[You are about to experience an unusual sort of interview. Instead of the usual "she asked, he answered, tthen she asked something else" Leofwen, our Saxon tavern keeper, will receive a visit from the interviewee, and she and others in the tavern will carry on a converation. We want to do more of these in the future, so if you have a character you would like to have inexplicably wander into a Saxon Tavern, let us know.]The place: The Blue Lady Tavern, Lawrencium, Críslocland
The time: Early evening, the late 8th century
The guest: A real Guest, the protagonist of "VEIL OF LIES; A Crispin Guest Medieval Noir" by Jeri Westerson, (St. Martin's Minotaur, in bookstores October 28) See the author's blog "Getting Medieval" http://www.jeriwesterson.typepad.com/ or Crispin's blog http://www.crispinguest.com/
Leofwen looked up as the drape of leather that served as the tavern's door slapped the jamb behind the man just entering.
His eyes took a moment to adjust to the dimness of the small room lit only by a fire pit and rush lights. That gave the middle-aged tavern keeper a chance to look the fellow over. She glanced at the tousled bard who sat at the far end of the trestle table and raised one eyebrow.
The oddly dressed (for Saxon England) man finally moved into the tavern, giving the other customer a quick glance, and sat on the bench at the near end of the table.
Leofwen reached around to pick up a clay pitcher and two bowls from a rough shelf on one wall. She came over to the newcomer with a welcoming smile."A bowl of my own good Saxon ale for you then, stranger? And maybe a taste of my mutton pottage, hot and tasty?" She put one of the bowls down in front of him."Mind if I share a bowl with you?" she asked. Not waiting for an answer, she sat across from him and poured them both a bowl of a dark foamy brew.
"Suit yourself, Madam." He scooped up the bowl and took a long quaff. Wiping his lips with the back of his hand, he leaned heavily on his elbows, cradling the bowl in the bow of his arms. He stared within the cup, watching the foam pop and settle. After a long, silent moment, he looked up and seemed surprised to find her there still. "Was there something you wanted?" His gruff tone seemed to serve as a shield, barring further inquiry. His gray eyes challenged hers.
Leofwen eyed the man. "Good fellow, I make it my business to get to know a little about any stranger who comes into my tavern, and in particular those who look, shall we say, vexed about something?" The look on the tavern keeper's face was inviting and cautious at the same time.
The man seemed to note the smile lines at the corners of her eyes. She extended a work-worn but clean hand to him. "Welcome to the Blue Lady Tavern. I am Leofwen. I own this establishment. And you are?"
"Impolite, apparently. Forgive me, Madam. I am Crispin Guest." He nodded his head in a bow. "And I am a stranger here." He fingered the bowl and turned it twice. "I am...not at ease being questioned. Usually, it is me doing the asking." He chuckled, and the expression changed the demeaner of his entire face. The black hair framed it and was meatly barbered to below his chin. But his red cotehardie was worn, its nap shiny in places, it collar and elbows frayed. His accent did not comport to his appearance, for he looked like some haggard merchant but spoke like a lord. He looked up again and the tavern keeper could plainly see the shadows haunting his eyes. "You may have no reason to have heard of me," he went on, "but I am known as the Tracker. I am something of a private sheriff. For a fee, I track down lost objects and the criminals who steal them." He rolled his shoulders and picked up the bowl again. "It is not much of a vocation but it is honest work." He gulped the ale again and stared across the table.
Leofwen waited. When his eyes caught hers again he still seemed surprised at her presence. "Have I satisfied your curiosity?"
To his surprise the man who had been sitting at the other end of the table rose and came to sit next to Leofwen. His face was alight with interest, his tousled red curls framed a freckled face and a long ago broken nose. "Och, a tracker then? A finder of lost things so you are?" The accent was unquestionably Ulster.
Seeing Crispin's look of annoyance at the insertion, she explained, "Forgive me, good sir. This is Shannon O'Neill, one of our lord king's bards. And I suspect he would like to know more about what you do."
"And if you be here in Lawrenium to do it," the bard added as he sipped the bowl of ale he had brought with him.
Crispin lifted the bowl to his lips only to find the cup empty. Leofwen quickly filled it again and sat, eager for his reply. His look of gratitude was nearly heartbreaking.
