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Overview
1390. Hailes Abbey, Gloucestershire, England. Two monks lie murdered, their Holy Blood relic stolen: a relic that is said to run liquid for the sinless and remain stubbornly dry for the sinner. Unwilling to become involved in a bitter dispute between a country monastery and Westminster Abbey, the disgraced former knight Crispin Guest attempts to return the relic to Hailes where it belongs, but somehow it keeps returning to his hands no matter what.
As he tries to shield a former nemesis from a charge of murder while becoming entangled with a mysterious and beautiful woman caught between Church politics and the dangerous intrigues of King Richard's court, Crispin begins to suspect that someone at Westminster is conspiring with the assassins. Can the Blood of Christ point to the killer?
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780727887474 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Severn House |
| Publication date: | 01/01/2018 |
| Series: | Crispin Guest Medieval Noir Series , #9 |
| Edition description: | First World Publication |
| Pages: | 224 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.50(w) x 8.60(h) x 1.00(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
London, 1390
The hollow steps echoed off the naked alley walls, pinging like moths against the dark timbers. No question about it. Crispin was definitely being followed.
A cold March night was no place to be alone with an unknown person on one's tail. Crispin looked back over his shoulder. February had retreated, leaving behind slush and mud, though icicles still dripped from eaves as a reminder that winter was not yet willing to release its talons. London was now a dragon's breath of mist, with its shadow shapes of men trudging the muddy lanes and its houses and shops disguised as louring canyons.
There was usually no one prowling about at this hour. Proper citizens were sitting at their suppers, telling tales of the day just as Crispin longed to do, but couldn't very well lead his pursuer home with him.
No, there were other options.
He continued, neither slowing nor hurrying. The echoes followed him down every winding alley, each narrow close. Did his pursuer know he was leading them in a tightening spiral?
He counted only one set of footfalls. Light. Someone young, perhaps. A cutpurse.
A feral smile curved his lips. Let us see where this takes us.
He itched to grasp the hilt of his dagger but kept his hand swinging lightly at his side. Slipping into a gloomy alley, he headed for its far end. When he reached the corner, he stepped to the side, hiding under a stair, waiting for his pursuer to emerge.
Quickened steps. Perhaps they feared they had lost him. A shadow flew past the opening and Crispin simultaneously reached out to grab a wrist and drew his dagger, slamming the hapless shadow against a wall. His knife reached a throat just as the hood fell away ...
He choked on the curse on the tip of his tongue.
The woman stared up at him with wild, wide eyes, blue as woad.
He stumbled back and let the knife fall to his hip. Her wrist was still encaged in his fist and, when she looked down at it, he released the pale skin as if it were a hot iron.
He was in deep trouble.
'Forgive me, my lady. I ... I ...' But what was he to say? I thought you were a thief, a murderer? Still with head bowed, he waited for her escorts to cut him down.
He waited and waited some more.
Squinting upward, he saw she was quite alone.
That was not good either.
She rubbed her wrist and her gaze dropped to her feet. Her long-toed slippers were covered in mud. She must have been following him a long way.
'Demoiselle,' he tried, peering behind for any other persons along the deserted alley. 'I do apologize. I did not realize ... Well. I beg your mercy most humbly.'
'Good sir. Kind sir. God grant that you are the man I seek. Please, I beg of you. Tell me.'
'Whom do you seek?'
'Crispin Guest, a man whom they say was once a knight.'
Stunned, Crispin stood immobile for far longer than was polite. He cleared his throat and nodded once. 'Demoiselle, you have found me. I am Crispin Guest.'
Her eyes fluttered closed in gratitude. 'Not here,' she said quietly, opening them. 'Is there a safe place we can talk undisturbed?' She pulled the fur collar of her cloak against her cold-reddened cheek.
'Most certainly.' He bowed again and motioned for her to follow, regretting that her poor slippers would never be the same. Stepping quickly down Paternoster Row up to Cheap, he took a left at the Shambles. When he looked back to check on her progress, her face was pale and her eyes darted ceaselessly.
