Blood Lance (21 page)

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COLD WATER ON HIS
face and in his mouth. He struggled to the surface, imagining he was drowning. But he was not underwater.

He opened his eyes and saw a vague light cast by an upper window to the stinking alley below. He was kneeling in the mud and furiously trying to recall how he got there when the boot sunk into his gut. Doubling over, he dry heaved, gasping for air at the same time.

Well, he certainly expected this, just maybe not so soon.

He curled in on himself, trying to protect his gut, when a kick to his side sent him rolling over.

Have to gain my feet.
Being on the ground was a distinct disadvantage. He rolled again and hands grasped him, lifting until he was slammed against a wall.

He cracked open his eyes and saw their dark shapes. Three of them. The blond one was closest. His foul breath puffed into his face.

“No stable this time, Sir Osbert?”

The man hesitated. “How do you know my … Oh, the girl.”

“Are you going to ask
me
where the Spear is, too?”

He pushed his fist into Crispin’s neck, grasping his coat collar and grinding his knuckles into his skin. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

“I don’t know. I was rather hoping you did.”

Backhanded. He bit the inside of his cheek, even though he had prepared for it. Dammit. A rush of blood filled his mouth and he spit it in the direction of the man’s surcote.

Sir Osbert looked down at the red blotch on his chest. “Whoreson.” He grabbed Crispin’s hair and slammed his head against the wall.

Stars flickered behind his eyelids. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to stop,” he grunted.

He got a fist in his gut for an answer, which sent him down again. His knees hit the mud.

“I thought … you had … the box,” Crispin gasped.

Osbert chuckled above him. “It was as empty as your head, apparently. I told you, Guest, you were in over your head. I’m telling you now to forget you ever heard of the Spear.”

He coughed and pried open an eye. The other two knights still stood in the shadows, while Osbert smacked his fist into his palm, mouth twisted into a leer.

“Forget the Spear? You must be jesting.”

Osbert planted his beefy hands on his thighs and bent over to stare into Crispin’s face. “Do I look like I’m jesting?”

Crispin inhaled a shaky breath. “Indeed not. But once I am commissioned to do a job I rarely surrender it.”

“You’ll surrender like you’re told. Though, mark me, I’d rather continue to thrash you.”

“I got that impression.” Crispin rubbed his sore belly. “Perchance, may I ask why I am being told to disregard my oaths?”

“You’re not good at obeying orders, are you?”

“Orders by whom, my lord? You see, I find it difficult to obey random requests by men who snatch women off the streets for nefarious purposes.”

He laughed. “Listen to you. ‘Nefarious purposes.’ As I said, you don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Then instruct me, my lord. Tell me why I must forswear myself.”

“You still think yourself a knight, Guest?”

“True. But just because I am no longer a knight does not mean I am without honor.”

They all laughed at that and Crispin scowled. “A traitor?” Osbert chuckled, including his men in the jest. “An honorable traitor! Fantastic, your arrogance.”

“Nevertheless. You haven’t yet offered me a good reason to abandon my search for the Spear.”

Osbert frowned. “Because I’m telling you. That should be good enough for the likes of you!”

Crispin shrugged. “Alas.”

With a grimace, Osbert cocked his leg back, ready to deliver another blow, but as it swung forward, Crispin caught it by the sole and shoved the foot upward, hurling the knight onto his backside. The others froze for a heartbeat before they descended on him, feet and fists thrashing.

Ducking his head, Crispin punched and rolled, trying to avoid fists and delivering as many blows as he could curled like a hedgehog. In the end, two against one—and then Osbert joined in—proved too much.

They stepped back, panting and huffing clouds of breath into the night. Crispin landed against the wall. He slid down until he sat with his back to it. His head swam and the shadowy men became that much more obscure.

Osbert jutted a finger at him. “Do what you are told, Guest. Or next time we won’t stop with such a friendly request.”

Friendly?
Exhausted, sore, Crispin slumped. “One thing more, my lords.”

The men were already walking away when they stopped and glared at him in amazement. “You want more, Guest?”

“Merely an answer to a burning question. Did you kill Roger Grey and his apprentices?”

Osbert’s face changed only slightly. He licked his lips and his chest rumbled with a malevolent chuckle. “If I were you, Guest, I’d keep my mouth firmly shut. Or it will be shut for you.”

