Blood Lance by Jeri Westerson Read Free Book Online Page B

“Where is it?”
    Anabel entered, still silent. She merely blinked at Crispin and accepted the knight’s intrusion without comment.
    Folding his arms across his chest, Crispin watched the further destruction of the room for a few moments more before asking, “Where is what, Sir Thomas?”
    Bending over a box of kindling the man suddenly froze. He straightened and squared his shoulders. “I am brokenhearted over these tidings of Master Grey.”
    I can see that, mused Crispin.
    Flustered, Thomas faced him, caught again by the specter of Crispin with his head firmly on his shoulders. His hands twitched over his sword hilt, but not because he wished to draw it. Instead, they seemed to twitch from some other irritation that Crispin could not see. He was sweaty and breathing in a quickened rate, like a rabbit or a bird. His eyes would not light on any one thing, but ticked to this and that about the room, an aimless amble that made Crispin nervous.
    “I am surprised to see you, too, Sir Thomas,” Crispin said stiffly. They had been friends and he hated this formality that now they were forced into. “Not only for the years that have passed but because … well, because I expected a knight such as yourself to be in the company of the duke in Spain.”
    The man’s eyes widened, and he took a staggering step back. He whirled away with unnecessary vigor and stalked toward the window. His gloved hand found the topmost sill and grasped it. He stared down into the churning water of the Thames.
    “Have a care,” said Crispin. “Master Grey met his doom out that selfsame window.”
    “Did he?” came the soft reply. Thomas did not move but continued to stare down, enchanted by the sight of water and foam surging past the piers and arches, of the boats doing their best to navigate those treacherous waters, for few dared shoot through the bridge when the tide was high.
    Crispin cautiously approached and stood behind him only a few feet away. “Yes. They said it was suicide but I have since discovered it was murder.”
    Thomas’s spine stiffened to hear Crispin’s words so close to him. Still, he did not turn. “And what are you now? The sheriff?”
    “No. They call me the Tracker. I sometimes get called upon to solve the occasional murder.”
    “By God. You’re the Tracker? That wily fellow one hears no end about? Well, I should say I am not surprised. You were always a clever man, Crispin. A clever man. You even slipped the noose. How clever must a man be to escape death when he has committed treason?” The last was said with a bit more fire than his other words, and Crispin could tell the man’s body was tense and winding tighter. “So clever. You’re laughing at them all, I suppose. So many other knights, good men, were executed. How is it you were spared?”
    Crispin felt a sharp spasm of remorse wash through him. Yes, many had died, and he often asked himself why Lancaster chose to spare him alone. Of course he knew the answer. The duke was like a father to him, and he a surrogate son. If any were to be spared it would have been him. But it didn’t lessen the guilt.
    Thomas answered his own query. “How like Lancaster to spare you. How many times had he pulled your hide from the nettles, eh? Isn’t this just once more?”
    The irate tone and the sneer on his face were peculiar for the man Crispin had known. But nine years had passed since Crispin’s disgrace and he realized he didn’t truly know Thomas Saunfayl any longer.
    He lowered his head. “You may be right. I certainly didn’t deserve it. But each day I pay my penance in my way.” He stepped closer and said in a quiet voice, “I should have listened to you. You told me not to follow the conspirators. You tried to warn me. I owe you for that, my lord.”
    Thomas began to laugh, a high-pitched, raw sound that had little to do with humor. “‘My lord,’ you call me. Ah, Crispin, I remember well my calling you by that title. How many