Blood Lance (12 page)

“Yet the relic might also be sold?”

He looked at her steadily. “Perhaps. We have yet to determine the nature of this thief.”

“Why won’t your friend tell you what it is?”

“I do not know. Perhaps because he does not trust me. He seems to be overly … cautious.” Crispin fingered a gauntlet before setting it aside.

“You seem troubled,” she said quietly, tossing her head to look up at him. Her hair was in twin looped plaits wound over her ears. A short veil just covered them. Her eyes were kind but in them he could see her own troubles. How long had Master Coterel been without a wife? How long had Anabel had to shoulder the burdens of a household where a father was enamored of drink? And now their funds were stolen and her betrothed was dead.

“I have had … distractions. It is nothing important.”

“Distractions, yes. I think that there are a great deal of distractions plaguing us all. Do you know what I did yesterday after you left? I went to the home of Roger’s apprentices. When they heard the news that their sons were missing, they wailed in fright. It was a sore thing.” She lowered her head and clasped her arms under her cloak as if cold. “The sheriffs arrived not long thereafter and I slipped away. How can this evil be, Master Crispin? How could there be such suffering in the world?”

“I have no answer for you. It is best asked of a priest.”

“Yes. But I was not anxious to talk to a priest. Instead, I went about the bridge, talking to my neighbors, trying to ascertain if anyone had heard anything. The haberdasher, though a kind man, is deaf as a post.”

“Yes,” said Crispin. “I have already made his acquaintance.”

“Oh? Well, I further inquired and there had been men hereabouts that were unknown on the bridge, though our craftsmen do cater to those in London’s many parishes.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“The presence of a triad of knights was repeated more than once.”

“Three knights?”

“Yes. Not particularly identifiable except for one. He was blond and sported a scar just here.” She motioned from the top of her left eye down to her chin. “This was news to me. And though I am not well versed as you are in this sort of inquiry, I did find it … interesting.” She smiled, briefly. “I see why a clever man could immerse himself in such a vocation.”

He was still caught by that flash of smile before he shook her gaze loose. He cleared his throat. “Yes. Well.”

“You investigate by asking questions, by using your wits, by observation. I would help you in this. I find the prospect of doing so … intriguing.”

He leaned toward her but Jack insinuated himself between them, scowling at them both. “So what does that mean, then, eh? Three knights? The man was an armorer, after all.”

She glared at him. “So, too, did I speculate. When I questioned the bridge folk they cast their eyes downward. They would not look at me. When I probed further, they became agitated.”

“Interesting,” said Crispin, easing the boy back. “How many did you query?”

“Five told me of seeing these knights.”

“Wait! I recall them, too,” said Jack eagerly. “The night the armorer died. Three knights together.”

“I would help you if I may,” she said. “Investigating as you do … it is invigorating to the blood.”

Crispin shrugged. He supposed that was one reason he liked his vocation. He wasn’t burdened by the whims of a master or at what hour of the day he could do his task. It was almost the same sort of freedom he had enjoyed as a lord. Without the benefits.

“Master Crispin don’t need no help, especially from the likes of you.” Jack had moved forward again. He postured before her, standing with his back to Crispin.

What is that boy on about?
If he didn’t know better …

“He’s already got an apprentice,” Jack sneered.

Crispin burst out with a laugh. “By the Rood, Jack. You’re jealous.”

“What? I never! I’m not jealous. W-what would make you say such a thing, Master?”

Crispin slapped the boy on the shoulder. “Jealous! Of Mistress Coterel. Jack.” He shook his head.

The boy’s face flushed. He frowned and curled his hands into fists. “I’m not!”

“Now Jack,” said Crispin, chuckling at the boy’s deepening frown. “You do not have to worry. Your position is safe, I assure you.”

Jack pushed away from Crispin and stomped toward the door. With a sigh, Crispin went after him. “Jack…”

“I’ll show you who’s an apprentice and who is not,” he muttered.

“Jack, stop that this instant.”

Jack pulled at the front door but it would not budge. He flushed even more when he realized the door had been nailed shut. He cast about and reached for the window shutters. Remarkably, the sheriffs’ men had neglected to secure them. Jack threw them open and climbed onto the sill.

