Crispin awakens in a strange bed after a night of passion when he finds a woman dead, murdered. Drunk, Crispin scarcely remembers the night before. Did he kill her? But when other young women turn up dead under similar circumstances, he knows there is a deadly stalker loose in London. Could it have to do with the mysterious Tears of the Virgin Mary kept under lock and key by a close-lipped widow, a relic that a rival family would kill to get their hands on? What does this relic, that forces empathy on all those surrounding it, have to do with murder for hire?
With Crispin shackled and imprisoned by the immutable sheriffs who would just as soon see him hang than get to the real truth, Jack hits the ground running and procures the help of a fresh young lawyer to help them solve the crime.
Crispin awakens in a strange bed after a night of passion when he finds a woman dead, murdered. Drunk, Crispin scarcely remembers the night before. Did he kill her? But when other young women turn up dead under similar circumstances, he knows there is a deadly stalker loose in London. Could it have to do with the mysterious Tears of the Virgin Mary kept under lock and key by a close-lipped widow, a relic that a rival family would kill to get their hands on? What does this relic, that forces empathy on all those surrounding it, have to do with murder for hire?
With Crispin shackled and imprisoned by the immutable sheriffs who would just as soon see him hang than get to the real truth, Jack hits the ground running and procures the help of a fresh young lawyer to help them solve the crime.
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Overview
Crispin awakens in a strange bed after a night of passion when he finds a woman dead, murdered. Drunk, Crispin scarcely remembers the night before. Did he kill her? But when other young women turn up dead under similar circumstances, he knows there is a deadly stalker loose in London. Could it have to do with the mysterious Tears of the Virgin Mary kept under lock and key by a close-lipped widow, a relic that a rival family would kill to get their hands on? What does this relic, that forces empathy on all those surrounding it, have to do with murder for hire?
With Crispin shackled and imprisoned by the immutable sheriffs who would just as soon see him hang than get to the real truth, Jack hits the ground running and procures the help of a fresh young lawyer to help them solve the crime.
Product Details
ISBN-13: | 9781847517227 |
---|---|
Publisher: | Severn House |
Publication date: | 11/30/2017 |
Series: | Crispin Guest Medieval Noir Series , #8 |
Edition description: | Reprint |
Pages: | 256 |
Sales rank: | 732,378 |
Product dimensions: | 5.40(w) x 8.40(h) x 0.70(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
A Maiden Weeping
A Crispin Guest Medieval Mystery Noir
By Jeri Westerson
Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2016 Jeri WestersonAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-84751-722-7
CHAPTER 1
London, 1389
Wednesday, 14 October
His head snapped up for the second time. Definitely drifting off to sleep. Too much wine ... as usual.
Crispin Guest licked his lips and settled his chin unsteadily on his hand once more. A horn cup sat at his fingertips. Looking down, he saw it was almost empty. What was left in the jug was, thankfully, just a hand's reach away on the spotty table. The pleasant sounds of others drinking and laughing around him reminded he was in his favorite tavern, and though it wasn't as often these days that he felt morose enough to drink alone, he found a certain comfort in the friendly noises around him, even if he himself never participated in their jovial camaraderie.
A contented lassitude kept his head muzzy, and that was fine. He didn't have to move, didn't have to think. Wasn't that the point of filling himself with wine at the Boar's Tusk?
He'd just about convinced himself that closing his eyes was a good idea when someone beside him nudged his shoulder. He flicked a lazy glance at the unfamiliar profile, ignored it, and settled down once more ... when it happened again.
He turned to the man in the dark cloak, clearing his throat to give him a rounding, when something hard was shoved at his gut.
'Here,' croaked the shadowed man with a hoarse voice. 'Take it. There isn't much time.'
'What? Take what?'
The thing was shoved at him again, and this time Crispin grabbed it. A money pouch, bulging with coins. His eyes widened and looked down at it. 'What in the name of Heaven is this?'
'Your payment, of course. By my Lady, I thought they said you were smarter than this.'
Affronted, Crispin swiveled to tell the man to shove the coin purse up his arse when the man said harshly, 'The address is inside the bag. Have done with it quickly. It must be tonight. And make it quiet.'
Blinking, trying to clear his head, Crispin took a deep breath. 'You mistake me, sir.'
'No, you mistake me. Do it, or I'll not be responsible for what happens to you. They want her dead and that's an end to it. That's enough silver, I'll warrant, to satisfy any man. Get it done. Tonight.'
