Blood Lance (27 page)

Chaucer was suitably horrified and Crispin felt a modicum of satisfaction. His arms tightened across his chest.

“How do you know—but you must be certain. I believe you. All the more reason to surrender the Spear, Cris.”

“I might be tempted if only I had it, Geoffrey. I do not. I am still searching for it.”

He shot up from the cot. “But you can’t be! You must know where it is by now!”

“I am no miracle worker. Chances are it is far from here, perhaps even heading back to where it belongs. Wherever that is.”

“But this is ghastly! I thought—” He sat again, his head in his hands. “Ah Cris, I thought you had it. What are we to do now?”

It was tempting. Working
with
Chaucer would certainly be more rewarding than working against him, but a niggling doubt still poked at his senses. After all was said and done, he didn’t think he could truly trust Geoffrey. Keeping silent was the best option, and he took it, watching his friend moan and roll his head. At last, Geoffrey finally looked up.

“What are you going to do now, Cris?”

“I’m going to ask you one more question.”

He straightened. “Oh? What more could you possibly need to know?”

“Why you were discussing these matters—or any matters at all—with a Spaniard?”

With his hands gripping his knees, Geoffrey huffed a humorless laugh. “Very well. You’ve earned it. Come with me.”

His doubt must have been written on his face, for Chaucer laughed at Crispin’s expression. “I swear on my life. I am not trying to trick you.”

“Then lead on.” He gestured toward the curtain, which he pulled aside.

The men of the tavern turned to look at them and Crispin felt their resentful glares as he made his way between the rearranged tables. The floor was still wet from spilled wine and ale and there were a few shards still kicked by wayward feet across the floor. He made it to the door, and noticed Chaucer hanging back and paying the tavern keeper for the destruction. He felt a bit guilty until he surmised that Geoffrey could well afford it.

They walked up the avenue and soon left the bridge, where they turned at Thames Street and followed it to Queenhithe. The Swan Inn had a newly painted sign and they passed under it through the door. Crispin followed Geoffrey as they climbed the stairs to the end of the gallery. Chaucer stopped at the door there and knocked with a series of particular taps. They waited. A scratching at the door and a bolt was thrown.

They entered into darkness. The faint glow from the hearth did little to illuminate the shadows but a spark grabbed Crispin’s attention. The spark ignited a bit of moss in a man’s hand until he lit the candle with the small flame and then tamped out the clump of moss on the candle’s dish.

He picked up the candle and held it in his hand close to his face. The bearded man looked familiar.

“Buenos días, Señor Guest.”

“God’s blood! You are Juan Gutierrez. You’re—”

He bowed. “Ah, you remembered that I am my Lord of Gaunt’s Castilian secretary.”

20

“WHY ARE YOU HERE
in England, Bishop Gutierrez? Should you not be at Lancaster’s side?”

The man strode to another candle and lit it with the one in his hand. Two other men moved out of the shadows and bowed warily to Crispin.

Gutierrez set both candles on the table and sat, offering places for both Chaucer and Crispin. “There is much to be done, Señor Guest. My Lord of Gaunt—that is, his grace the
King of Spain
—is poised for opposition. As his secretary, it is my duty to protect his interests.”

“And so you call him ‘king’?”

“Did not your own sovereign declare him so? Did he not crown the duke and his wife, the Lady Costanza, Easter last?”

“So I heard. He sailed to Spain with his family to claim his throne and to find husbands for his daughters. So why are
you
here?”

“As I said. To protect his interests.”

The other men stepped into the small circle of light cast by the candles. “May I introduce Don Lope Pérez and Don Gonzaluo de Castilla?”

“You rescued me in the alley.”

They bowed. “It was necessary,” said Don Lope. “It was I who spoke. Bishop Gutierrez said you would recognize his voice.”

“But why come to light now?”

He looked back at Gutierrez, who shrugged. “We should have hired you in the first place,” said the bishop, looking sternly at Chaucer.

Geoffrey smiled. “We all could have saved ourselves a great deal of trouble.”

“Except for the murders,” said Crispin. “They spoiled your plans.”

“Indeed.”

“It was those men, you realize. They killed the armorer and his apprentices. And they are working for the earl of Suffolk.”

