Blood Lance (8 page)

Gilbert gasped.

“The king must be reminded of his limits and responsibilities and that he is obliged to consult with Parliament,” Crispin went on, “especially when excessive household funds have been spent. They can’t punish the king so they diminish his favorite. From what I know of Richard, he believes himself to be an infallible judge, like the early kings of Briton. He has never learned that those days are long gone.”

“But he is the king. The anointed of God.”

“Yes, that is true. But the barons imposed limits centuries ago to prevent the indulgence of favors over the well-being of the country. Has he forgotten so soon the sins of his great-grandfather, Edward II?”

“Hush, Crispin!” Gilbert looked around and crouched his bulky frame low over the table. “Talk of the late King Edward could be considered treason in these worrisome days.”

Crispin raised a brow. But he made a hasty scan of the room nonetheless. Edward II was deposed and murdered for his ignorance of his responsibilities. He, too, favored men who did not earn their station. He supposed throwing the name around at this juncture might be too bold, but he was past caring what the nobility thought of him. “I am too well acquainted with treason, as you know, to worry over it now.”

A hand clutched his arm. “Master Crispin, Gilbert’s right,” said Jack. “There’s no need to bring unwanted attention to you, sir.”

Crispin drank down the bowl of wine, but Jack filled it again. “There will be discord until this is resolved. Perhaps it is a good thing that you bought extra stores, Gilbert.”

“If it’s not high prices it’s high taxes. What the devil is Lancaster doing leaving the country at a time like this?”

Crispin kept silent. He brooded over his cup of wine while covertly surveying the room. Seeing Sir Thomas had awakened in Crispin something he had thought long dormant. The very idea of battle and encounters the knight must have had made Crispin’s sword arm itch.
He
should have been there with Lancaster! Nothing would have made him leave his lord’s side when the smell of battle was in the air. Thomas said he was sent back to England, but Crispin would have found any excuse to stay. Dammit, he would have stayed to the last stroke!

He pushed his wine bowl away and stood up. Perhaps a bit too fast, for the wine made him dizzy. Or perhaps it was that persistent fever and wooly head. He took a moment to feel the ground under him settle and stepped away from the bench. Jack stood, too, trying to anticipate his mood.

“Thank you, Gilbert, for opening an ear.” He reached for his pouch and was glad to have money for once to pay for the drink. “Here,” he said, offering more coins than that single jug cost. “I owe you more than this, I know. But you are too kind a friend to keep a roll of my debts. Please take this, at least, while I am flush.” He laid the coins on the table since Gilbert seemed loath to take them in his hand.

He walked out the door without looking back, knowing Jack would follow. At some point, Crispin would pay a call on Abbot Nicholas. The abbot of Westminster Abbey was bound to know all the more intimate details of what might be happening around the throne. But he supposed his presence in Westminster would not be welcomed, especially now.

He stomped through the mud churned by the rabble. He could hear shouting in the distance but the king’s men, no doubt, were doing their job.

“Master! Master Crispin!”

He did not stop but glanced over his shoulder at Jack trotting to keep up with his furious pace.

“Wait, Master Crispin. You are stirring yourself up.”

That boy knew him too well. “Go on, Jack. Go on to whatever devilry you do all day.”

“I don’t do no devilry, sir.”

“Go on, Jack. I would be alone.”

“Now Master Crispin, don’t go doing that, sir. You’ll only upset your fever.”

“My fever is no business of yours. Go on!”

“Bless me. You’ll be the death of me,” he muttered, hanging back.

The death of
him?
The nerve. That boy was getting too big for his station.

Crispin returned to the Shambles and trudged up his stairs. He opened the door and looked around, scowling. This room, this single room above a tinker’s shop, seemed as barren as his soul. A simple table with a chair and a stool. A coffer, a bed, a bucket. He didn’t own any of it. Only the meager things stored in the coffer and perhaps a few of the clay pots and iron pans hanging by the tiny hearth. His scowl deepened and he kicked the stool closest to him. It clattered along the floor. He was lucky it hadn’t shattered, but what of it if it had? He’d just owe his landlord one more coin, one more day’s wage. Paltry wage. Sixpence. That was the wage of an archer, but at least
they
were clothed and fed along with their regular sixpence.