'Now ... wait ...' It took too long to untangle his legs from the bench, and when he'd freed himself the man was gone. He looked down at the pouch and opened the top. A folded piece of parchment was there, sitting atop a clutch of silver coins. 'God's blood!' he gasped. He hadn't seen that much money in a pouch of his in over a decade.
Turning back to the table, he unfolded the parchment and flattened it out. It read:
Elizabeth le Porter
Watling Street between the roper and the eel monger, second floor
He shook out his head. His shaggy hair stuck to the sweat at his brow. What had just transpired? That man had obviously mistaken Crispin for someone else. A someone who, by all accounts, was some sort of paid assassin.
He looked down into the coin pouch again. This woman, whoever she was, was supposed to be killed and this the payment for it. It was God's mercy indeed that the man had stumbled upon Crispin instead of the real killer.
Crispin whipped his head up, looking around. Did anyone here have the face of a killer? He ran his hand over his cheeks and chin. God's blood, they all did. Wait, wait. The man had been looking for a 'type' of man. A man alone, as Crispin was. For a second time, he scanned the tavern, slowly, carefully. There were a few men who were alone. One appeared to be a rich merchant. Another some sort of student. And another ... dead drunk, his arms pillowing his head.
The fat merchant didn't seem likely, nor the timid student. And what was he to do in any case? Go up to each one, bow with an 'I beg your mercy, but are you, by any chance, a paid assassin?'
There was little choice in the matter. He had to find this woman, this Elizabeth le Porter, and warn her that someone was out to kill her. He could do that much at least.
He grabbed the edge of the table and pushed himself to his feet. Standing for a moment – gauging as to whether or not he could – he shoved away from the table, stumbling over the bench before he righted himself. He looked back regretfully at the jug of wine. Straightening his cotehardie with a tug, he angled his head to crack his aching neck. It was time for the Tracker to do his moral duty.
Sometimes, he really hated that sense of honor.
A light drizzle greeted him as he emerged from the noisy tavern. The cold served to awaken him, and he dragged his hood up over his head. Beyond the clouds, the horizon was streaked with the amber light of an autumn sunset. And just as he wondered exactly how late it was, church bells began to peal Vespers. Later than he thought, then.
His cloak had absorbed the friendly smoke from the hearth, but now the drizzle was drenching it to the odor of wet dog. He pulled it about him and shivered. He crossed West Cheap to Friday Street, skirting carts laden with dampening peat. Their thick, dark smell overpowered. Townsfolk bustled toward the eaves of shops and houses, ducking under their own hoods to get out of the rain.
Friday Street let out onto the pungent Watling, and Crispin stood at the 'T' looking up one way and down the other. Between a roper and an eel monger. He squinted into the mist unsteadily. What he truly wanted to do was get this business over with so he could go home and crawl into bed. Perhaps Jack would have some sort of hot stew waiting for him.
'Good old Jack,' he murmured, smiling sloppily. Why had he left the lad at home while he'd gone off to drink? Oh yes. He had been feeling particularly sorry for himself, for it had been a month since they had gotten a proper client, and the cupboard was bare yet again. He had begun thinking of lost chances, lost loves, and it had somehow spiraled downward into a wallow of pity. Jack had tried to assuage him with watered wine, but they had quickly run out. Poverty stank like a chamber pot.
'Not the boy's fault, though,' he decided, nodding his head. Jack didn't deserve him. He didn't deserve Jack. Only the two thoughts meant something entirely different.
He reached into his hood to scratch at his hair. What was he doing here again? Oh yes.
He staggered forward, checking the signs hanging before the shops. A plump woman with a furred chaperone hood slammed into him. 'Why don't you watch where you're going, churl!' she said, righting herself and inspecting him.
Crispin did his best to bow, but with nearly two jugs of wine in him, it was sloppy at best. 'I beg your mercy,' he said.
She scoffed. 'Drunk!' Pushing past him she ambled up the lane.
He bowed to her retreating figure with a 'Madam!' He watched her move along the muddy street before he swiveled back to survey the signs above the shops. Surely he should be looking for a coil of rope. Ah! There! A knotted rope, then. A piece of rope, as thick as a child's arm, hung from a hook above a door, dripping rainwater. Crispin checked and two doors down was a man with eels in a barrel, rolling those barrels into his shop for the night.
