Blood Lance (22 page)

Finally, at dawn, he rolled out of bed, the first to be up for a change, and knelt by the fire, rustling the flames from under the banked ashes. Jack yawned loudly from his corner straw pile. “Master Crispin? Is it morn?”

“Yes. Get up, Jack. We’re going to court.”

*   *   *

JACK GRUMBLED AND COMPLAINED
almost all the way to Westminster: He didn’t see why Crispin kept opening himself up to risks by showing himself at court; why did he need to prove something that was beyond his control; it wasn’t right to put himself in this position and threaten the harmony of their household.

Crispin had looked askance at Jack for that last one, but his apprentice had only rolled his eyes and flapped his arms in a gesture of surrender. “I don’t know how to convince you,” he said at last.

“Don’t try,” said Crispin with a scowl. “I’m doing what must be done.”

“But sir, how are you ever to get an audience with the chancellor? Hasn’t he got his own problems?”

He hated when Jack was right. Jaw tight, he said nothing.

They reached the outer ward at the gate and Crispin narrowed his eyes at the scene of marching men and servants scurrying. Mercifully, Jack kept silent while Crispin ran ideas through his head. He’d snuck in before, pretending to be a servant. Perhaps … no. Last time he had worn the livery of the duke of Lancaster and had stupidly thrown it away.

His gaze snagged on a familiar servant, bearing the king’s livery. Bill Wodecock, steward of the lower servants, was wagging a finger at a servant boy with sagging stockings. He was speaking low but sternly to the boy, who looked as if he would burst into tears at any moment.

“Master Wodecock!” he called.

The man turned. His round face squinted, brown eyes searching for the voice. When he found it, he looked none too pleased. But he sent the servant boy on and made his way to the gate, standing with fists at his hips. He was a broad fellow, almost as stout as he was tall, but Crispin had seen him hurry throughout the palace. His girth did not seem to impede his pace.

A tight cap on his head made his face all the more round and his upturned nose gave a sniff of impatience. “Master Guest,” he said quietly. He tilted his chin down in disapproval. “What is it?”

Crispin bowed. “Good sir. I find I have need to get into the palace today.”

“Have you now? And I’d like a good reason to allow it.”

“I am … tracking.”

“I know your vocation, Master Crispin. I also know your history. My head would be in a noose if I let you in.”

Pressed against the wall as close as the guards would allow, Crispin spoke quietly. “You must know it is no mere whim that brings me here. I would speak to his grace the earl of Suffolk.”

“Ha! A good one, Master Crispin. But I am not in the mood today.” He turned on his heel.

“Master Wodecock!” he hissed. But the man would not return. “Dammit!”

“You can’t blame him, Master.”

“Be still,” he growled. Hated,
hated
when Jack was right.

Crispin glanced at the guard, who had never stopped eyeing him, and pushed away from the gate with a muttered oath. De la Pole would never see him, of course, but he had to try. Even if he could somehow get a message to him … No, that was foolish. A message could be ignored and at any rate, who would take it in? Maybe he could question one of Suffolk’s servants … bah! There didn’t seem any point in staying. And yet he didn’t move.

“Master,” said Jack quietly, careful not to touch him. “Master?”

“I know.” Yet still he stood, staring at the courtyard mere steps beyond him. It might as well have been the gates of Paradise, equally closed to him. “Perhaps the kitchens, Jack. Onslow Blunt, the head cook, would allow me to—”

“You took a chance at that before. And look where it got you. You were accused of trying to kill the king.”

Barred, every way he could think of.

Behind him was the clatter of horses and he reckoned that a lord and his retinue were heading toward court. Reluctantly, he stepped out of the way, pulling Jack with him. He raised his head and saw the bright trappers and lurched in surprise. House of Lancaster? But the duke was in Spain.

On the white horse in the lead of the retinue sat a young man with a pale auburn mustache and beard. He wore the Lancastrian colors and surveyed the crowd with a faintly amused air. Until his eyes fell on Crispin.

He yanked on the reins and startled his horse, which whirled once and nearly reared. The stocky young man pulled hard on the reins again and the horse’s head curled downward. The stallion calmed enough for him to slide off the saddle.

“Your grace!” complained his companions, but he didn’t heed them as he made straight for Crispin, who sunk down on one knee.