“
Madre santa,
” said the bishop, becrossing himself. “Are they any closer to finding the Spear?”

Crispin ran his hand over his beard-roughened chin. “I don’t know. I don’t have any idea where it is or who might have it.”

“We must join forces,” said Don Lope.

Everyone was nodding, including Chaucer, but Crispin still had misgivings. “Gentlemen.” He rose. “I appreciate your sense of urgency. But I am accustomed to working alone.”

Chaucer edged closer. “You don’t trust us.”

He locked gazes with Geoffrey. There was hurt in his eyes but a hard edge, too. It soon smoothed to resignation. Finally, Chaucer looked away and masked his discomfort by toying with the poker. He jammed it into the fireplace, stirring the logs to a flame. “Master Crispin has little cause to trust me or you, Excellency.”

Gutierrez nodded. “I suspected as much. His grace the duke—the king—said the same to me. He said that even if he had given his word, it would mean little to Master Guest at this juncture. He also said he hoped that someday—someday soon—that Master Guest’s opinion would change.” He moved around the table and stood beside Crispin, studying him. “The two of you were close at one time. I wonder what has caused this rift between you?”

“My Lord of Gaunt is aware of the reasons and that is enough,” said Crispin. At least Lancaster didn’t expect him to jump to the orders of these Spaniards, no matter how seemingly close they appeared to do the duke’s bidding.
The king’s,
he reminded himself ruefully. He smiled to himself. Well, he was a king at last, though not of England as Crispin would have had it; as Crispin had tried to achieve, much to his chagrin now. After all, if he had not attempted that very thing nine years ago, his life, his status would not have been forfeit. He would still be a knight and in the personal retinue of Gaunt, wearing his colors and standing beside him while he sat on the throne of Spain.

Crispin turned toward the door. “My search continues,” he said over his shoulder.

“Will you keep us apprised, Master Crispin?” asked Gutierrez.

His hand paused over the latch. “I … cannot guarantee that, my lords.”

“But Master Crispin.” Gutierrez rushed to the door, pressing a hand against it, preventing him from leaving. “We have told you of our need. It is for the duke of Lancaster, I assure you.”

Crispin surveyed the Bishop of Dax, Lancaster’s longtime companion and secretary. The man was at his side when he traveled through Spain and sometimes to other places. “I have known you for years, sir.” He admired the man, for though he was a bishop, he was not afraid to pick up a sword, as he had done in the alley to protect Crispin. “But it is plain by your words that you do not know
me
.” He pulled at the door experimentally and Gutierrez slowly released the pressure, dropping his hand away. “The duke and I have a long history,” said Crispin. “And I seem to have a history of sorts with relics. Some would say I owe my loyalty to the duke. And some would say I owe my loyalty to God and to what belongs to Him. But in the nine years since my exile, I have learned to serve another master, that of myself and my intellect. If my intellect tells me to surrender the Spear to the duke, then I shall. But if it tells me to discard it down the deepest hole … well, gentlemen, then that is what I will do. Good day.”

He pulled open the door. Chaucer and Gutierrez rushed after him. “Crispin!” cried Chaucer. “You cannot mean what you say.”

“Geoffrey, I always mean what I say.”

Gutierrez blocked his path. Crispin stiffened. He did not like to use force on an old friend, and a bishop at that, but he would if necessary. “The relics of God, of His Son, should be in the hands of His clerics who know how to safeguard them and to put them to their proper use,” said the bishop. “Have a care, Crispin, in these grave decisions, or you may find yourself in opposition to the might of the Church.”

“It won’t be the first time, Excellency.” He waited. Gutierrez seemed to be deciding, and it was a long time until he slowly moved, stepping out of his way. Crispin didn’t look back as he walked stiffly across the gallery, down the stairs, and through the inn to the door.

*   *   *

HE STOOD IN THE
street, debating with himself. In truth, he felt a bit lost. Was it a Spanish plot? Or was it what Chaucer would have him believe it was? A scheme to get the Spear’s power into the hands of Lancaster? For as much as he had seen, he still did not know if he believed in the power of relics. There were many explanations to cover their seeming miracles. So he told himself. But if it did have great power, then why did he hesitate to surrender it to the duke? He was more than his liege lord. He was far closer than that. At least, at one time this was so.

