Jeri Westerson - Blood Lance

“Oh, nothing,” said Sheriff Staundon airily. “Nothing at all.” He gave a conspiratorial smile to Sheriff More. “But we seldom find you at your leisure, especially out of the Shambles, Master Guest. Might you be doing a share of … investigating?”

No use trying to hide it. “Just as you suspected. There is murder here.”

Their squeals of delight turned his stomach.

Staundon leaned down from the saddle. “Pray, Master Guest. Can you tell us?”

“Do you intend to inform the coroner’s jury so that justice will be served, for I could not convince Charneye even though the evidence was there.”

He exchanged a look with Sheriff More and sighed. “Alas. It is the jury that will decide if it was not an accident.”

“Even given new evidence?”

“And what new evidence is there?”

Jack had just come out of the tailor’s buttoning his coat when Crispin called him over. The boy bowed curtly to each sheriff. “Master Tucker will show you. Be so kind as to take the sheriffs into the armorer’s and explain it, Jack.”

“What? Me?”

Out of the side of his mouth Crispin said, “You’re the apprentice Tracker. Go ahead and track.”

“God blind me,” Jack murmured before turning a stern expression toward the far too jubilant sheriffs. “Right this way, my lords,” he said solemnly. “If you will follow.”

They dismounted and tied their horses to posts before gleefully following the lad into the shop.

“Bloodthirsty devils,” Crispin muttered. He took Anabel’s arm and hastily pulled her away. She made only a small noise in protest as he held fast and pulled her under the shadow of an eave. The shop had not yet opened and he pushed her against the shuttered window. “And now. I would speak plainly with you. If you would have me find your betrothed’s killer and discover who stole your money then I ask you, Is there something you are not telling me?”

She turned her face away but Crispin tightened his grip. It must have been painful, for she winced, but would not face him.

“Damosel, I know you are lying to me. About what, I am uncertain. And why.”

She bit her lower lip, causing its already rosy color to blush to red. Her wide eyes fastened on him, searching his face. There were no tears there. Only questions. Her beauty gave him pause. She was like a stone statue, skin so smooth and white. It was far too distracting. Her eyes seemed to look deeper into his, sensing his interest. “I … have nothing to tell you,” she said at last, and finally cast those eyes downward.

With a frown he released her arm. Though he knew she wanted to, she did not rub the soreness. “Very well. I can’t force you. Much as I want to.” He stepped away from her and walked in a circle before coming to a stop. “But I warn you, if either Master Tucker or I are in danger because of your reticence, there will be hell to pay.”

She raised her chin in answer. He gave up. He took the rag from his belt and blew his runny nose and coughed up a ball of phlegm, spitting it into the street. In the old days he could take to his bed with servants attending him with hot broth and warmed wine. Not now. Oh how he wished he could.

They returned to the armorer’s in time to greet the sheriffs coming out the door. They seemed impressed by Jack’s demonstration. “Well?” said Crispin without preamble. “Are you convinced?”

“Your boy here is very precise. You have taught him well, Master Guest.”

Jack’s face was almost as red as his hair.

“That wasn’t the question, my lord. Have we convinced you that murders have been committed?”

Sheriff More pinched his lip with long fingers. If they conceded the point then they would have to go to the coroner’s jury to plead the case, and it only meant more work for all of them. But there might be fines to exact where there were none before, and he knew that this was also going through their greedy little minds.

Sheriff Staundon put his arm over Sheriff More’s shoulder. “I believe there is more to think about, certainly.” Diplomatic. They were going that route to hedge their bets. He couldn’t blame them. “In the meantime…” The sheriff adjusted his coat and then his bejeweled sword hilt. “I think we should talk to the families of these apprentices. What do you plan to do now, Master Guest?”

Both sets of excited eyes were on him. For the love of … “I plan to go back to my bed and mend this illness. My lords.”

They were disappointed, damn them. He wanted nothing more than to thwart their voracious curiosity that was mostly in the way. He stood fast, doing nothing but glare at them. Finally they got the hint. He told them that Anabel could direct them to the family of the missing apprentices, and they listened to her explain it. Finally, untying their horses, they mounted and turned the beasts away. “We will do our best with the coroner, Master Guest,” said More over his shoulder. Crispin knew those were empty words. He doubted they intended to do much. They’d rather wait to see what he would do … and likely follow him around like lapdogs, frustrating his every move.

He was happy to see them ride away back toward London and little noticed anything else. “Jack, I am weary and need to rest. This illness will be the death of me.”

But before he could quit himself of Anabel Coterel and of the bridge, a knight, in surcote and greaves, dismounted near the armorer and strode into the ransacked shop before they could call out to him.

“What, by God, has happened?” they heard him cry. He came running out again, stopped on the threshold and looked right, then left … and spotted Crispin. Crispin startled upon seeing his face and the knight did likewise.

“Holy Virgin! Crispin Guest? ”

His face was windblown, lined, and tanned. He looked older than his thirty or so years. There was even gray at his temples, but he was still as trim as Crispin remembered him. His clothes were as fine, too, and his horse, a sturdy chestnut stallion. He wore his surcote over his clothes, the green and white colors bright, even with mud speckling it. And though the greaves covering his shins were mud-spattered and dented, parts of them still had a silvery gleam. It looked as if the man’s fortunes had not changed as severely as Crispin’s. And why should they have?

“Thomas,” said Crispin without thinking. When his mind caught up, he found, to his shame, that he was obliged to bow. Bow to a man who had sometimes been his equal on the lists and in battle. But a man who had not been his equal in social standing. If anything, he had been lower than Crispin. Yet now it was Crispin who bowed, and not Sir Thomas.

Sir Thomas’s face showed that he recognized the irony, too. He simply stood, staring at his onetime friend, unable to say anything for his surprise.

Jack and Anabel stood off to the side, silent.

Crispin cleared his throat. “Jack, may I present Sir Thomas Saunfayl.” Jack bowed low and remained quiet. He seemed to sense Crispin’s mood. He was good at that after three years of knowing him.

The knight made a cursory glance at Jack but fixed his eyes again on Crispin, scouring him with his gaze. Slowly he approached, lifted his arms, and grasped Crispin tightly at his shoulders. “Crispin, Crispin. My God. I thought you were dead.”

He barked a laugh, enduring the grasp. “Not dead. Not yet.”

“But…” Sir Thomas looked him over from head to foot. At least his coat was only a year old now, not the beaten and patched cotehardie he had worn for years. But his stockings had seen better days and the soles of his shoes were loose and flapping. He wore only a dagger at his side, not a sword, not as Sir Thomas sported, hanging from its frog at the stout leather belt.