Jeri Westerson - Cup of Blood

London, 1384

Cold. His fingers were cold. Digging them into his tunic sleeves did little good, as ragged and as full of holes as they were.

Jack Tucker lifted his face to the wet sky. Droplets pelted his numbed cheeks, but he barely felt them. Yanking his hood lower over his face, he scanned the street. So few were abroad now, what with the rain and the dim moonlight peeking beyond the tall buildings and shops. The bells in the nearby churches were tolling compline and soon the Watch would be roaming the streets, looking for stragglers like him.

“Jack.” It was almost a growl but it was only because it came out a gravelly whisper. He turned, looking for the maker of the sound and found him in the doorway of an abandoned shop. Jack’s eyes widened as he slowly approached.

The face of the young man looked far older than his fourteen or fifteen years, and Jack swallowed, looking him over. “What you doing there, Will?”

Will made a movement that might have been a shrug. “Spare a coin for your old friend?”

Jack approached and then saw the leg. It was twisted and the scant stocking covering it was torn and damp from sores and running pus. He gasped and then looked again into Will’s face. Will was the smartest lad he knew, taught him some of his trade in purse-cutting. Now his bright eyes were dull and shadowed. Jack’s gaze fell again to the sour leg, the leg that was slowly killing him.

“What happened, man?”

Will’s mouth curved up in a slight smile. “Rat bit me. I think. So here I now sit.”

Running a hand over the back of his neck, Jack crouched low. He couldn’t stop staring at the leg and the horror of it. “By the saints, Will. How could a small bite do that to you? You were as hearty and hale as me.”

But now that he was closer, Jack noted the sallow and sweat-damp cheeks and how sunken-in they were.

He’d been saving the hard crust of bread in his pouch for later. The last time he’d had a bite to eat was that morning and he well knew the dreadful hollow feeling. But without another thought, he threw open the flap of the scrip at his belt and withdrew the crust, handing it to Will. “Here, Will. Take it. And this, too.” His fingers lighted on a coin-the only one he had-and gave it over.

“Ah, look at you, Jack,” he said, closing his fingers on the bounty. “That’s right charitable of you, my lad.”

Still crouching, Jack rocked back. He said nothing as Will nibbled on the crust, tumbling crumbs onto his breast. He’d seen it before, many times. The pallid complexion, the slow movements, the deadened eyes. Will hadn’t long. And with a jolt to his heart, he knew it could easily have been him, dying alone in an abandoned doorway.

He snapped to his feet.

“I…I have to go.”

Will nodded. Yes, he knew. Knew that boys like the two of them saw death regularly on the streets of London. Saw it, skirted it, said their prayers, and moved on. Jack’s charity was a small kindness that would not last. But Jack vowed that if he could get a purse or two this night, he’d come back and share it with Will, bring him something warm to drink maybe.

“I have to go,” he said again.

Will merely closed his eyes and laid his head back against the doorpost. The hand holding the bread drooped over his chest.

Swallowing hard, Jack rose and trotted away. He becrossed himself and looked back, but saw only shadows. He would return, he vowed, though his guts churned from the thought of that leg, of Death hovering so closely. The fear of it kept him moving.

A boy on the streets courted Death, at least that’s what Will used to say. Courted her, bowed to her, but you were to always keep your distance. A clever young lad could avoid her grasping hands. But not always, they had both noted silently when they’d seen boys floating face down in the Thames, or broken in an alley from a man who hadn’t liked getting his purse cut.

He turned a corner, just another corner like any other in London. He looked back once, and then only ahead.

Shopkeepers urged their young sons and apprentices with a gentle nudge to their shoulders, heading indoors. Some of the boys were little older than Jack.

An ale stake rose out of the gloom and then the sound of a pipe filtered onto the muddy lane from the shuttered window. A tavern. That meant warmth and perhaps a purse or two to cut. The painted sign was of a spiraled horn. Tusk, maybe?

“God be praised,” he muttered, blowing on his fingers. Had to bring life back into them if he was to do a proper job of it.

Gingerly, he pushed open the heavy oaken door and glanced about the dim room. So few men. There was one slumped over the table. His arms were crossed before him and he was surrounded by many bowls of wine. He sat next to a slumping man, a servant likely, from the badge on his arm.

Looking across the room through the haze of smoke, he saw another asleep by the fire. And yet another man at another table, barely able to sit up as he swayed, staring morosely into his horn beaker. A piper played in a corner, and it appeared that the tavern keeper was himself asleep, leaning back against the wall on his three-legged stool.

Jack raised his face to the heavens and smiled. Ah, blessed saints. You are looking out for a poor thief like me .

If he could cut the drunken men’s purses and make off, he’d eat tonight. If he was able to find a baker with his shop still open and buy a day-old pie, something with some meat in it, that would fill his belly. That would be worth it. And he could share it with Will, who could use a few hours with a friendly face.

Yes. He’d get in and get out. No need to linger. Though the warmth on his cheeks was particularly inviting.

He slipped past the door and made his way carefully toward the hearth. He couldn’t help himself and stood before it, warming his face and hands. He almost groaned from the wonderful heat. But he knew he had a job to do.

Turning to the first man asleep near him, he crept closer. The man’s rust-colored cotehardie looked as threadbare as Jack’s own tunic, with a few missing buttons on his sleeve and shiny at the elbows where the material-good wool, he noticed-was nearly worn through. His black hair hung long over his face, hiding his features, and the man’s fingers, curled on the table, were dirty and calloused. He wondered what manner of work the man did, but only briefly. He didn’t truly care. Only that the man’s purse had at least some silver in it, though by the looks of him, he likely didn’t have much.

Jack glanced once more back toward the snoring tavern keeper, and drew his small knife. The piper played on and never seemed to notice what Jack was about.

Jack listened intently to his victim, to his slow and even breathing in and out, followed by an occasional snore. Sidling closer, he looked over the man’s shoulder. His dark cloak hid his purse, but if Jack was careful, he could move it out of the way, cut the purse strings, and move on to the next man.

Kneeling behind him, still listening, Jack gently pushed the heavy, damp cloak aside. It smelled strongly of smoke and wet wool. He moved it only enough to reveal the dangling black, leather purse. Jack knew his knife was sharp. He kept it that way by necessity. What thief would keep a dull blade? He needed it as much for his work as for protection. Holding his breath, he eased the knife forward.

The deep breathing changed, shortened. Jack froze. Had he awakened the drunkard? After a long tense moment, the man’s breathing resumed in a lengthy, slow exhale and Jack didn’t hesitate to snip the leather ties. The pouch landed neatly into his other palm and he immediately slipped it down into his tunic neck until it rested warm and snug next to his body.