Jeri Westerson - Blood Lance

Crispin glanced back. With the discarded sword too far away, the blade currently pointed at him would have to do.

The man began a chopping stroke toward Crispin’s head, but Crispin ducked under the blade and elbowed the man’s sword arm up, blocking the stroke. Using the curve of his shoulder to upend him, Crispin forcefully rolled him into the poleax man. Together, they tumbled to the ground in a heap, swearing and grunting.

Now there was time to scramble for the other discarded blade … but it was no longer discarded. The third man had recovered and with sword held high, advanced.

Crispin pulled his knife and caught the blade’s downward descent with the cross guard of his dagger. With brute strength he forced the sword up and away.

Taken by surprise, the man left himself open. Crispin sneezed suddenly into his face and they both froze. Smiling apologetically, Crispin said, “Sorry,” and then punched his fist squarely into the man’s nose.

Down he went just as the others behind him had gained their feet.

I’m getting too old for this . Crispin huffed a rattling breath and spun, clamping his armpit over the swordsman’s arm. Using that leverage, he launched his leg outward and kicked the poleax man in the chest. He went down. By Crispin’s reckoning, he would not be up again.

Still clutching the swordsman with one hand, Crispin’s other fist found the man’s face, and with a sickening crunch and a gush of blood, he knew that man, too, was down.

The other swordsman, spitting blood, uneasily climbed to his knees when Crispin swung out, delivering his boot to the man’s head. So much for him.

Panting, he felt the hot blood that had kept him fighting slowly drain away. Crispin surveyed the carnage with aches and pains slowly creeping upon him, including a bruised jaw from when his face had hit the ground. The men at his feet groaned and writhed but made no move to rise. He sheathed his knife, shook out his dagger hand, and slowly straightened. Wincing as pain shot through his shoulders, he grabbed his arm. His foot hurt from kicking and all his muscles rebelled.

Definitely not in fighting form. He groaned.

He leaned over, trying to catch his breath. He’d still have to make a run for it should they recover sooner than expected. Of course they knew where he lived so he’d still most likely have to spend the night in the sheriffs’ company, but if he was very lucky and very clever, he might yet escape a fine.

He raised his head, ready to flee. Then he saw it. The moon spread the clouds and shone a bright face, shining dazzling silver over London Bridge and the Thames below. And just when the moon was at its brightest, a man-clearly a man from all his spread limbs-fell out of an upper-story window from one of the bridge’s houses and plummeted into the depths of the Thames.

Crispin hesitated only a heartbeat before sprinting for the shore. “Alarm!” he yelled. “Alarm!” He slid down the stony embankment, pebbles flying in all directions. He stumbled and rolled, then righted himself and made it to the water’s edge. The tide was out, and the muddy shoreline stretched wide in both directions.

He caught the movement of shutters opening but had no time to ponder it. He leaped and plunged headlong into the icy water.

Dark water closed over him. Crispin’s scream was swallowed by the cold river. His head breached the surface, and he whipped his wet, black hair out of his eyes. It stuck to the side of his head as he swam forward, eyes searching the waves for the man.

“I’m here!” Crispin cried. “Where are you?”

Each rise and lowering of waves deceived, but Crispin recalled the trajectory of the man as he arced toward the water. He followed his instincts and swam toward the second pier with its wide pointed barrage. The water was so cold around him and the air so icy against his skin, he could no longer feel his own limbs, but he swam on. Vaguely, he heard more shutters opening, and shouts. He searched desperately for a flailing man, for surely he would be trying to save himself.

Ahead, a clump of seaweed lolled against the barrier but as Crispin neared he knew it was not seaweed. He swam quickly and grabbed the man, turning him over, but the face he saw was not that of an unconscious man. The eyes were wide open and the mouth full of water. He would not draw breath again.

A rope hit the water beside him and he looked up at lanterns being lowered over the side as he bobbed in the shadows under the bridge. Men were shouting at him to take the rope. With numbed fingers he tied it around the man and then looped the rest around himself and let them haul both of them up.

They rose heavily from the water. The Thames seemed reluctant to surrender them, but cascades of river water fell away as they rose slowly into the night. Crispin shivered uncontrollably now, wondering if he hadn’t drowned, too. He tried to grip the rope to keep himself from spinning, but his hands were more like claws than fingers and he could not grip it. He hung like a sack, the rope clenching his chest uncomfortably, while within the embrace of the dead man.

Higher they went, the wind tracing frosty fingers over his cheeks and raking through his hair like icicles. The bright stars in the black night sky spun as he drew nearer to them.

Finally, hands took hold of him, lifted, dragged. Like some big fish, he was deposited onto the bridge and untied from his grim burden. Someone wrapped him in a blanket and he dug his face deeply into the rough wool, cheeks burning from cold. Someone else thrust a beaker of hot wine under his nose. He took it gratefully and with shaking hands, pressed it to his lips and swallowed, not caring that the hot libation seared his tongue and throat. It invigorated, and he was able to sit up without help and finally take in his surroundings.

He was on the bridge surrounded by the bridge dwellers. Men were scrambling. Some carried cressets and others proffered jugs and beakers of ale. The dead man was laid out on the ground and someone had covered him with a sheet.

“What happened?” people were asking him.

“I saw him,” Crispin said, teeth chattering. He pointed to the strand. “I was there when I saw him fall from a window into the water. I went in after him.”

“Poor Master Grey,” said someone over his shoulder. He turned and the man looked down on Crispin kindly. “That was a gallant deed, sir. But all for naught.”

“I was in the water so quickly,” he protested. “I should have gotten to him in time.”

“Do not blame yourself, sir. No one could have saved Master Grey. He was doomed before he hit the water.”

Crispin held the steaming wine to his lips to warm them. “What is your meaning?”

“Bless me, but he said he was leaving London. Could any of us have guessed it was this way?”

“No, it was an accident, surely. I saw him fall.”

“Alas, good sir. Would that it were true. But some men are weak and allow demons into their hearts.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Indeed, sir, I am.” His voice dropped to a whisper and he angled close to Crispin’s ear. “I fear that he has taken his own life.”

Crispin was helped into a nearby shop and bundled before a fire. He knew he would never be warm again until he could get home to strip off his wet clothes, but he also knew he had to await the sheriffs. And now, surely, the Watch would be after him, too. Well, one problem at a time.

The sound of spurred boots clanged against the steps and Crispin braced himself. He turned, just as Sheriff William Staundon stepped over the threshold followed by his associate, Sheriff William More.

“By God’s Holy Name,” said Staundon. “Master Guest, what is here?”