"I am only passing through back to London. I am London born and raised," he said, eyeing the bard with some suspicion. "I do not generally leave the city. Not anymore." He wriggled uncomfortably on the bench and suddenly rose, startling his host. He made his way to the fire and stood over it, warming his hands. From this vantage, Leofwen could plainly see the loose strands dangling from the hem of his cloak; the patched stockings; the worn leather of his boots. Clean-shaven he might be, but he was far from the lord he pretended.
The brooding stranger was silent. When he spoke at last, even in a low timbre, it startled her again. "There had been a time," he said softly, "when I traveled often. I went on pilgrimages and fought in battles for my lord Lancaster." He jerked up his head. His expression told her he had spoken too much, but a lop-sided grin soon replaced his indescretion. "Your ale is strong, Madam. It appears to have loosened my tongue as well as my good sense. Very well. If it must be--and it is unlikely I shall venture here again--perhaps I may speak more plainly." His fingers splayed over the curls of smoke. "I have a history. A history yon bard there might well wish to translate into song, if only as a warning to others." He scanned the tavern, and finding only the three of them, huffed a sigh. "Eight years ago, I was a knight and lord."
Leofwen interrupted, "Let me get more ale... and mayhap some cakes." As she dashed out the back door of the rough timber and thatch building, the Irishman grinned. "I will get me lute."
Crispin had hardly had to pause one breath before his audience, ale, cakes and lute in hand, were back in their seats and rapt. An upward glance revealed a shapely young woman with provocative clothing leaning in the doorway Leofwen had just passed through. A skinny girl was trying to see over her shoulder. Leofwen supplied, "My servants, Lulla and Milthryth."
Shannon invited eagerly, "Go on then."
Crispin stared at the growing audience with widened eyes. But when Leofwen refilled his bowl and handed it to him with a friendly nod, he took it with thanks and swallowed a healthy dose. "Well then." His fingers whitened over the bowl. "I was raised in my lord of Gaunt's household having lost both parents at an early age. I was too young to run our estates in Sheen, and so I was fostered by the duke and raised as his own until my majority. I learned my fighting skills under the duke's personal tutelage and much more. Languages, rhetoric, the sciences. I learned loyalty at his footstool and I learned that lesson...perhaps too well." He paled and took another long drink, hiding his face in the bowl. Licking his lips, he began again. "When the old king died, it left his ten year old grandson as the heir when I well knew my lord of Gaunt was the superior statesman. He should have been the heir. And then I got wind of a...well. A conspiracy, for lack of a better term, to put my lord on the throne. I was young, but my youth cannot excuse all. I joined with them." He heard their gasps and accepted them. His eyes stared steadily into the flames, glittering from their flickering light. "But the conspirators were discovered and one by one they were arrested, tried, and executed. And then they came for me. I spent a considerable time in Newgate, even praying for the moment of death. And when I was dragged in chains to face the new boy king, I fully expected it to be the last thing I would see. But my lord had spoken for me, pleaded for me. My life was to be spared. But not so my title or wealth. That was all taken. I was to be alive but be nothing. I was to be banished from court but not from London. Bewildered and beaten, I was thrust upon the world like a new babe. Yet even an infant has those to love and care for him. I had none of those things. I had only my wits and that seemed a poor substitute."
He drank again and the others watched, frozen by his incredible tale. The bard clutched the neck of his lute and bit into his lower lip. "It took a surprising amount of time for me to realize about my fate," said the stranger. "Others in similar straits would have taken to the highway to rob good people such as yourselves. But I could not. My honor--tattered though it was--meant more to me than that. Instead, I took menial jobs, lowly. It took many years to find work as a scribe for rich merchants. And then, one fateful day, one master lost a valuable bit of jewelry, and by using my wits, I discovered not only the culprit but where the gems were hidden. It was not long thereafter when other merchants offered to hire me not for my scribing skills, but to find lost objects. I saw there was a need for a private sheriff, if you will; a man to whom one might go in secret in hopes of discovering the lost. And when sometimes these jobs turned to murder, I made it my task to find those culprits as well, much to the chagrin of the Lord Sheriff."