In between, was a door with no sign at all.
His shoulder was knocked again, this time by a man in a dark, billowing cloak. The man barely looked up from under his hood and grunted an apology. Crispin bowed with his hand over his heart, but the man continued on. Crispin tried to mind where he was going, waiting as a man pulling a rope leash tied around the horns of a particularly stubborn goat tugged his charge, splashing up mud and water until, with an angry grunt, he got behind the creature and kicked it. It trotted forward and he jogged to keep pace with it.
Once all was clear, Crispin walked up to the blank door and knocked. He waited, but after a time there was no answer.
The eel man had finally moved his barrels and turned toward Crispin. 'You'll never get an answer that way. Go in and up the stairs.'
He swiveled toward the man, a stout fellow in a blood-stained apron. He smelled of the Thames. 'Should I?'
'It's only a covered stair. Private like. It's never locked.'
'Oh. Much thanks.' He offered a jerky bow and pushed the door open. It was, indeed, merely a staircase with arrowslits in the wooden walls to let in the light. Crispin hugged the wall and trudged upward into the darkened passage, slipping only once. At the top of the stair he found another door and knocked.
The door opened, and a woman in a blue cotehardie stood in the doorway. He might have gasped in surprise at her unexpected loveliness, but he couldn't be certain if he truly had or simply imagined it. Large eyes enquired, and the curl of her brown hair lay over one shoulder, picking up the firelight behind her in a golden haze. 'Yes? Who are you?'
He rallied and bowed. 'I am Crispin Guest, demoiselle. Do I have the pleasure of addressing Elizabeth le Porter?'
She leaned against the doorsill and quirked a smile. 'The pleasure, is it?' Her speech was common, that of a merchant or servant, but it didn't detract from her beauty or her bearing. 'Aye. That's me. Oi, Crispin Guest. I've heard that name before.'
'No doubt. I am called the Tracker.'
'Oh! I have heard of you, then. Have you come here tracking?' It was said with a sly grin. Appealing.
'Well ...' The money pouch was still in his hand. 'The thing of it is, demoiselle ... may I come in to talk?'
She stepped aside and he found himself in a modest room, with a warm fire, a table, a coffer, and a sideboard. There was another room beyond with a bed with bed curtains. It was certainly better furnished than his own one-room lodgings. She closed the door, and the play of light touched her face with gold, the contours with shadow. 'Will you have ale?'
Thinking he already might have had too much to drink, he nevertheless nodded. 'If it's no trouble.'
'No trouble,' she said, and moved to the sideboard. She poured from a jug into two ceramic cups. She gave him one while she sipped hers. 'Sit, Master Guest. It is an honor to entertain you in my humble lodgings.'
He did so, gratefully. She sat opposite. It was comfortable in this warm room before the generous fire. He wondered what it was she did for a living, for the room was well-appointed, unexpectedly so. 'Demoiselle, I have strange news to impart to you.'
'Do you?' She seemed more amused by his presence than anything else. 'It's rather exciting, isn't it? A visit from London's celebrated Tracker. And so late in the day.'
He drank down his ale and set the cup aside. Leaning forward, he tried for a solemn expression, but it was difficult when faced with those expressive brows, that playful smile. 'I shouldn't quite characterize it in that way.' He cleared his throat. 'Demoiselle, this may come as a shock. But earlier this evening a man came to me with payment and instructions to find you. To find you and ... dispatch you.'
'Dispatch me? What does that mean?'
'To kill you.'
The cup lifting to her lips stopped. 'Kill me?' There was shock on her face, but something else as well. He had the impression that perhaps she wasn't all that surprised. 'And ... are you going to kill me, Master Guest?'
He sputtered. 'Of course not! I came here to warn you!'
She sat back in her seat again. 'Well, that is a relief.'
'Do you know of anyone who might wish to do such a thing? And to hire someone to do the deed?'
The smirk was back, and she lifted the cup all the way and downed the ale in one. 'Aye. Maybe I do. They'll not get away with it either! The nerve.' She looked hard at him. 'Tell me, is this the sort of thing that I can hire the Tracker for? But then again, I already know the vile cur what did this. It'd be a fine thing to send the Tracker to him. Leap out of his skin, he will. Teach him to try to frighten me.'
Crispin measured the money pouch in his hand and finally dropped it into the empty pouch at his belt. 'Indeed. And don't worry about payment. I have already been paid.' He patted the pouch.