He slammed the door shut behind him and stalked to the hearth, leaning his arm on the wall over it, glaring at the smoky embers glowing under their mantle of ash. Sir Thomas sneered at the very idea of the knights who had gone to Spain. Sneered! What would Crispin have given if
he
could have gone?

Nine years ago, he had no idea how much he was throwing away. Oh, but he had learned just how much in the intervening years. How he had learned.

He sat hard on his bed, tallying the list. He knew it wasn’t healthy, always put him in a fouler mood and encouraged him to seek out a wine bowl in which to drown the memories, but he indulged anyway, couldn’t stop himself. All that he had lost. And then some.

And then the woman, Anabel. Her face rose up in his mind. A beautiful face. How a beautiful face could turn his head. She had a face any man would be pleased to wake beside. She had been betrothed to Roger Grey. There was a hint of desperation in her talk of him. She was quick to pronounce him a suicide. But why would she want that?

Round bold eyes, luscious mouth. He certainly didn’t mind picturing her. She was below Crispin’s station, though … at least the place he used to occupy. She seemed quick and spirited, traits he valued in women, but he knew he shouldn’t get too close. Only close enough to solve this riddle.

He always got too close and where did it get him?

He swore he wouldn’t do it, made oath after oath that he would never look at it again. But now that his humor was completely black, he got up, knelt by his bed, and reached under the straw-stuffed mattress. His heart gave a lurch as his fingers closed on the object and pulled it forth.

It lay in his palm, the small portrait. Framed in twisted golden wire, the figure on the painted surface looked up at him with seductive eyes and he slowly lowered to the bed, staring. How long had it been since he’d seen her in the flesh? How long had it been since he’d touched her, held her in his arms?

Her face was pale, lips small. Red-gold hair. And those eyes. Even as paint and ink those eyes seemed to know him. Lids beguilingly heavy as they were in truth, they seemed to say they had a secret. And indeed, she had many secrets.

He choked out a whispered “Philippa,” running a calloused finger down the painted face. Philippa Walcote was married, more than two years now by his reckoning. She had nothing to do with him any more than he had with her. That case had long ago been closed. He certainly had not laid eyes on her since she parted from these very walls. Yet the sound of her name and the face looking back at him still stirred something in him he did not wish to name. So long ago and there had been other women in between, perfunctory couplings, to be sure, but he could not escape that unmistakable feeling in his heart when thinking of her.

He clutched the portrait. Why did he keep the damned thing? Was it loneliness that made him covet it like a dragon over its treasure?

The fire in his hearth was low and glowed a dull red.
Just toss it in!
He’d only told himself that a thousand times, and a thousand times he had hesitated.

Standing, he moved toward the fire, alternating glaring at the flames and the portrait. He leaned an arm again on the wall above the hearth and stared hard at those slanted eyes looking mildly back at him. Regrets were for the grave. Philippa was lost to him. There was no going back. And no use in feeling sorry for himself.

After all,
he
was the one who had turned
her
away.

Unbidden, his mind filled with the face of Anabel Coterel again. He shook his head with a disgusted snort. “Don’t be more of a fool than you already are, Crispin.” Love was for poetry and courtly pursuits. Men on the Shambles were lucky to find a wench to wife. A sturdy maid to keep the house and bear the children, children to help the business, to leave one’s worldly goods to. It was a business proposition, and rightly so. Life was too hard on the Shambles to gamble on love. And it wasn’t just the Shambles. A lord married off his daughters to other wealthy and noble lords to propagate the line. If they found love later they were lucky. After all, Lancaster had married twice, yet he still kept a mistress on the side. Was that love?

The portrait weighed heavy in his hand. His fingers rubbed over the surface, loosening as he held it poised over the fire.

A knock at the door startled him and, instinctively, he clutched the little frame. Hastily he stuffed it back under the mattress, went to the door, and opened it.

Crispin took a staggering step back.

In the doorway stood his old friend, Geoffrey Chaucer.

7

“G-GEOFFREY!”

