Free Blood Lance by Jeri Westerson Page B

fire of their schemes and folly. “May I come in?”
    The flashing moment of recognition and happiness on seeing his friend again vanished instantly. Geoffrey was to see for himself how Crispin now lived. But there was nothing for it. He gritted his teeth and stepped aside.
    To his credit, Geoffrey did not flinch, said nothing. No cutting remark as he was wont to make. He knew Crispin’s situation, had met him again only last year after almost eight years of exile. Crispin reminded himself that it was good to see the man again when by all rights he was not truly allowed to associate with him for fear of bringing down the wrath of the crown upon him.
    Chaucer righted the stool and sat in it, resting his hands on his thighs. He wore a long gown with a few ornaments, a necklace, some rings, his jeweled dagger, the one Crispin had gifted to him over a decade ago. His eyes caught the glint of the family ring on Crispin’s finger.
    “Surprised?” he said, mustache curled in a grin.
    “Geoffrey!” Crispin was breathing hard. “You shouldn’t be here. It’s dangerous for you.”
    He waved Crispin’s fears away with the careless flick of his hand. “Don’t vex yourself over it, Cris. I’ll be fine. I was in the parish so I thought I’d visit.”
    Crispin frowned and slowly lowered to the chair opposite his friend. “Oh? I can’t imagine that this is the first time you’ve ever been to the Shambles. And you have never graced my door before this.”
    Chaucer picked at invisible lint on the fur trim of his gown. “I have never had occasion to ‘grace your door.’”
    “What are you up to, Geoffrey?”
    “Now why do you suggest I am ‘up to’ anything?”
    “Your presence here. Don’t try to lie to me,” he said, cutting off Chaucer’s reply. “What are you truly doing here, Geoffrey? Does it have anything to do with these councilors come to censure de la Pole?”
    The grin faded. “You are clever, aren’t you?”
    “I am often paid to be so. Tell me.”
    “Good God, Cris! No ‘how have you faired in the year since I’ve seen you, Geoffrey?’ No other words of greeting?”
    “Geoffrey, you know why. Why are you playing games with me? You know I have no patience for them.”
    “Indeed, not. You are the most impatient man I have ever met. Say,” he said, glancing around. “Do you have any wine?”
    “No!” He slammed his hand on the table. “Tell me what you are doing here!”
    “Very well. If you insist. I understand you have been talking with Sir Thomas Saunfayl.”
    Crispin’s senses went on alert. He was unprepared for the convergence of such diverse incidents. “I … yes. He hired me to find … something.”
    “Did he? Well never mind that for now. Where is he? Do you know?”
    “Why do you ask?”
    “Why do you hesitate to tell me?”
    “Because it is you who wants to know.”
    “Cris! I’m appalled. That I should garner such mistrust in you.”
    “Your patron name is Deception. I’ve known you a long time, remember?”
    Chaucer frowned. “This is most upsetting. Here I come to you in perfect friendship—”
    “Spare me, Chaucer!”
    “ Perfect friendship. Expecting to be treated as a favored guest. And there is no wine and no hospitality whatsoever.”
    “Things are different on the Shambles,” he growled.
    “Indeed they are. It is like another country.”
    “Are you going to tell me what you are doing here or do I toss you out on your ear?”
    “That temper of yours,” muttered Chaucer. “Very well, then. If you are going to growl at me I might as well tell you. I am in search of Sir Thomas to aid him. He is in very grave peril.”
    Chaucer’s words were finally making sense. Thomas had been nervous and ill-tempered about something. Crispin was finally going to get to the bottom of it. “I am sorry to hear that. I have not seen Thomas in some years but I did notice he did not seem … himself.”
    “No, indeed. I am here to defend him in court.”
    “What has