A distant dog barking and the occasional loud snore from behind a closed shutter were the only sounds on the quiet street. They reached the shop that used to be a poulterer's and indeed still sported the crumbling remnants of a pullet-shaped sign. He stepped up to the door, unlocked and opened it.
One glance at the small parlor told him his servant and apprentice, Jack Tucker, was not there. But the hearth ashes were carefully banked over the coals and the place was clean, proving the boy's occasional habitation.
It was a modest hall, some ten by ten feet with a low ceiling. The stairs behind him lying in shadow led up to two small bedchambers.
A recent acquisition of some months, Crispin was still becoming used to such grand surroundings – grand for this portion of his life at any rate.
A table in the center of the room had three chairs, each of disreputable origin. But they were comfortable. A sideboard and a coffer where the only accoutrements in the barren room, but they were enough.
He pulled a chair from the table and offered it to her. A window shutter overlooking the back courtyard banged against the sill and he stepped quickly to pull it closed.
Crossing to the hearth, he hid his anxiety by poking roughly at the fire. It wasn't his fault she did not make herself known. Anyone could have accosted her. Foolish woman.
Licking his lips and wiping the hot damp from his palms on his cote-hardie, he returned to the table. He lit the candles in the bent candelabra that Jack had discovered in a coffer and slowly eased down onto one of the chairs opposite her, watching the candles' meager flames glow in her large eyes.
'And so we are safe,' he said firmly. 'What may I do for you?'
She seemed restless, her movements jerky. She glanced behind her though the door was closed.
A sword in a scabbard hung by a peg beside it. A gorse broom leaned against the sword in casual repose.
After another long pause, she spoke. 'I have heard of your unusual vocation. That you discover puzzles. Do ... all manner of services. All for a fee.'
He cleared his dry throat. 'Er ... yes, demoiselle. I ... yes. What is it you need solving?'
'Solving? No. There is a man. My niece —' She dropped her disarming gaze and clasped her hands on the table, fingers churning over knuckles. 'I should start at the beginning.' Her teeth dug into her lip. 'My niece, a very young and impressionable girl, is being pursued by an unsuitable man. She has been in my care for some time. Her parents were relying on me to be her tutor in all things proper. Alas. I have failed her. She has disappeared. I fear she has run off with this man and I have pursued them to London. She was always a pious child and so my hope is that she has taken herself to a nunnery rather than soil herself with this man.'
'I see. Have you no kinsmen to do such work?'
He studied her gown. Even though the candle's light was scant, he discerned that the fabric had frayed. There were shiny spots on the elbows. The fur was old and tattered. If merchant or courtier, she was not among the wealthy. 'No,' she said. 'I do not wish to involve them. This is a private matter and must be kept secret. At all cost. I sought you for your ... discretion.'
'Just so. Well, then. Is this man a London citizen?'
'Oh, yes. He is a London citizen.' She rose and made her way to one of the front windows. Her finger rested on the uneven wood of the shutter. The candle glow softened the edge of her shoulders with gold. Her veil fluttered down her back.
She turned, seemed to consider his scant furnishings, eyes restless over the coffer shoved against the wall beside the smoky hearth, the small pile of sticks in the other corner.
Glittering eyes suddenly squared on Crispin's. 'So many tales are told about you,' she said.
'All good, I hope.'
Her smile was gentle. 'Of course.' She waited, seeming to expect something.
He mentally smacked his forehead. 'May I offer you some wine?' But even as he asked, he wasn't certain if the jug had any in it.
'That would be ... very pleasant.'
Of course it would be, if he actually had any. He approached the sideboard and opened the cabinet. There was cheese wrapped in cloth on a wooden plate, a wizening apple, a small basket of eggs, two wooden bowls, two wooden goblets and a cracked horn-beaker. The jug still had a good amount of wine left in it and he poured a scant amount into both goblets. It was to her credit that she didn't wince when she tasted it. She seemed the type used to better fare despite her gown's deficiency. Courtier? Possibly, though why she was unescorted so late at night troubled him.
