Blood Lance (2 page)

He caught the movement of shutters opening but had no time to ponder it. He leaped and plunged headlong into the icy water.

2

DARK WATER CLOSED OVER
him. Crispin’s scream was swallowed by the cold river. His head breached the surface, and he whipped his wet, black hair out of his eyes. It stuck to the side of his head as he swam forward, eyes searching the waves for the man.

“I’m here!” Crispin cried. “Where are you?”

Each rise and lowering of waves deceived, but Crispin recalled the trajectory of the man as he arced toward the water. He followed his instincts and swam toward the second pier with its wide pointed barrage. The water was so cold around him and the air so icy against his skin, he could no longer feel his own limbs, but he swam on. Vaguely, he heard more shutters opening, and shouts. He searched desperately for a flailing man, for surely he would be trying to save himself.

Ahead, a clump of seaweed lolled against the barrier but as Crispin neared he knew it was not seaweed. He swam quickly and grabbed the man, turning him over, but the face he saw was not that of an unconscious man. The eyes were wide open and the mouth full of water. He would not draw breath again.

A rope hit the water beside him and he looked up at lanterns being lowered over the side as he bobbed in the shadows under the bridge. Men were shouting at him to take the rope. With numbed fingers he tied it around the man and then looped the rest around himself and let them haul both of them up.

They rose heavily from the water. The Thames seemed reluctant to surrender them, but cascades of river water fell away as they rose slowly into the night. Crispin shivered uncontrollably now, wondering if he hadn’t drowned, too. He tried to grip the rope to keep himself from spinning, but his hands were more like claws than fingers and he could not grip it. He hung like a sack, the rope clenching his chest uncomfortably, while within the embrace of the dead man.

Higher they went, the wind tracing frosty fingers over his cheeks and raking through his hair like icicles. The bright stars in the black night sky spun as he drew nearer to them.

Finally, hands took hold of him, lifted, dragged. Like some big fish, he was deposited onto the bridge and untied from his grim burden. Someone wrapped him in a blanket and he dug his face deeply into the rough wool, cheeks burning from cold. Someone else thrust a beaker of hot wine under his nose. He took it gratefully and with shaking hands, pressed it to his lips and swallowed, not caring that the hot libation seared his tongue and throat. It invigorated, and he was able to sit up without help and finally take in his surroundings.

He was on the bridge surrounded by the bridge dwellers. Men were scrambling. Some carried cressets and others proffered jugs and beakers of ale. The dead man was laid out on the ground and someone had covered him with a sheet.

“What happened?” people were asking him.

“I saw him,” Crispin said, teeth chattering. He pointed to the strand. “I was there when I saw him fall from a window into the water. I went in after him.”

“Poor Master Grey,” said someone over his shoulder. He turned and the man looked down on Crispin kindly. “That was a gallant deed, sir. But all for naught.”

“I was in the water so quickly,” he protested. “I should have gotten to him in time.”

“Do not blame yourself, sir. No one could have saved Master Grey. He was doomed before he hit the water.”

Crispin held the steaming wine to his lips to warm them. “What is your meaning?”

“Bless me, but he said he was leaving London. Could any of us have guessed it was this way?”

“No, it was an accident, surely. I saw him fall.”

“Alas, good sir. Would that it were true. But some men are weak and allow demons into their hearts.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Indeed, sir, I am.” His voice dropped to a whisper and he angled close to Crispin’s ear. “I fear that he has taken his own life.”

*   *   *

CRISPIN WAS HELPED INTO
a nearby shop and bundled before a fire. He knew he would never be warm again until he could get home to strip off his wet clothes, but he also knew he had to await the sheriffs. And now, surely, the Watch would be after him, too. Well, one problem at a time.

The sound of spurred boots clanged against the steps and Crispin braced himself. He turned, just as Sheriff William Staundon stepped over the threshold followed by his associate, Sheriff William More.

“By God’s Holy Name,” said Staundon. “Master Guest, what is here?”

“A dead man, my Lord Sheriff. Drowned.”

“Yes,” More interjected. The slight, dark-haired sheriff stood farther back than Staundon, who hovered in the doorway. “Why is it, Master Guest, that dead bodies always seem to be at your very door?”