“God’s blood!” he hissed into the bleak sunlight. He started walking, little caring in what direction.

If it were a true relic with power, then he would see it safe away, out of the greedy hands of men. For who was to say that it would stay in the hands of the duke? Others could take it and use it for their own purposes. What if it fell into the hands of the French? No, if he found it—
when
he found it—he couldn’t allow it into the hands of just any man.

His mind whirred with all the players laid across his path: There was Thomas Saunfayl, now in custody. Damn, he should have asked Chaucer where that was. But, listening with a tilt to his head, he knew all he had to do was wait, and Chaucer would present himself.

After all, if he didn’t know better, he would say those were
his
steps following him on the empty street.

He turned toward a shadowed wall and leaned against it, pulling his cloak about him to stave off the cold sweeping up through the lane. A mist had rolled in, obscuring even the nearest houses.

The soft footfalls slowed to a stop and Crispin smiled a feral grin. “Join me, Geoffrey?”

A pause.

Then out of the mist, “How did you know it was me, damn you?”

A figure stepped out of the gloom and approached and soon joined him against the wall. “You have become a very cautious man.”

“Would that I had done the same nine years ago, eh?”

“Yes.”

They stood silently, neither looking at the other.

“It occurred to me, Geoffrey, that I do not know where Sir Thomas is being held and I should speak to him before his trial.”

“He is in Newgate. The trial is tomorrow.”

“That’s very … soon.”

“The king is anxious for a distraction. He wants the joust to commence quickly. Some of the knights left behind by Lancaster’s expedition would enjoy the entertainment. They have become restless while awaiting a thwarted French invasion.”

“The invasion that never was.”

“Indeed. I admit it’s been a while since I’ve seen a joust, though I doubt I shall enjoy this one overmuch. Thomas has been loyal to Lancaster. If he prevails the duke will take him back … though he will send him far away back to his estates.”

“And if he dies on the lists?”

“Well, that is the way of it, Crispin. No general can countenance a coward.”

Kicking at the mud, Crispin nodded. “I know.” He gazed at his boot a while longer before lifting his face. “Geoffrey, do you ever get the feeling that events, people, are always in flux? That we are not the masters of our universe as we thought?”

He chuckled. “Oh yes. We are only allowed to play in the garden but for a little while … until the storm drives us away. Changes, yes. We grow older, that is a certainty. Politics sweep over the continent with each whimsical breeze and we are caught up in it like autumn leaves. We grasp it for but a moment and then … it is loose again, whipping in another direction. We think we are the puppet masters but it is an illusion. We are helpless after all. And I tell you, Cris, with all that I have done and in all my travels and dangerous dealings, with all my confidence either deserved or undeserved, never have I felt so helpless and in need of God’s good grace than when my children were born. As simple as that. The master of my house and a man of duty and purpose, but powerless in the lying in.”

“So I have heard similar tales from others.”

He looked at Crispin steadily. “None of your own?”

He shook his head. “And Lancaster’s children are all grown. I sometimes felt like … well. An uncle, perhaps. I stumbled upon Henry, Lord Derby, just the other day.”

“No! Well, he’s quite the man now.”

“Yes, he is. I do regret missing his childhood.” He was being a fool, he knew it. Wallowing in his morose past? He could use a wine bowl about now.

“But it is God who guides our lives,” said Chaucer. “And so it is a vain and foolish thing to imagine we have reign over our destinies. When we sin we ignore His good council. When we thrive it is because we are living holy lives.”

Crispin laughed. “Geoffrey. You? A holy life?”

“I resent the implication, Cris. I am a model husband. I am a good citizen and a loyal servant of Lancaster and the Church.”

“And a member of Parliament, don’t forget that on the accounts, Geoffrey.”

Chaucer huffed. “You are making light of me.”

Crispin smiled. Geoffrey always was easy to insult. “Not so light. You have done well. You must know something of Heaven that I don’t.”

“I fear God, Cris. For the life of me, I do not think that you do. You are forever Jacob wrestling with angels.”