She sipped and glanced up at him through her lashes. He felt a definite warming in his belly. 'And so. This man ...'
'Yes.' She glanced over the hall again but the view held nothing except shadow and poverty. 'I fear ...' her voice dropped low, '... I fear he knows of my quest. I might have been followed.'
Rising, Crispin went to one of the front windows. He pushed the shutter gently and peered out to the street. He had memorized each stall, each window, every shadow, and saw nothing out of place. Just the same, he pulled it closed. Easing away from the window, he returned to his seat. 'I saw no one.'
Her shoulders sagged in relief. 'God be praised.' She shook her head. 'I don't know what to do. I fear the wrath of this man. He is dangerous, though my poor niece would hear nothing against him. Oh, if only her father were still alive!'
Crispin teased his goblet with his fingertips. He waited for more.
'They say you are much like a private sheriff. That is why I sought you. Though my method was unorthodox, I admit.' She took up her goblet again and sipped delicately, her lips tracing the rim. 'If I tell you what I know ... you will keep it secret?'
'I give you my word, demoiselle. If these are secret things you need to tell me, then I will be silent about them. Your fee can buy you much.'
'Fee? Oh, yes.' She stood and scrambled at the scrip tied to her girdle, but Crispin magnanimously waved her off.
'There is no need for that just yet. Perhaps you should tell me ...'
She nodded, fluttering her veil. Standing above the table, she seemed at odds with sitting or remaining standing. Sitting won out. 'You see, the man – that horrible man who has seduced my dear niece – is married.'
Crispin suspected as much. What a cur to use a maiden so! He couldn't wait to get his hands on the man.
'And worse still,' she continued, 'I understand he used to be the Lord Sheriff. Of London.'
His hot blood froze. 'What?'
'Simon Wynchecombe is his name,' she said. 'I am certain he has taken her.'
Shock kept Crispin's world suspended for a moment. And when he opened his mouth to speak, nothing came out.
Simon Wynchecombe? A common seducer? It almost seemed too good to be true. Six years ago, Wynchecombe had made his life miserable with his belligerence and bullying. The man would sooner clout Crispin than talk with him. With one side of his mouth he'd insult Crispin's heritage and on the other would hire him to do Wynchecombe's dirty work without so much as a by-your-leave.
'Surely you must be mistaken. I have been acquainted with Master Wynchecombe and I do not think he would ... would be the cause of such mischief.'
She pushed her goblet aside and leaned on the table. Crispin, unable to stop himself, mirrored her actions. 'What if I were to tell you that I have proof of it? Are you man enough to accuse the former sheriff?'
Was he? Wynchecombe was no longer the sheriff, true, but that didn't mean he couldn't be again. Or even become the Lord Mayor. Wynchecombe was an alderman, a highly regarded citizen. If Crispin accused him and Wynchecombe were found innocent, where would that leave Crispin?
On the other hand, if he were guilty he could not be allowed to steal this niece's virtue.
His frown was grim. 'I will do what I must.'
Her eyes seemed satisfied. 'I believe you will. Very well. I will tell you what I know. And so.' Delicately, she opened her scrip and pulled out a small, embroidered pouch. She reached in and placed six small silver coins on the table. 'Sixpence a day, is it not?'
He nodded.
They both stared at the coins for some time before Crispin slid them toward him and dropped them into his hand off the edge of the table. He clutched them tightly in his fist before slipping them into the pouch on his belt. They fell over one another with a hollow clink. He opened his mouth to ask for her proof when a deep thump, thump nearing his door stayed him.
He glanced at the closed door, cocking his head toward the footsteps clearly making their slow march toward his lodgings. Too heavy to be Jack Tucker's. He flicked his gaze at her. 'Your escort?'
She shook her head, her eyes confused. 'I came without an escort.' She sprang to her feet, knocking over the chair. He drew his dagger and pushed her behind him, staring at the door as the heavy footfalls drew closer. When they reached the threshold, the steps stopped and then silence. They waited, looking at one another.