“Crispin Guest! Good Christ! I would know you anywhere though I have not seen you in … bless me, how long now?”

Crispin felt Jack sink to the ground beside him. “I know not, your grace. Well over a decade, I imagine.”

He took Crispin’s shoulders and pulled him to his feet in remarkably strong hands. The young man shook his head slowly, searching his face with softened eyes. “Let me look at you. Crispin, Crispin.” He ticked his head at the bruises he saw. “How I’ve missed you!” Suddenly, Crispin found himself embraced by the duke of Lancaster’s son, Henry, earl of Derby.

“I’ve missed you, too,” he said gently into the familiar auburn curls.

Henry pushed him back but kept hold of his upper arms. He scanned Crispin’s bruised face. “Still getting into fights? You shouldn’t, you know. You’re getting old, Crispin.” He laughed and turned to encourage his companions to join in his humor. The others, seeming to know well who Crispin was, did not appear to have as positive a reaction as the young lord. Henry was Richard’s cousin and only a year older. Crispin wondered if they were still on as good terms as they had been as children.

“Crispin here was something of a companion when I was a child,” said Henry in explanation to his mounted friends. “He was my father’s protégé and we spent many an hour getting into trouble, didn’t we, Crispin?”

“Er … yes, my lord. Much to the duke’s chagrin.”

Henry laughed, throwing his head back. “By my Lady, I remember this one time—”

“Your grace,” said one of his knights. “Hadn’t we best get to the palace?”

Henry’s face fell. He spoke quietly to Crispin but not too quietly that the knights nearest him couldn’t hear. He kept his arm slung over Crispin’s shoulder. “He is trying to remind me how unwise it is acknowledging your presence in public so close to the palace.”

Crispin bowed his head. “It … might be best for you to take that advice, my lord.”

“Nonsense.” He looked back at the retinue of footmen and mounted household knights. “Go on, then,” he said, gesturing toward the gate. “I will be in presently.”

The knights exchanged glances. “Your grace?”

“I said go on. All will be well. I would speak with this old friend.”

The knights were reluctant to leave Derby alone but the young lord stood his ground and his face took on a glower that made him look exactly like the duke.

Finally, they moved their horses forward under the arch of the gate, glancing back as they passed through the shadows.

Henry sighed.

“They are only trying to protect you, your grace.”

“Henry, Crispin. You used to call me Henry.”

“I do not think it wise that I do so now. Under the circumstances.”

Derby scoffed and rested his gloved hand on his sword hilt. And then he noticed Jack. He smiled. “Crispin, you have a son?”

Grinning, Crispin spared a look back at the stunned servant. “No. This is my apprentice, Jack Tucker.”

Jack had the presence of mind to bow low. “Y-your grace.”

“Apprentice? Oh yes! You have that very provocative moniker, do you not? The
Tracker
!”

“Yes, my lord. It is better than some of the other names I have been called.”

Henry laughed again. “Indeed! And so. Is it a mere coincidence finding you here in Westminster, or are you performing your new vocation?”

Unaccountably embarrassed, Crispin looked down and nervously shuffled. “Well, I was attempting it, yes.”

“Attempting it?”

“It is nothing, my lord.”

“Now come. I know my father helps you from time to time. And while he is out of the country, I suppose, it is up to me. And that’s as I would have it, Crispin. Verily, I have missed your presence in my life. And though I cannot sanction what you did all those years ago, I know that your heart was in the right place.”

His speech did nothing to sweep away Crispin’s embarrassment. In truth, it only made his cheeks warm.

“How can I help you, Crispin? I know that you do not do anything without good cause.”

“I fear you will not wish to help after you know my mission.”

“Try me.”

This was Lancaster as a young man, true enough. He wore the same gleam in his eye when he saw a challenge. But he was the same lad Crispin had known, too, for Henry of Bolingbroke did not seem to fear anything that might spoil his fun.

“Very well,” he said with a shake of his head. “I was trying to devise a way into the palace—”

“Ah! I will let you accompany me!”

“To see the Lord Chancellor.”

Henry’s radiant face fell. “Oh.”

“Oh, indeed.”

