Jeri Westerson - Cup of Blood

“Thank you, kind damosel!” He saluted with the warm loaf and ran.

As he ran he put the loaf to his face, feeling its warmth and inhaling its sweet aroma. He couldn’t resist taking a bite and it was just that much Heaven.

He stopped under an eave and leaned against the wall and slowly ate a small portion. The fact that it was fresh was a novelty. He certainly was used to rougher, older fare. This was a treat to be prized. And yet. His thoughts fell again to Will and he pulled the crusty bread away from his lips. He tucked it into his tunic, where the bread kept him warm, and he trotted on, back toward Gutter Lane and to find Will.

The early warmth from the sun had faded behind a sheath of clouds and he yanked his muddied cloak across his chest, warding off the cold wind. He hadn’t thought beyond giving Will the small remnant. He didn’t dare think what he could do for the lad, for he had no home to go to himself. But God’s grace would surely show him the way as He had done many times before-he had no doubt of that-and so he hurried, turning the corner and heading directly for the small alcove where he had left his friend the night before.

Will was there, hunched over in the damp shadows, his head lying on his chest.

Jack dropped to his knees in front of him and touched the good leg. “Will, look who it is, but Jack Tucker. And lo! I’ve brought a feast.” He withdrew the bread and brandished it, a smile curling his lips.

But Will didn’t move. “Oi, Will,” he said again, shaking the boy’s shoulder. The head lolled back and Jack yelled and fell back on his bum. Will’s eyes were open but they were dry and clouded.

“Oh, no.” Jack sat and stared. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen corpses before. He had, many times. But they hadn’t been anyone he had known.

Slowly, he reached forward and touched the cold cheek. Nothing moved. Not an eyelash. Not a flicker of breath. Eyes and mouth dry, Will didn’t know pain or hunger or even loneliness any longer.

It was Will who had helped him on the streets when Jack had run away from a master who hadn’t wanted him. Though the man had, at least, spent the coin to bury Jack’s mother, who had also been his servant. But it was Will who taught him to cut a purse, taught him which man to target and which to stay away from. Will was the master of it. And though they had often gone their separate ways, they always managed to find one another again, either at the alms door of a church, or at crowded gatherings outside ale houses, or watching processions. Without ever exchanging a word, they’d catch each other’s eye in the crowd and begin to coordinate their thievery, and meet up later, sharing a bowl of wine or ale, and laugh and laugh.

Will was unstoppable, bright, wary, invincible, immortal! But maybe…not as much as Jack had thought.

He sat in the mud, staring. His throat was thick and hot, but he had no more tears. Will wouldn’t have wanted them in any case. Jack becrossed himself and sent up a silent prayer.

After a long moment, he picked himself up and stood, staring down at his friend, but aware that people would soon be on the streets. “I know you will forgive me,” he whispered, “but I cannot be seen with you. Besides, what do you care? You’re with God now.” And despite what he thought before, tears did streak their way down his dirty cheeks.

After another long moment, he finally turned and walked away, stuffing the bread back into his tunic and dragging his feet. He choked on a prayer. Fear, caught up with other innumerable emotions, left him confused and mute.

He looked back only once and shivered. Death stalked so close. Too close. He had been only too lucky himself. If that Tracker hadn’t said and that apothecary hadn’t cured him, he was loath to consider what would have happened to him.

His steps were lighter as he thought about it. Gratitude surged within again. “And a prayer for Crispin Guest, too, I reckon,” he muttered. “If he hadn’t have caught me, I’d be a dead man now.”

Turning the corner, he smacked right into the sheriff’s men. Disoriented for only a moment, he jerked back when one of the men pointed at him and said, “It’s him. Grab him!”

Jack took no time at all to pivot on his heel and took off running.

He was young and full of verve, but the sheriff’s men had a task set to them and they stayed close behind.

Jack knew the city like no one else. No nobleman, no shopkeeper, knew it like he did. He scrambled down a narrow close and skidded low through an open arched window. He slid down and hit the straw-laden floor of the storeroom and kept running. Up the stairs and behind him, he heard them struggling to squeeze through the tiny window.

He threw open the door and looked around. The abandoned storeroom often served as a dry place for him and others, and was strewn about with broken barrels, shattered pottery, and blackened floors where vagrants like him had dared to make small fires for warmth. He dashed for the front door, pulled it open, and fell into the arms of more of the sheriff’s men. Fingers closed over his arms, yanking him one way while another man yanked him the other.

“Mercy! You’ll pull me apart!”

“Don’t think it hasn’t crossed my mind to do just that,” growled one of the men in a mail hood. He gave Jack’s arm a particularly hard pull, one that nearly dislocated Jack’s shoulder. “Be still or I’ll wrench every limb from your body.”

Jack stilled and sagged. It wasn’t his day. “What’s this about, Master? I haven’t the strength to fight you, so I’d like to know at least what you think I’d done.”

The men who had finally gotten through the window of the storehouse met them at the door.

“What you’ve done?” said the mail-coifed man. “Listen to him.” He gestured toward the men and they surrounded Jack with shadowed faces and dark intent. “What you’ve done? I’m arresting you in the name of the king and the Lord Sheriff. For murder.”

Newgate prison stood high above London’s streets, flaunting its gray stone walls to the encroaching sun like an armored knight challenging all-comers.

Crispin sauntered behind the nervous page all through the district’s streets. From time to time the boy looked back at him, pleading with desperate eyes for him to hurry.

Crispin couldn’t help but look back over his own shoulder, wondering if the man in the robe was following somewhere behind.

They arrived at the gates and the high walls. It was late morning and Crispin had yet to properly sleep, eat, or shave and now it seemed the day wore the possibility of being a long one.

The messenger took Crispin up the familiar wooden stairway and through an arched door. The aroma of roasted meat clung to the room and when Crispin turned he saw the capon and a haunch of pork steaming on a platter. Nestled beside it sat a round loaf of white bread on a board and a wooden bowl heaped with glistening yellow butter. The sheriff poured himself a cup of wine from a jug.

“My lord,” said Crispin with an abbreviated bow.

“Crispin. Since you were a witness to this business, I thought you might be interested in its conclusion.” He quaffed the entire contents of the silver cup before he reached across the table for the bread. He tore a hunk, swathed it with butter, and shoved into his mouth. A shower of crumbs speckled his chest.

Crispin shut his eyes. He wasn’t certain if his belly rumbled more from hunger or intemperance.

“Are you hungry?” Wynchecombe asked, mouth full. “Have some. Here. Have some wine.” He poured Crispin a goblet and slid it across the table. Without a word Crispin took it, but before he touched the rim to his lips, Wynchecombe raised his cup and said, “To the king.”