Blood Lance by Jeri Westerson

times?”
    There was nothing to say. Crispin felt the words scrape over him like nails over naked flesh.
    They both stood immobile for too long before Thomas surged away again, marching through the room, looking again for … something.
    “What can I help you with, Sir Thomas?”
    “It’s none of your affair, Guest.”
    “Forgive me, my lord, but it is very much my affair. I have been charged with discovering the murderer and this is the scene of that crime.” It wasn’t strictly true that he was “charged” with finding the murderer, but the sheriffs would be amused that he should try, and when pressed they would agree, he was certain. Partially certain.
    Thomas grimaced over his shoulder at him, one canine tooth digging into his lip. “You are the devil, Guest. You were always getting into affairs that were none of your business. So you make a living at it now, eh? Well.”
    “Yes. A living. I get paid my fee for discovering that which is secret and unknown. Being hired makes it my business. Sometimes unpleasant truths are uncovered. Sometimes secrets must be revealed. For instance. You are here in England when the rest of the chivalry are with my lord of Gaunt. I wonder why.”
    A hit. The knight’s face darkened. He strode up to Crispin and sunk a fist into his coat, hauling him forward an inch from his face. Harsh breath rasped over his cheek. “Who do you think you are talking to? Some lackey? I am a knight of the realm! And what are you?”
    “At your mercy,” said Crispin simply.
    All at once the man deflated. He released Crispin and stepped back. Passing a hand over his face he breathed in short, halting breaths. “I don’t know why I did that. F-forgive me, Crispin.” When he looked up again his gaze swept once over the woman and a feral expression overtook his face again. “What do you want?”
    “I … I have hired Master Guest.”
    He threw back his head and howled a laugh. “Indeed. Wenches hire you now, do they?”
    “I earn my coin where I may. Honestly.”
    “Honestly? A traitor’s honesty.” The remorseful expression was gone and he took on the cloak of a demon again. Crispin found it difficult to keep pace.
    Thomas gestured toward the woman. “I don’t want her here, Guest. Send her away.”
    Crispin hesitated. After all, he needed the woman in order to do his investigating. But looking at the man’s face and the struggle within him, he did not think he could argue. Before he had a chance to say anything, Thomas lunged at her.
    She let out a yelp as he closed his hands over her arm and thrust her toward the door. “Get out, wench! Out!” He kicked at her, and she sobbed on her way through the entry, hurt eyes meeting Crispin’s once before she was gone.
    Thomas slammed the door and stared at it, breathing hard before his shoulders sagged again. He scrubbed at his face. “I never meant to do that.”
    Crispin glanced once at Jack cringing against the wall. “For God’s sake, Thomas! What ails you? I have never seen you behave so. What has happened to you?”
    He bobbed his head in what Crispin took for a nod. “Very well. I … I must tell you, then. I must.”

 
    6
    SIR THOMAS LOWERED TO a stool, clutching his hands together over his thighs. Crispin made a gesture to Jack which the boy miraculously understood, and he fetched ale from a jug and poured it into a metal goblet he found on the floor. He handed it to Crispin and Crispin handed it to Thomas.
    The man didn’t even look at it before he drank, swallowing with long rolls of his throat and spilling some down his cheek and whiskered chin. He wiped at it with his hand and heaved a sigh.
    “You were right. I was in Spain. With the duke’s army.”
    Crispin watched him. His fingers traced over the florid patterns etched into the goblet until he let his hand drop between his legs. The cup was empty and he swung it dazedly from his fingers.
    “You should sit, too. God’s eyes, I’m sorry for my words,