“Jack! Stop this foolishness.”

The lad looked at his master once more and with a scowl jumped to the ground. When Crispin reached the window the boy was already halfway down the bridge. “God’s blood,” he swore under his breath. God save him from moody apprentices!

“He’s a hotheaded lad,” Anabel remarked, suddenly standing beside him.

“Yes. And disobedient. I suppose I should have beaten some sense into him more often.”

“He’s growing into a man. He does not know his own mind. All he knows is that he is different and that you see him differently.”

How did she get so wise? “Have you a brother?”

“No, but I have seen many an apprentice and journeyman. Boys are all the same, whether they are fourteen or two score.” That gamine smile again. Crispin wasn’t as charmed this time. He shuffled and looked about the room again.

“I seem to be shy an assistant. And I wanted to question the bridge folk.”

“Come with me, then. I will be your assistant. I want to. Besides, they may not talk to you. I do not know the way of it in other parishes, but those on the bridge seem especially closemouthed to strangers.”

“Have you lived here all your life?”

“Yes.” She began to climb over the sill, but with a huff of exasperation, Crispin lent her a hand. He closed the shutters once he climbed through. Shoppers were staring at them but he ignored it. “I was born on the bridge,” Anabel went on. “My mother, too.”

“Where is your mother?”

“Died. Three years ago. That’s when Father began to drink.”

“Forgive me, damosel, but you seem to have a blithe manner when it comes to your family’s troubles … and to death.”

“Do I?” She tilted her face up toward his. A bit of sun caught the curve of her cheek and kissed it with a blush. “I have always been a practical woman. One cannot wallow in sadness. We haven’t the luxury.”

“But your betrothed was killed only yestereve.”

“What’s done is done.”

They walked, Crispin following her. They talked to various shopkeepers and apprentices and it was as Anabel said: Some had made mention of three knights who kept to themselves. Three knights were sometimes seen near the armorer’s shop.

Anabel’s arms pumped as she walked. Her hands were clenched into fists and she kicked her skirts with each bold stride. Crispin caught a glimpse of blue stockings again, thinking only of the pale thighs above them. She swiveled her head once to make sure he was still behind her. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes seemed to glitter with the challenge ahead. It made him wonder all the more about Roger Grey and what manner of man he was. And what of these schemes he was involved in? The relic, certainly. He did not know how much Thomas had paid the man, but it sounded like a great deal. Enough to purchase a house somewhere off the bridge? Did he aspire so? Anabel did not think so but she was more and more a puzzle to him.

He glanced her way again. She was close-lipped on the matter, at any rate. Was it any of his business?
You’ve become quite the spy, Crispin, meddling in matters that are beside the point.
Still, he was finding of late that a woman of Anabel’s status was becoming more interesting to him. No doubt it started with Philippa Walcote—but he must not think of her. No! No more.

Anabel Coterel. She had secrets, too. How women liked their secrets.

He looked up into the sky. Church bells began ringing for Vespers and indeed, the bleary sun was setting over the city beyond the bridge. Shadows stretched, lengthening across his path. He escorted her back home.

“It is late … Anabel. I will continue tomorrow.” He bowed and turned away, but stopped. He bounced on his heels for a moment before reluctantly turning back to her. “You did fine work today. I appreciate the help.”

She curtseyed to him and brought up an unexpectedly mischievous smile. “You had best find your apprentice, Master Crispin. For I fear he was not pleased with you today.”

With a blush, he realized he hadn’t given Jack a thought the whole time. He gave a sheepish grin. “Perhaps I had better.” He bowed again and left her.

As he strode toward the gate, he wanted to look back but had no wish to make a fool of himself.
Only a hairsbreadth, Crispin,
he admonished,
between a fool and a martyr.

*   *   *

JACK TUCKER WAS NEITHER
at home on the Shambles nor in any of the usual places Crispin was likely to find him. “Damn that boy.” He rubbed his chin, feeling the sharp scratch of stubble. He could wait or he could go to the Boar’s Tusk.

He glanced at the wine jug on the back sill and knew it was low. “Boar’s Tusk it is.”

