Jeri Westerson - Blood Lance

Thomas slammed the door and stared at it, breathing hard before his shoulders sagged again. He scrubbed at his face. “I never meant to do that.”

Crispin glanced once at Jack cringing against the wall. “For God’s sake, Thomas! What ails you? I have never seen you behave so. What has happened to you?”

He bobbed his head in what Crispin took for a nod. “Very well. I … I must tell you, then. I must.”

Sir Thomas lowered to a stool, clutching his hands together over his thighs. Crispin made a gesture to Jack which the boy miraculously understood, and he fetched ale from a jug and poured it into a metal goblet he found on the floor. He handed it to Crispin and Crispin handed it to Thomas.

The man didn’t even look at it before he drank, swallowing with long rolls of his throat and spilling some down his cheek and whiskered chin. He wiped at it with his hand and heaved a sigh.

“You were right. I was in Spain. With the duke’s army.”

Crispin watched him. His fingers traced over the florid patterns etched into the goblet until he let his hand drop between his legs. The cup was empty and he swung it dazedly from his fingers.

“You should sit, too. God’s eyes, I’m sorry for my words, Crispin.”

Crispin waited a moment before he grasped another stool overturned on the floor, set it upright, and sat. One hand rested on the hilt of his dagger.

“And so. I was with Lancaster’s army. Of course I was! I am a knight of the realm, am I not? All the valiant knights have marched to war in Spain. All of us.” His sneer was hidden by the lifted goblet, but he seemed surprised to find it empty.

Jack scrambled forward and poured more in. Thomas smiled at him briefly.

“This your boy?”

“This is Jack Tucker, my apprentice.”

“Apprentice? Oh, for this tracking you do. Very good, very good.” He took a long quaff and smacked his lips.

Crispin was losing patience. “Thomas, you said you’d explain…”

“Yes.” He would not look at Crispin. In fact his gaze would not rest anywhere. “We were in Spain. There were some skirmishes when we disembarked at the harbor. We hacked our way forward and Spaniards dropped before us, the dirty dogs. We were barely scratched.”

A tremor began in the man’s hands and he cast the goblet aside. It skidded across the floor and slammed into a discarded sabaton. He gripped his hand to hide the tremor. The muscles at his jaw tightened. “They fell like threshing in our path. And at one point, I found myself in the thick of it, unhorsed, and surrounded. But I acquitted myself well. Many Spaniards fell from my sword, I assure you.”

“I’m certain they did. I remember well fighting alongside you, Thomas. I look back on those days fondly.”

“I, too,” he said quietly. “But those were long-ago days.” He jolted to his feet so suddenly Crispin startled back. He paced, kicking up the fallen ashes. “I … was sent back to England. There was something I needed to do. And while I was here, I came to this armorer. I paid a great deal of money for something special that would make me unbeatable in battle and on the lists. I paid that whoreson a king’s ransom for this object and now you tell me he is dead ?” He kicked a piece of armor-a besague-and watched it spin away. “I need that object!”

He whipped around so quickly his surcote spun around his legs before settling. “Crispin. You must find it. You are this Tracker. Surely you can find this for me.” His face suddenly brightened. “I’ll hire you!”

God’s blood. When it rains it pours. “Thomas…”

“No. This is perfect. You can find it for me. Perhaps it is here? But no. He would not have left it here in the open.”

“Well, what is it, for God’s sake?”

His hollowed eyes drooped. “A relic.”

Crispin’s gut twisted. “A relic, you say. What sort of relic?”

“A relic suitable for a knight. Find it, Crispin. I’ll pay you.” Thomas fumbled at his scrip, untying laces, and plunged his hand within. He drew out a pouch and began counting out coins. “How much? What is your fee?”

Fisting a flush of humiliation, Crispin leaned forward, closing his hand over Thomas’s. “Hold, Sir Thomas. Let us first discuss that which you would have me find. Then we can discuss fees.”

“There’s no time. Here. Take it!”

Crispin had no choice but to catch the falling coins. Far too many.

“It’s too much, Thomas.”

“I don’t care. Take it and find that relic. Promise me you will. Swear to me.”

“You must tell me what it is and I shall.”

“What difference does it make? It is a relic, suitable for a knight.”

“How can I even begin to look for it if I don’t know what it is?”

“You’ll know it when you see it, I assure you.” He jolted to his feet. Though his movements were still hasty, he seemed much calmer. “I have faith in you, Crispin. Swear to me. I will believe your oath.”

He shook his head. “Thomas…”

“Crispin.”

Sighing, he nodded. “Very well, Thomas. I so swear. As you looked out for me so I shall look out for you. But-”

“Good! When you discover something, meet me at the Falconer’s Inn on Knightrider Street. I am taking accommodations there.”

“Thomas.” Crispin strode with him to the door. “I need more than that to do you justice. Why can you not tell me?”

“I’ve told you what I could. Grey explained what it was, what it looked like. But I don’t see anything like it here now.”

“Thomas! I must insist.”

He shook his head. “I cannot say. I can only trust you so much, Crispin. I fear … if you know all, you might … but no.” His eyes were a glittering pool of confusion. “If anyone can find it, it will be you. In two days, come to me at the Falconer.”

“But Thomas-” Too late. The man was gone. Crispin followed him outside, watched him mount. He turned once, waving gravely at Crispin, before he kicked in his spurs and galloped his beast toward London.

He felt Jack come up beside him. “How, by God’s breath, are we to find a relic where we have no inkling of what it is?”

Crispin sighed, coughed, and sighed again. “I was wondering that myself.”

They returned to the Shambles with a full pouch but also with lots of questions. When Jack had stoked the fire and did his best to brew some Flemish broth, Crispin settled in his bed, boots and belt discarded on the floor, and his cloak and blanket wrapped about him. His back lay against the cold plaster and he drowsily watched the single candle flame flickering from its dish on the table.

“This is a puzzle right enough,” muttered Jack. He stirred the eggs into the broth with a wooden spoon and allowed it to bubble into thickness. He stuck a finger in to see if it was hot enough. Satisfied, he sucked his finger, took the pot off the trivet, and poured the broth into a bowl in which he had crumbled some old bread. He put the wooden spoon in the bowl and handed it to Crispin. “There you are, sir. That will have you feeling your old self in no time.”

“Much thanks, Jack.” He dipped the spoon in the bowl and brought up the soggy bread, slurping it into his mouth. The heat soothed his aching throat and sinuses, and he sat back against the wall with a sigh, eyes closed. He brought the steaming bowl close to his face and inhaled as best he could, scooping the liquid and sops into his mouth with the spoon. He ate until the bowl was empty. Jack offered him more, but he declined and set the bowl aside, closing his eyes.

The mattress settled beside him and he cracked open an eye to spy Jack making himself comfortable on Crispin’s bed. He sat cross-legged facing him. “So the problems, as I see it,” he began, “are threefold. One, there is the matter of Roger Grey’s murderer.” He stuck up a thumb and counted them down on his fingers. “And two, the matter of the stolen rent money, though I doubt we shall be able to find so obscure a culprit. A pouch of coins is such a wayward thing-”