Both jumped at the sudden pounding on the wood.
Crispin took a breath, tightened his grip on the hilt and pulled it open.
A monk in a dirty white habit and long black cloak shouldered the doorway. His black cowl was drawn low over his forehead and he was looking down at his feet. From what Crispin could see of it, his face was ashen with dark circles under his eyes. His lips were gray and the fringe of dark hair around his head was plastered flat with sweat.
'C-Crispin ... Guest?' he panted.
The man staggered forward. Crispin stepped back just in time for the monk to tumble to the floor. It was then he noticed the sticky crimson patch between the wool-covered shoulder blades ... and the knife still embedded there.
The woman screamed.
Something rolled out of the monk's tight fist. A crystal, flat on one side and rounded on the other that looked suspiciously like something Crispin would rather avoid. But he tossed the thought aside and fell to his knees by the monk's stilled body. He touched his neck, confirming his fears.
'God have mercy. I'm afraid ... he is dead.'
His eyes slid toward the dagger and his gut did a little flip. Even with its smear of blood, Crispin easily recognized the jeweled pommel, the worn leather of the hilt. He had had close acquaintance with it too many times to count. There was no mistaking this dagger. It belonged to Simon Wynchecombe.
He opened his mouth to tell the woman ... to tell her ... God's blood! He knew not what to tell her. With a curse on his lips, he turned to say something, anything of comfort.
But his door lay wide open, and the woman, along with the strange, circular crystal, was gone.
CHAPTER 2
Crispin stared at the open doorway in disbelief. What had just happened? Had that woman – that unknown woman, he realized, having not yet gotten her name – stolen that artifact from the monk? The very dead monk now bleeding copiously all over his floor?
'God's blood!' How a beguiling face could confound him! He vowed solemnly to never let such a thing happen again ... but with another curse on his lips, he knew full well that it would.
He rose from his crouching position and glared at the dead man as if it were his fault he had a knife in his back. For all Crispin knew, that might be so.
A scuffle of steps outside told him he was not alone. With dagger in hand he peered out, expecting the killer but hoping at the very least that the woman had returned. Instead he saw his neighbor, the butcher Roger Lymon. He was slowly approaching Crispin's door, scrutinizing with his candle held low the suspicious dark drops along the mud. His white fleshy face frowned, from the slender brows down to his round chin, grayed with a day-old beard.
Standing at the threshold, Roger raised his eyes and caught Crispin's gaze. 'Crispin?' he said. 'What's amiss? I heard a scream and then a woman flew by and ... well. Me wife bid me investigate.'
'I fear, Roger, that you will regret your decision.' He gestured down with his knife just as the butcher reached the doorway.
'Blessed Virgin! Crispin!' He crossed himself and then clutched Crispin's arm. 'What have you done?'
'I have done nothing but open my door. Trouble seems to find me.'
'Is he ... is he ... dead?'
'Very,' said Crispin. He knelt again and studied the knife hilt. Yes, there was no doubt. He'd seen that dagger many a time. Mostly after Wynchecombe had cuffed Crispin so hard he had fallen to his knees, just at the perfect height to stare at the dagger hilt.
'The sheriffs,' Roger sputtered. 'We shall have to call in the sheriffs. I hate the sheriffs.'
Crispin agreed wholeheartedly. God's blood, but this was shaping up to be a wretched evening!
'If you could, Roger, go to Newgate and inform the sheriffs' men. I would be much obliged.'
'Me? Oh, no. I ... I should probably stay here. Maybe you should go.' He stared down at the bloody mess the monk had made. At least the blood did not bother the man.
'I could go. However, the murderer may return to make certain of his handiwork. And where would that leave you?'
Roger might be a big man hefting carcasses all the working day and slicing and chopping into them in a bloody display, but he was as timid as a mouse. He pressed his stubby fingers to his lips in thought. 'I'll go. You stay.' The man trotted out of the door, the candle sputtering in his hand.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Season of Blood"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Jeri Westerson.
Excerpted by permission of Severn House Publishers Limited.
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