11

THE NIGHT DREW ON
later and later and the candle before him got shorter and shorter, and somewhat blurrier as the wine filled him. Someone slid next to him on the bench and Crispin sluggishly shifted his gaze.

Gilbert looked back at him, his face questioning as usual, his disapproval thick.

“Gilbert, I sense you are about to admonish me.” His tongue felt thick and unmanageable. A proper drunk had set in and he liked the feel of it. It was better than the feeling of that damned head cold. “Why don’t we pass over this part since I already well know what you are going to say?”

“That you’re drunk and you should go home? What makes you think I was going to say that?” He slid a horn beaker into view and took Crispin’s jug, pouring himself a dose. He took a drink and smacked his lips.

“Because you always do. Because I always am. Drunk, that is.”

“Why so intemperate today, Crispin? Is it that knight you spoke of, your friend?”

He shrugged. It threw him off balance and he had to grab the table to keep from falling backward off the bench. “Maybe. Maybe not. I’ve encountered plenty of former acquaintances.”

“And each time, you drink.” He saluted with his cup and drank.

“Why shouldn’t I?” Crispin grumbled. “Every one of them is doing far better than I. And little wonder. They have moved on, taken that one step higher on the ladder rung while I wallow where I have been for the last nine years.”

“Now Crispin.” Gilbert laid an arm on the table and leaned on it. Wine moistened his beard. “That is not true, and you well know it. You did not start on the Shambles as the Tracker. You earned that title and much admiration since.”

“Amongst shopkeepers,” he sneered.

Gilbert elbowed him hard, eliciting a grunt. “
And
tavern keepers, you wretch. You never rejoice in your achievements, you only compare your failings to those above you. Those of our rank—yours now, too, mind you—never do that. Why should we? We will only achieve so much. But a good day’s work and food in our belly is a satisfying thing, Crispin.” He shook his head and drank again. He eased the cup down, placing it on the table. “You have an apprentice now. A new cotehardie.” He brushed his hand over Crispin’s crimson sleeve. “And coins on your person for a change. Things are looking up, are they not?” He took another drink and rubbed his bearded chin. “You and I must not continue to have this conversation. I’d much rather talk to you of festive things, of cheerful things.”

“Cheerful things.” Crispin made an unsteady perusal of his friend’s face, a round and generally merry countenance. Gilbert Langton was a man with much. He had a loving wife in Eleanor and they owned this tavern. And though it wasn’t as proud an establishment as some others of its ilk, it was a good and affable place. Their greatest sorrow was in not having children. He knew this vexed them sorely, for what were they to do in old age? Who would care for them? Strangely, Crispin never thought of that for himself. He had assumed a long time ago that he would eventually lose his edge and get involved in one too many altercations. It would take only once to let his guard down and a dagger blade could easily slip between his ribs. Yes, he knew how his days would end. And yet, this did not frighten him or darken his mood. It was not the future that vexed him but his past. He could not let it go. Never would he.

He drank again. His sleeve caught the dribble down his chin. “Gilbert, you are ever my conscience in this. You are always right. And yet I find myself here time and again.”

“I’ll bring you some food. How about a nice roasted coney, eh? Ned has an extra one on the spit. I’ll bring that and share it with you.”

He nodded sloppily. “Yes. That would content me.”

Gilbert climbed out of the bench and straightened his coat. “Where’s that rascal of yours, Jack Tucker? Shouldn’t he be here taking you home?”

“I was wondering that myself. It seems he rushed off in a jealous fit.”

Gilbert paused by the table. “Eh? Young Jack? Jealous of what?”

Crispin smiled, remembering. “I was with a client who showed exceptional perception when it came to investigating. Jack got it into his wooden head that she was taking his place.”

“She?”

Crispin drew patterns on the table with the spilled wine. “She. A beauteous maid. Well, perhaps not so much a maid.”

Gilbert sat again. “Older?”

He smirked. “Not older. Merely … experienced. At least that is my impression.”

Gilbert tsked and shook his head. “You need the company of decent women, Crispin. How will you ever find a woman to wife?”

“I’m not looking for a wife. I’ve told you that.”

“So many have slipped through your fingers, women of worth.”