“Apprentices, my lord? Young boys? I cannot abide a killer of children. I will not rest until I bring such a foul creature to justice.”

Osbert sneered and spat. He leaned down again. “I welcome the chance to have at you again, Guest. I truly welcome it.” He turned on his heel and the others followed.

But suddenly they stopped. Through the haze of his blurry vision, Crispin saw three men blocking their escape.

“Buena tarde, mis señores,”
said a deep voice, and then the sound of a sword drawn.

Crispin tried to sit up but his head was too woozy. Osbert and his men drew their swords and six blades suddenly clashed, ringing like church bells in the narrow alley. A shimmer of moonlight breaking through the clouds slipped over the blades in flashes and in a momentary lapse, Crispin grabbed for his own sword and cursed when he remembered that there was none.

No one spoke but each knight found his own opponent. As if by a secret signal, they all began at the same time.

The fight scattered the muddy puddles, kicking up soaring splashes caught by moonlight. Steel clanked against steel, followed by grunts and gasps. Blades slapped shoulders and fists found jaws.

Right above Crispin, two men fought. Their moonlit faces snarled and one had his arms clasped in a bear hug around the other. Crispin could not tell who was which until the one on the right gasped out a string of what Crispin thought might be curses, only they were in a foreign tongue. The English knight suddenly pushed him away and cocked back an arm to strike with his fist, but his opponent ducked and used his shoulder to shove him into a wall. The English knight gasped out a whoosh of air and dropped his sword. He seemed to recover quickly and nimbly drew his dagger in time to deflect the down-rushing sword blade.

Crispin struggled to rise, to help, but sank down again. In the haziness of his thoughts, he suddenly came to the disturbing acknowledgment that the men who came to the alley to fight Osbert’s men were Spanish. He did not know whether he should help them or Osbert.

Osbert came into view again, swinging his sword up at a Spaniard. The foreigner laughed and knocked his sword aside, but then he lost his own when Osbert kicked up with his boot. Their combat devolved into a fistfight. Osbert took a blow to his mouth and despite not knowing who to cheer for, Crispin felt a sense of triumph as blood spattered the knight’s chin.

Turning to watch the others, Crispin saw only shadows and silhouettes slashing with blades or punching torsos.

With a grunt, Osbert fell and skidded toward Crispin. Once more Crispin tried to rise but his dizziness would not allow it. Moonlight showered around the combatants when the clouds parted and it was enough to show clearly the blazon on Osbert’s right sleeve. Blue with a stripe of yellow and three yellow panther heads.

Osbert dived for his lost sword and closed a bloodied fist around the hilt. He jumped to his feet and shouted to his men.

By now, citizens were leaning out of their windows and yelling down to them. Some were even throwing objects. One emptied his chamber pot. The falling contents spattered Osbert’s shoulder and the stench filled the narrow space. He looked up to the window, raised his fist, and cursed the man, who closed his shutter smartly on the scene.

Looking hastily about at the other swordsmen, Osbert gathered his fellows, and with a few more wide strokes of his blade, he turned tail and ran with them out of the alley.

All fell silent. Even the citizens at their windows finally withdrew and shut them. Only the Spaniards remained. Crispin could hear their labored breaths but he could see only their silhouettes against the alley’s opening. They came closer but still their faces were lost to shadows. The moon seemed to have deserted the scene again.

Crispin braced for a blow. He’d been bracing for something similar for years. He just didn’t like the idea of being cut down in a stinking alley in the mud. He turned his face upward, willing to meet it head on. There was not even a prayer passing his lips. He steadied his gaze on the one closest, who seemed to be leaning down to peer at him.

Slowly, one by one, each man sheathed his blade.

“¿Está usted bien, Señor Guest?”

“What? I don’t understand you.”

“Forgive me,” said the man in a heavy Spanish accent. “I asked if you were well.” He held out his hand to him.

“Well enough.” He did not take the offered hand, and it was a moment longer before the man realized that Crispin would not.

He drew back and huffed a sigh. “By my Lady, but you are a stubborn man. Very well. We will leave you to it. But I would take that
perro
’s advice. Stay out of it. Let the others play their game,
señor.
It is too dangerous for you.”

