongs.”

“Right wrongs, eh?” Lancaster’s lips curved into an ironic smile. “If not for yourself than for others, is that it?”

“Perhaps it is a penance, your grace.”

Lancaster ticked his head. “I have missed you, Crispin. But I have also been extremely angry with you. And disappointed.”

Crispin shut his eyes. “I know, your grace. I say again, I apologize. And I do thank you for speaking for me, for asking the king to spare my life. I was never able to convey that. I was ushered away so quickly, and then…”

Lancaster nodded and stared at the floor. “Yes. Well. I am surprised you are in London. I would have thought…”

Crispin raised his head. “There was truly nowhere else to go.”

Lancaster nodded. “Just so.”

Crispin wondered if he should say more. Lancaster looked old suddenly, and very tired. When Richard took the throne at the tender age of ten, a council had been appointed to rule until he came of age, and Lancaster ruled that council. For all intents and purposes, he was the power of the throne. In the end, Crispin’s traitorous efforts toward that resolution had been premature.

Being outside the sphere of court, Crispin had been unable to determine if Lancaster had any further influence on his nephew and charge. But now, at sixteen, King Richard showed himself to be the petulant autocrat Crispin feared he would become, even though he was not at full majority. Like his doomed great grandfather Edward II, Richard kept close too many favorites who were given too many privileges and too much access. Crispin believed if this continued into Richard’s majority, the king’s fate might follow that of his unfortunate ancestor.

“What is your business here, Crispin?”

“Strange business, your grace. I am investigating a murder.”

Lancaster raised a brow in a familiar way. It eased Crispin somewhat to think that Lancaster might find something in him to be proud of again.

“You work with the sheriff, then? I had not heard this.”

“Not exactly, your grace. I am a free agent but the sheriff does call upon me from time to time.”

Lancaster mulled this while examining Crispin’s shabby clothes. “You have a retainer. That boy.”

Crispin smiled. “Yes. He won’t seem to take ‘no’ for an answer.”

“Who is he? An apprentice investigator?”

Crispin’s smile fell. “No. A cutpurse.”

“What?”

“Reformed.”

“I see. This is the manner of men you traffic with?”

“It is now.”

Lancaster acceded with a nod. “I take it there is someone here you wish to interview about this murder.”

“Yes, your grace. It is somewhat thorny.”

“It isn’t the king, is it?” His voice carried a familiar sardonic lilt.

“No.” Crispin smiled. “It is only the French dignitary, Guillaume de Marcherne.”

“‘Only’, eh? Crispin, can I trust you in this?”

“With my life, your grace. I owe it to you at any rate. I need only talk with him. But, in truth, it would help a great deal if I could examine his rooms without his presence.”

“Crispin, Crispin.” Lancaster rose and walked across the Saracen rug before the hearth. He stood just as Crispin remembered: strong, straight, tall. His posture reminded him of those days on the battlefield and especially after, when Lancaster walked amongst his men and toasted them with a shared cup of ale.

The hearth flames were kind to his aging features, and Crispin could almost transport himself back to those lost days when he grew to maturity under this man’s shadow. Strange, he thought, that a man only ten years his senior could seem so much older and wiser.

“What are you thinking, Crispin?” he said in his mentor’s voice. “Are you trying to get yourself hanged?”

“No, my lord. Far from it. But I must know more of this man. There are some facts I know already, but I must be certain if they are true. He is a master of lies.”

“What is your plan?”

With an awkward smile, Crispin shrugged. “I have no plan.”

Lancaster shook his head with disdain. “After all these years, still hot-headed as ever. Do you recall nothing of my lessons? I told you to curb these impulses or you will get yourself killed.”