Crispin coughed for a moment before laying a hand on his breast. “That, my Lord Sheriff, is known only to God and His angels.”

More moved closer and peered from behind Staundon’s shoulder. “What do you make of it, Master Guest?”

Both sheriffs were garbed in rich finery. Both were slight men, though Staundon was somewhat taller than More. They had pleasant enough faces, he supposed, for aldermen. Staundon’s hair was a dull barley color and his beard and mustache seemed like an afterthought of a whitewasher’s brush, swathed across his chin with little care, while More’s face sported a neat, dark line of beard. Both men were ordinary in the extreme.

“One man suggests it is a suicide,” said Crispin. “That the man jumped. Of this I have no knowledge. I only saw him fall from the window and plunge into the Thames. He must have struck his head upon a pier.”

Both sheriffs “oohed.”

For the last month, Crispin had had to endure these two men in what could only be described as a parade of tedious sheriffs. At least they were not cruel like Wynchecombe, or indifferent like Wynchecombe’s nearly invisible partner, John More. Nor like the last pair of sheriffs, John Organ and John Chyrchman. No, these two seemed inordinately interested in Crispin’s doings, looking upon him as if he were a character from some epic poem. Always, they seemed to loiter on the Shambles waiting to see what he would be involved in next. He almost longed for the days of Simon Wynchecombe.

“The coroner will arrive anon,” said More. He inclined his head toward Staundon and they both made for the door.

“My lords,” said Crispin. They stopped and glanced back at him. “Er … is that all? You will leave this now for the coroner?”

“There is little left for us, Master Guest. Unless…” Staundon leaned toward Crispin, and More did likewise. There was a mischievous gleam in both their eyes. “You have information you are keeping from us.”

“I for one would be most interested in what you may wish to offer,” More interjected excitedly.

“I have nothing more to offer, my lords. If the man took his own life then that is that.”

Staundon smiled and ticked his head. “You
know
something.” He turned to More. “Care to wager? That Guest will be on the prowl within the next few hours?”

“I shan’t take that bet,” said More, making merry over it as if a dead man weren’t lying only a few feet away. “For I know it is just as likely. Ah, Master Crispin. I wish I could take a peek into your mind. It is all cogwheels and pulleys rather than bone and tissue.”

Crispin struggled not to roll his eyes. For God’s sake! There was a dead man here and these men were making of it a mummery. God save him from disciple sheriffs!

“It is a suicide!” he said far louder than he meant to.

Staundon huffed a sigh of disappointment. “Very well, Guest. We shall leave you to the coroner. Such a pity. Er … about the man’s soul, that is.”

“Yes, a pity,” sneered Crispin at their retreating backs. He rubbed his dripping nose on the blanket and struggled to his feet. How long did he have to endure waiting for the coroner? Certainly the others, those from the bridge who knew the man, were better equipped to give their testimony. After all, one man who knew him thought it was a suicide. Crispin crossed himself. To give up one’s life. He couldn’t fathom it. Hadn’t Crispin been in dire straits himself? But he had never given up, never given in to the melancholy that threatened to drown him. But this man took his own life. Surely it was a demon that inhabited his soul to make him fling himself from his own window to drown in the Thames.

Wrapping the borrowed blanket tighter about himself, he staggered to the doorway and leaned against it, gazing at the body that was lying in the street surrounded by wary onlookers.

The image of the man in the moonlight was seared on his eyes. He saw it again, the body falling from the upper story and arcing into the Thames. When the image played a second time in his mind, he straightened. If the man were leaping to his death, shouldn’t he have … well, flailed a bit? Dived away from the window? But, clearly, as he saw it again, the silhouette against the bright moon showed the man, limbs limp, simply … falling … from the window.

His head snapped up as a dim figure tore from the night and skittered to a halt before him, kicking up mud. “Master!”

“Jack?” But it
was
the boy, freckled cheeks red from running. His ginger fringe was plastered with sweat to his forehead under his hood. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard that the sheriffs were off to see to a man who drowned in the Thames … and that there was some fool who jumped in to save him. I was mortally afraid that fool might be you.” He stared at Crispin’s wet coat and stockings. “I see that I was right.”