“And who the hell are you? Spies?”

The man looked back at the others. One of them made a signal and he nodded. “We must go,
señor.
Try to stay out of trouble.
Dios esté con usted.
” He bowed and then they all turned and flew from the alley, leaving nothing but echoes in their wake.

Crispin leaned against the wall and pushed himself up to his feet. He stood shakily for another few heartbeats before testing his legs on their own.

Well. Now there were a few more problems. These Spaniards seemed to be multiplying. He feared their plots were being hatched in England while Lancaster was away.

But worse. Crispin had recognized the blazon on Osbert’s arm. He should have been more shocked that those arms on the shoulder of the knight were that of Michael de la Pole, earl of Suffolk.

16

JACK LET OUT AN
oath when he beheld Crispin’s face. “Why does this always happen to you?”

The boy was exasperated, but beneath it, Crispin could see his worry. He shuffled to a chair and sat, his head falling back. Jack scurried to fetch cloths and poured the icy water from their bucket into a basin. While Jack ministered to him with the cold wet cloths to ease the swelling, Crispin recounted what had happened.

Jack dabbed gently at Crispin’s bruised chin with a folded rag. “Spaniards! And the earl of Suffolk. That’s who Chaucer met that first time you followed him.”

“Yes, Jack.” He pushed the cloth aside and felt his face with cautious fingertips. A little swollen around his left eye and at the right side of his jawline, but no permanent damage. His belly and lower back were sore but there were no broken ribs, praise God.

“Why does the Chancellor of England want the Spear, sir?”

“Why wouldn’t he? His days are numbered. He somehow got wind of the Spear’s existence and sent his henchmen to do the dirty work.”

“Do you think they killed Roger Grey?”

“Unquestionably.”

Jack walked across the room to fetch the wine jug and poured some of the amber liquid into a bowl. “And what about them Spanish dogs, sir? What did they want?” He handed Crispin the bowl.

Crispin drank deeply, thirstily. He licked his lips and set the bowl aside. Jack made to refill it but Crispin waved him off. “It seemed that they only wanted to rescue me. And warn me, of course. I seem always to be warned to ‘stay out of it’ when it is far too late.”

“Rescue you? Are they not England’s enemies?”

“Not exactly. Not when Lancaster vies for the Spanish throne.”

“Are you sure you didn’t … imagine it? I mean, sir,” he retreated, fending off a scowl from Crispin, “you were knocked about quite a bit.”

“I know what I saw. He spoke to me. And he knew me.”

“Bless you, sir. Doesn’t that frighten you?”

“Now that you mention it, yes.”

They sat in silence. Jack sat on the stool and rustled about, finding a comfortable spot on the small seat. “I’m just glad they left you alone.”

“Likewise. But what of this other matter? The matter of the killer knights?”

“Aye,” said Jack. “I wondered, Master, why they’d bother to steal the Coterels’ rent money. Why not just kill them? Or for that matter, why did they need to bother with them at all?”

“I don’t know, Jack. Something is amiss here. Was it
those
men who hired Lenny? I can’t imagine it.”

“Was that bastard Lenny lying to you, sir?”

“That is certainly a possibility, but I doubt it. I gave him only a small dose of what I just got. He is not a brave man.”

“What do we do now, Master Crispin? If those men killed Roger Grey and
they
do not have the Spear, then where is it? Them Spaniards?”

Crispin sighed. “Why would they bother to warn me off? No, I have come to the uncomfortable conclusion that I should attempt to talk to the Lord Chancellor.”

Jack stepped back, a cloth hanging limply from his hand. “Of England?”

“Yes. All roads seem to lead to him.” With a grunt, Crispin gained his feet.

“But Master! You can’t go to court.”

“I know that!” He shuffled to the bed and sat. He bent over and started to unbuckle his boot. Jack dropped to his knees and pushed Crispin’s hands away. Lying back on his elbows and allowing Jack to do it, Crispin contemplated the rafters. “But I must. Tomorrow. After I sleep. God’s blood, but I’m weary!”

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WEARY OR NO, CRISPIN’S
sleep was disturbed more than once that night by dreams of enduring a thrashing. It didn’t help that his jaw and gut ached from the real beating he’d received.