Chaucer smiled. His eyes danced with the old fire of their schemes and folly. “May I come in?”

The flashing moment of recognition and happiness on seeing his friend again vanished instantly. Geoffrey was to see for himself how Crispin now lived. But there was nothing for it. He gritted his teeth and stepped aside.

To his credit, Geoffrey did not flinch, said nothing. No cutting remark as he was wont to make. He knew Crispin’s situation, had met him again only last year after almost eight years of exile. Crispin reminded himself that it was
good
to see the man again when by all rights he was not truly allowed to associate with him for fear of bringing down the wrath of the crown upon him.

Chaucer righted the stool and sat in it, resting his hands on his thighs. He wore a long gown with a few ornaments, a necklace, some rings, his jeweled dagger, the one Crispin had gifted to him over a decade ago. His eyes caught the glint of the family ring on Crispin’s finger.

“Surprised?” he said, mustache curled in a grin.

“Geoffrey!” Crispin was breathing hard. “You shouldn’t be here. It’s dangerous for you.”

He waved Crispin’s fears away with the careless flick of his hand. “Don’t vex yourself over it, Cris. I’ll be fine. I was in the parish so I thought I’d visit.”

Crispin frowned and slowly lowered to the chair opposite his friend. “Oh? I can’t imagine that this is the first time you’ve ever been to the Shambles. And you have never graced my door before this.”

Chaucer picked at invisible lint on the fur trim of his gown. “I have never had occasion to ‘grace your door.’”

“What are you up to, Geoffrey?”

“Now why do you suggest I am ‘up to’ anything?”

“Your presence here. Don’t try to lie to me,” he said, cutting off Chaucer’s reply. “What are you
truly
doing here, Geoffrey? Does it have anything to do with these councilors come to censure de la Pole?”

The grin faded. “You are clever, aren’t you?”

“I am often paid to be so. Tell me.”

“Good God, Cris! No ‘how have you faired in the year since I’ve seen you, Geoffrey?’ No other words of greeting?”

“Geoffrey, you
know
why. Why are you playing games with me? You know I have no patience for them.”

“Indeed, not. You are the most impatient man I have ever met. Say,” he said, glancing around. “Do you have any wine?”

“No!” He slammed his hand on the table. “Tell me what you are doing here!”

“Very well. If you insist. I understand you have been talking with Sir Thomas Saunfayl.”

Crispin’s senses went on alert. He was unprepared for the convergence of such diverse incidents. “I … yes. He hired me to find … something.”

“Did he? Well never mind that for now. Where is he? Do you know?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Why do you hesitate to tell me?”

“Because it is you who wants to know.”

“Cris! I’m appalled. That I should garner such mistrust in you.”

“Your patron name is Deception. I’ve known you a long time, remember?”

Chaucer frowned. “This is most upsetting. Here I come to you in perfect friendship—”

“Spare me, Chaucer!”

“
Perfect
friendship. Expecting to be treated as a favored guest. And there is no wine and no hospitality whatsoever.”

“Things are different on the Shambles,” he growled.

“Indeed they are. It is like another country.”

“Are you going to tell me what you are doing here or do I toss you out on your ear?”

“That temper of yours,” muttered Chaucer. “Very well, then. If you are going to growl at me I might as well tell you. I am in search of Sir Thomas to aid him. He is in very grave peril.”

Chaucer’s words were finally making sense. Thomas had been nervous and ill-tempered about something. Crispin was finally going to get to the bottom of it. “I am sorry to hear that. I have not seen Thomas in some years but I did notice he did not seem … himself.”

“No, indeed. I am here to defend him in court.”

“What has he done to need your defense?”

“What has he done? Why, he is a coward. He has deserted his post amongst Lancaster’s army. I will do the best I can but there is little to be done if he continues to hide from me.”

“Wait, wait.” His words made no sense. Cowardice? Sir Thomas? “There must be some mistake. Sir Thomas is no coward. He is a brave and formidable fighter. He always has been.”

“Perhaps. But he has deserted, and he is being brought up on charges. There are those who will testify that he ran from the enemy.”

“No! That is not possible. Sir Thomas is incapable of such fear. I know of no knight who is braver.”