The tavern wench commented to the skinny kitchen maid behind her, "Not at all shy, is he?"
Leofwen glared at her. Lulla's saucy look told a tale of its own. But Leofwen returned her attention to the man. "Methinks Shannon here has found himself in a similar spot, but that's a tale for another time." She looked at the bard who simply nodded. "Marry, good sir, are you well rewarded for your.. um.. clandestine efforts?"
He nodded. "Sixpence a day. Plus expenses, when needed. For instance, the horse outside is not my own. That is paid by my client, to whom I will return it anon. I return to London for an intriguing case--" He took in his audience again and swayed back toward the fire. "Of which I can make no mention. It is a personal matter. But I can tell you this." His words slurred at the edges. Leofwen had the feeling that he would not be as free with his words were he not plied with ale. "It involves an object of...holy significance," he said and then shook his head ruefully. "Doesn't it always."
Crispin found that the Irishman had deftly taken his ale bowl and without looking at her, beckoned for Leofwen to fill it again. Shannon's blue eyes were riveted on his. He had a mischievous smile on his lips. He breathed, "Now, then, is that not how it is, every time, indeed it is. Do tell us.. mayhap of some help we can be." The man glanced over at the tavern keeper and winked. Then he put his arm around Crispin's shoulders and guided him back to the table.
Crispin seemed somewhat affronted at the man's familiarity but the ale in his belly, no doubt, curbed any rebelliousness. He complied and slowly sat. A bowl was pushed at him again, and without seeming to think on it, he took it up again. "Yes. These relics. They are my curse. Though my friend Abbot Nicholas tells me it is God's way of speaking to me. That I am somehow destined to serve. Rubbish. I do not believe in the power of these objects. A piece of cloth is only a piece of cloth. Why would God have need to speak in such ways? And to me, a disgraced knight."
Leofwen had given the bard a smug look when Crispin had expressed his doubt, while the Irishman blanched and crossed himself. This done, they turned back for the rest of the story.
He sagged in his seat and reached slowly for a bit of cake, tearing off a few crumbs and bringing them to his mouth. "I do not know of what help you can offer," he said around the cake. "I work alone. Or...at least I did until that cutpurse came into my life."
Crispin looked into his bowl and laughed. "This ale, Madam, must be enchanted, for I have never spoken so much in my life!" He shook his head, his thick black hair slashing his reddening cheeks. "Where was I? Oh yes. Jack Tucker. That boy. Have you ever befriended a thief, Master Shannon?"
Shannon smirked. "Does me own wastrel of a Da count? Aye, any man of the road, which I have been, has strange bedfellows." He cast an offended look at Lulla, who had snorted at his remark.
Crispin smiled good-naturedly. "Then perhaps he is a match for young Jack. I saved him from the sheriff and he bonded himself to me as a servant. His skills do come in handy from time to time. A young lad of the streets. An orphan. And so we both are." The company of servants, tavern keeper, and bard had edged closer and Crispin colored. "I fear I have disrupted your day enough. It is time for me to move on." He stood unsteadily and took a coin from his money purse. But as he tried to hand it to Leofwen, he swayed dangerously.
"Now, now, just a moment, my good man," Leofwen chided as she reached to steady him. "We are not so busy as to overlook a paying customer's needs. Why don't you sit down.. or I can make up a pallet for you near the fire pit."
Lulla stepped up and put her arms around Crispin's shoulder. "Tut tut, mye own pallet is where this wayfarer may rest. Come along then, my man."
Crispin reeled as he tried to lean his head back to look at her. He let her lead him away.
"Any satisfaction of himself she'll not get, so she won't," Shannon remarked.
Leofwen shook her head. "You of all people know what Lulla can accomplish." She looked back at the wench and her companion. "I would for certës like to know more about that man's adventures..."
And if you would like to know more about Crispin Guest, Jack Tucker, and their adventures, read "VEIL OF LIES; A Crispin Guest Medieval Noir" by Jewri Westerson, (St. Martin's Minotaur, in bookstores October 28) See the author's blog "Getting Medieval" http://www.jeriwesterson.typepad.com/ or Crispin's blog http://www.crispinguest.com/
0 comments:
Post a Comment