Jeri Westerson - Blood Lance

“Oh.” She nodded and moved back into the room. “I thank you for that. It was a kindness and most brave.”

“I was not looking for compliments. What do you know about the man? What could make him so melancholy?”

She raised her chin. “Roger was a quiet man. Who can tell what lies deep in a man’s heart?”

“What was his vocation?”

“He was an armorer. He made fine armor for many knights of the court.”

“Any idea who’d want to kill him? Did he lack for funds? Was he over his head in debts?”

“No. He was well situated with no debts, praise God. Yet he took his own life.” Teeth tugging at her lower lip, she shook her head. Those plump lips pressed together, and her dark eyes studied him silently.

His betrothed, was she? She seemed not so much distraught but distracted. What else was here?

A shiver wracked his body and he pulled the blanket tighter. “I’m no good to anyone in this state,” he grumbled, snuffling. “I’ll be back in the morning after a change of clothes and a good night’s sleep. At least what’s left of it.” He rose and Jack walked with him to the door. The dead man was at last loaded into a cart and slowly wheeled toward the bridge’s gate. The crowd still lingered and Crispin gave it one more sweep when he saw a familiar face.

He strode toward the man. Wide-eyed and frightened, he ducked back into the crowd. Crispin dove after him.

“Master?” cried Jack.

“It’s Lenny. You go that way. I’ll head him off at the gate.”

Crispin ran, satisfied that Jack would cut off Lenny’s escape toward the Southwark side. Wherever that man appeared, no good ever came of it. And to be so near a murdered man? Well, he couldn’t quite believe it of the old thief, but one never knew. The man was getting bolder since Crispin had made a solemn promise not to turn him in for his sins. He was regretting that offer daily.

His soaking clothes did not help the pursuit. The cold, the heaviness of it, seemed to drag him down, but he pushed his way through the crowd and searched the shadows for signs of the misshapen thief.

The moon, though not as high as before, slipped past the protection of clouds for only a moment, revealing the lean path along the bridge, only some twelve feet wide. It was framed on either side by encroaching shopfronts and houses. There! A shadow streaked across the face of a darkened tavern and disappeared again when the moon hid beneath its sheath of cloud.

Crispin could see nothing but he followed his instincts and felt the heavy footfalls ahead. Lenny was guilty of something, else he would have remained to take whatever bribe he could get from Crispin. Even as he ran heavy-limbed in pursuit, Crispin was loath to discover what the thief had done this time.

The pursuit led inevitably to the gate, shut up tight at night and only opened to collect tolls in the daytime. But because the sheriffs and the coroner had passed through, it had remained opened. A single guard at the portcullis watched from the shadowing arch as the cart with the dead man creaked through. Crispin saw the guard get shoved by a dark figure before righting himself and brandishing his spear. The guard took a few steps past the gate but stopped, head swiveling from side to side.

Too late. Damn the man!

Crispin reached the gate and gulped in a breath before addressing the wary guard. “Did you see which way he went?” gasped Crispin.

The guard, a stumpy-nosed fellow, stared at Crispin with mouth agape. “Who?”

“The man who pushed you aside.”

“Him? A demon must have taken him, for he flew like the wind. That way, toward Thames Street.”

Crispin rushed forward only to stand still at the end of the bridge, listening. He could hear no steps over the rattling of the dead man’s cart. Damn Lenny! “I’ll catch up with you yet, you scoundrel.”

He shivered again and looked back over his shoulder toward the bridge and the lighted square windows of its shops. He’d make everything right in the morning. The coroner would see eventually. Jack would make his way home, Crispin had no doubt of that. And if he didn’t get home himself in short order he might freeze to death on the street. He remembered his encounter with the Watch and what might come of it and he did not relish dealing with that. But home called and he trotted along the lane, trying to keep warm. It was still a long way back to the Shambles and to a dry bed.

Almost half an hour passed before Crispin reached the steps to his now dark lodgings above a tinker’s shop. He climbed the outer stairs, each step becoming harder than the last. He fumbled for his key, hands frozen into claws, and managed to open his door. It wasn’t much warmer than the street, but the coals were banked nicely under the ashes in the hearth. He took a poker and jammed it in, throwing on another square of peat to urge the fire into meager warmth. He dropped the borrowed blanket to his feet and unbuttoned his icy cotehardie with stiff fingers. Peeling it away from his shoulders he dumped it, too, on the floor with a splat. The shirt was next, then boots, braies, and stockings. Standing naked before the fire, he wrung out his soggy garments into a pail of wash water before arranging them as best he could before the smoky hearth. He scrubbed his skin with the discarded blanket until his pale arms and legs pinked and then he wrapped himself in it again, rubbing his damp hair as well.

He turned at the sound of the door opening, and Jack entered, shaking out his cloak before he hung it on a peg by the door. “Did you catch him?” the boy asked.

“No. But I will. He ran, Jack. That can’t mean anything good.”

The lad stood beside him, stretching his reddened hands toward the weak flames. Crispin turned his head and Jack did, too. Eye to eye they looked at each other, and Crispin had a chance to peruse the boy’s clothing. He was lanky, all elbows and knees like a newborn colt. The young plumpness of boyhood had left his face, replaced with defined cheekbones and a sturdy chin with only a few spots competing with the freckles. “God’s blood, Tucker. You’ve grown out of another coat. Just look at those arms.”

Jack glanced down to his wrists, jutting a good handspan from the cuffs of his sleeves. “I can’t help it, sir. The good Lord wants me to be tall, I reckon.”

“And so you are. You will be taller than me in a fortnight, I’ll wager. Fourteen are you now, Jack?”

“Aye, sir.” He seemed to be wearing Crispin’s crooked smile. “I’m a man, right enough.”

“Not yet,” said Crispin softly. “Take some coins from my purse-wherever it is you’ve hidden it-and get yourself some new clothes. Not too dear, mind.”

Jack’s freckled face blushed and his eyes drifted toward the flames. “I can get by with what I have, Master.”

“Nonsense.” He glanced pointedly at the hem of the boy’s coat creeping up his stocking-clad thighs. “You are about to embarrass yourself.”

Jack tugged down the hem that barely covered his braies but to no avail. “Well…”

“Just take the coin, Jack. I owe you back wages as it is. Take that, too.”

Unbuttoning his coat, Jack pulled the money pouch free and opened it up. He whistled at it. “You did make a goodly sum.”

“Yes, and we both know it won’t last, so take your share now.”

Jack hesitated before he upended the pouch into his hand. He squinted at the sums and counted carefully and slowly before returning six coins back into the pouch and handing it to Crispin. Crispin tossed it carelessly on the table and turned around, rubbing his backside before the fire.

Jack moved away from the hearth to fetch the wine jug from the back windowsill, poured some into a pan, and placed it over the trivet in the fire, crouching beside it. He grinned up at Crispin, chuckling. “You jumped into the Thames.”