A mischievous smile returned. “I should like to see that. I have been in many talks concerning the earl of Suffolk. Yes, let’s go.”

“What?”

“Come, Crispin. Don’t dally.” He threw the reins over his shoulder toward Jack and, even though surprised, Jack deftly caught them.

Henry tugged him along, but Crispin balked. “My lord, this is not a good idea.”

“But you wish to talk with him. And I wish to see you talk with him. Come now.”

There was no backing out. Crispin allowed the young lord to pull him along. Jack followed, cautiously leading the horse.

“May I know the subject of this talk?” Henry asked as they climbed the steps to the great hall. Jack left the horse with a groom and scrambled to follow close on Crispin’s heels.

Crispin weighed the facts. “Murder.”

Henry stopped and stared at him. “Murder? Did
he
murder someone?”

“Not by his own hand but perhaps at his urging.”

“Interesting.”

“And … it certainly involves an important relic.”

“A relic, eh?” He walked on. “What relic?”

“I … am loath to say, my lord.”

“Why?”

“The fewer who know of it, the better.”

Henry stopped again. “But I should like to know it.” At twenty-one years old, Henry was a formidable man. He no longer had the look of a lanky child, nor did his gaze brook obfuscation. He was his father’s son.

“An important enough relic to kill for.”

A slow smile spread over Henry’s lips. “I remember you well, Crispin. You always had your secrets.”

“For good reason, my lord.”

“Very well,” he said, bobbing his head. “I trust you. As I always have.”

Crispin reasoned that they were heading for the Lancaster apartments. He was familiar enough with the path they were taking.

But even though he was in Henry’s company, he thought it fit to keep his hood up and his head down. People were staring as it was and surely they recognized him, based on their astonished and ill-concealed gasps. Ladies in fur-trimmed cotehardies with ornate brocade surcotes eyed him with fascination. But it was their male companions who, after bowing for Henry, would rest their hands threateningly on their sword hilts.

Tall cressets burning with oak kindling cast warm light upon the walls and vaulted ceilings. The twin sensations of familiarity and discomfort warred within him. To be at court again felt like home, but a home where he was not a guest, but an alien.

“When we get to my chamber,” said Henry, speaking in low tones, “we will send for Suffolk. Or perhaps go to him. Will you accuse him to his face about this murder? Whom did he have killed?”

They both came to a sudden halt upon encountering a large entourage coming through a wide arched entry. Henry stood slightly in front of Crispin, blocking him, but Crispin was taller and couldn’t help but notice that it was the king in the archway.

And King Richard couldn’t help but notice Crispin.

17

RICHARD’S EYES ROUNDED. IT
would have been comical in another situation, a situation that did not involve possible imprisonment and death.

The king’s mouth turned down in a scowl so black his bearded chin furrowed. “What is
he
doing here?” The royal hand lifted a bejeweled finger and pointed at Crispin.

Crispin dropped to one knee and lowered his head. He said nothing. There was nothing to say. He heard Jack plop on the floor behind him, breath wheezing like a bagpipe.

“Sire,” said Henry, rising from his knee. “I encountered my old friend and childhood companion outside the gate—”

“Cousin, you are aware that this man is not allowed within my palace walls, are you not?”

“Oh, but sire, such an old friend. With such an interesting vocation. Did you know—”

“I know all about Crispin Guest. He is a traitor and those who encourage him are considered traitors as well.”

Henry sprang forward. “Your grace!”

Richard glared at him. “Well, cousin? Do you track with traitors now?”

Henry trembled with suppressed rage. “I am ever loyal, sire. Your grace and I are blood, my lord. To say such a thing to me is the gravest insult to my honor and my house.”

The king bounced on the balls of his feet and seemed to calm, raising a softer gaze to his childhood companion. “No, Henry. My tongue spoke before my wits could trap the words. You are ever loyal to me as my closest and dearest cousin.” He turned again to Crispin, his scowl renewed. “But this one, on the other hand…” He stepped forward until he was standing directly over Crispin. Crispin stared at the long-toed slippers, their points nearly touching his knee pressed to the floor.

“Get up,” said the king.

Slowly, Crispin rose, and it was another moment before he dared raise his eyes to Richard. The king’s gaze was furious. “How dare you set foot in my palace when I expressly forbade it.”