Her eyes lingered there for a moment. 'Well now!' She rose. 'This calls for more ale.'
Crispin didn't complain as she filled his cup again. She sipped and watched him. He concentrated on sitting upright. 'I've heard quite a bit about you,' she said.
'Oh?' He drank. Either he was reviled for his past or distinguished for his present vocation. It was obviously the latter this time.
'Tell me.' Her voice was like dark silk. 'Tell me of some of your adventures.'
He sighed and sat back, laying his head against the chair. 'Shouldn't you rather tell me whom you suspect of sending an assassin to your door?'
The cup was at her lips. 'That can wait.'
He considered. He should be leaving. After all, he had discharged his duties. But he found himself still sitting. 'As for adventures, there are many. But, er, should we not concentrate on your safety first?'
'But I am safe with you, am I not? Tell me.' She scooted farther to the edge of her seat.
What to say? His first thought was to get her out of her lodgings, situate her somewhere else. But that thought fled through his spirit -muddled mind. Instead, he was awash in her flattery and the eager press of her excitement, her parted lips, her wide curious eyes. He wasn't usually given much for flattery, but a pretty woman offering it, and he in his muddled state ...
'Well, a time or two I was in fear of my life.'
'You? Afraid? I find that hard to believe.'
'It's true, demoiselle. There are some miscreants that are worth fearing. Caution is always wise. It keeps my wits sharp.'
She leaned so far over she was able to touch his hand, and then her fingers curled around his wrist. 'The tales I've heard ... you were so brave. Truly a knight.'
'As you know, demoiselle – indeed, as all London knows – I am no longer a knight.'
'And that was brave, too.'
He scowled. 'Treason isn't brave.'
'But you rose above it, didn't you? King Richard thought to best you, send you low. But you made something of yourself. He can't take that away.'
'I beg you, demoiselle, not to speak those sentiments aloud. That is dangerous talk.'
She tossed her head back. 'I heard the stories. How you fought for your mentor, the Duke of Lancaster. You supported him as king. And you paid the price.'
He hated speaking of it. Wanted to rise and take his leave, but the wine was settling hard within him and he couldn't muster the strength. 'That was a long time ago.'
Her hand was still on his wrist, but now it was caressing salaciously up and down his arm. 'Let's have a story, then. Tell me of your last exploit.'
'Demoiselle ...'
'Elizabeth,' she said shyly.
'Elizabeth. I think it wise that you find other accommodations for the night. I don't think it safe for you here. The man who paid me might discover his mistake.'
'Where would I go?' There was less of a question and more of an invitation in her gaze.
'I ...' Was he fool enough to offer? Better to put her up at an inn. He had the coin now. But there was something about her earnest expression that stayed the proposal. 'I could ... stay here ... I suppose. If you think it fitting.'
She threw herself from her chair to kneel at his feet. 'Very fitting. Ah, you are a gallant knight, Master Guest. Crispin, if I may call you so.'
'Not a knight,' he grumbled, but her compelling gaze caught him, enchanted him, and he leaned over to take her outstretched hands. 'I will do what I can.'
'Will you?' Was she leaning closer? That charming smile softened until her lips were parted most fetchingly. He wasn't certain who moved the rest of the way, but he found himself suddenly kissing her.
As her moist lips meshed with his, he tried weakly to reckon why he was kissing her, but with the opening of her lips and her tongue's exploration, he soon left off thinking altogether. His arms encircled her, and he heaved her up to his lap. That was better. He didn't have to lean over in that uncomfortable manner, could get considerably closer to her, fill his nose with the musky scent of her. A familiar heat carved down his abdomen and pooled below his belly with a surprising warmth. She shifted in his arms, and her fingers tugged harshly at his hair, keeping his mouth tight to hers.
Soon eager hands were at his cotehardie, unbuttoning, and lips followed those hands, nipping at his throat. He let her. There hadn't been opportunity of late to indulge in such pursuits. And he was too drunk to scold himself as to exactly why he shouldn't now.
He stumbled up from his seat, and still kissing, she maneuvered him to the other room, toward the single candle that lit the space with its soft golden glow, to the bed, to sweet rapture, and then oblivion.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from A Maiden Weeping by Jeri Westerson. Copyright © 2016 Jeri Westerson. Excerpted by permission of Severn House Publishers Limited.
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