Crispin grumbled a sound in answer before a deep shiver overtook him.

Jack was at his side in an instant, gripping him with strong, long-fingered hands. “Are you hurt, Master?”

“No. Only frozen to the bone.”

“And you with a head cold already. Come to the fire.” He dragged Crispin back inside and sat him down again by the glowing log. He grabbed another chunk of wood that was sitting beside the hearth and tucked it into the coals. “A proper fire,” he muttered, gazing in envy at the stacked logs. Then he cocked an eye at Crispin. “Why’d you go and do a fool thing like jump in the Thames? Haven’t you got any sense?”

Crispin squinted up at his apprentice as the boy began to pace, arms flailing.

“It’s mad what you do sometimes,” Jack went on, his tirade becoming louder and more desperate. “And then I’ve got to pick up the pieces. It’s not right, sir. Not right at all.”

“Are you
chastising
me? I’ll have you know that I’ve been doing even more dangerous deeds since before you were in swaddling! Don’t lecture
me,
Tucker!”

Jack stopped and looked down at Crispin with a sorrowful expression.

Oh. The boy had been worried. Crispin suddenly felt very foolish and ducked his head into the blanket.

“Well … I’m not drowned, as you see.”

“Where did you get the bruises, sir?” He gestured. “To your face.”

“A run-in with the Watch. I won, by the way. Until all this happened. Now I suppose I’ll be fined.”

“Here. Give over the money pouch, then.”

Without a second thought, Crispin reached his hand into the blanket and untied the sodden pouch from his belt. He handed it to the former cutpurse. Faster than he could tell what happened Jack had secreted the pouch somewhere on his person. At least those coins would be safe. For now.

A clatter of horses outside took Crispin to his feet, and he was in the doorway again. The coroner, John Charneye, had arrived with his retinue. He swept the crowd but when his eyes lighted on Crispin, he frowned and dismounted. Instead of approaching the dead man, he went straight for Crispin.

Jack bowed and backed away, finding a place behind his master.

“Guest,” said the coroner. “Should I ask what you are doing here?”

“I saw him fall, my lord. They say—” And he gestured at the crowd. “They say it was a suicide.”

“God have mercy. And you. What do you say?”

Crispin shrugged. “These men knew him better than I.”

Charneye turned to a man standing nearby and pointed a gloved hand at him. “You! Did you know the dead man?” The coroner’s clerk hurried to his side, quill poised over his waxed slate.

The man’s face was mostly hidden by his hood, but his eyes widened. He bowed to the coroner and nodded. “Aye, my lord. He was Roger Grey, an armorer. A sorrowful man. God’s mercy.”

“Do you say it was a suicide?”

“Oh aye, my lord. Funny, him speaking of leaving London. I would have wagered good money he meant to do it the usual way. No accounting for it, is there?”

“Married? Children?”

“Neither, my lord.”

Charneye pursed his lips and looked back at the dead man. “I suppose summoning a priest is out of the question, under the circumstances,” he muttered.

Crispin squirmed. This was abominable. The man was dead and therefore calling a priest was moot, but still. In all decency, a priest should be called. Though a suicide’s fate was known to all. They could not have a funeral mass, they could not be buried in hallowed ground. Excommunicated even from the dead.

“My lord,” Crispin said slowly, “I … am of the mind that this was not a suicide.”

Charneye whipped his head toward him. “What? Would you naysay this good man, Guest? You just said you did not know him. How can you say this now?”

Crispin shook his head. “I know all that, my lord. But I saw him fall. He did not leap, at least not of his own free will. And if I had to think about it, I believe it possible that he was already dead when he was tossed from the window.”

The coroner stared, his jaw hanging open wordlessly.
Well, that’s done it.
Crispin shivered and sneezed, clutching the blanket over his shoulders.

3

THE BRIDGE DWELLERS CHATTERED
all at once and the coroner’s clerk scrambled from man to man collecting his notes. Jack shook his head, grimacing into the shadow of his hood.

Crispin
could
have left it alone. He could have made himself believe the man was a suicide and left it at that. Escaped to his own lodgings to warm himself and maybe get some much-needed sleep. But he well knew what he saw, and he feared there was murder afoot. Just as those two miserable sheriffs predicted he’d say.