Blood Lance by Jeri Westerson Page B

raw stage with seams open and chalk marks where pleats would be added. Crispin realized this was to be Jack’s new coat. He looked it over, running his hands along the shoulders. A fine coat. The man was a decent tailor, at least. “Master Coterel,” he said softly, not wishing for a repeat of the scene at the haberdasher’s.
    The man glanced up and put his sewing aside. “Master Guest. You’re back. What may I do for you?”
    Anabel peeked down the stairs and soon she trotted down the treads to stand on the bottom step. She patted her hair under its kerchief. Those large eyes looked him up and down again.
    He noticed a window overlooking the Thames, similar to the one in the armorer’s shop. “I had hoped to look again in Master Grey’s shop for more clues, but the sheriffs’ men are locking it up tight.”
    “Yes,” she said, approaching him. “I saw that. I begged them not to but they refused. What will you do?”
    In answer, he walked to the window and opened the shutters. The Thames rushed briskly below. It wouldn’t be low tide until Compline.
    He looked to his right, and not too far away—about five feet, by his reckoning—was the armorer’s window. The shops cantilevered out over the Thames. He could not see the base of the bridge below him except for the piers in the midst of the water, but there were corbels jutting out from the shop foundation beams running every two feet. It would have to do.
    He leapt onto the sill and climbed down to the first corbel. Anabel screamed, as did her father, and they both dashed to the window and leaned over. She reached out with her arms. “Sir! What are you doing? Come back inside!”
    “I must get into the shop next door. Short of climbing down his chimney—which I do not think a wise choice—this is my only way in.”
    “But … but—” Her eyes were wide in fear, taking in the whitecaps of the Thames below.
    “Master Crispin!” cried Robert Coterel. “Don’t be a fool, sir. Return to the safety of our shop.”
    Crispin held on to the half-timbering of the outer walls. The mud and plaster that swathed the wattle beneath had been worn away by the weather and by the harsh water, and there were plenty of handholds. He dug his fingers into the threaded sticks and carefully stepped to the next corbel. It didn’t take him long to reach the armorer’s window. But as he suspected, it was barred. He took his knife from its sheath and slipped it between the crease of the shutter and lifted it as high as he could. Fortunately, the bar was a handy height and he slipped it up and off. He sheathed his knife and easily pulled the shutter open. With a toe in the wattle he lifted himself up onto the sill, and dropped nimbly onto the floor.
    “No! Anabel!”
    Crispin stuck his head out to see what the tailor was yelling about and saw the woman making her way as he had done over the corbels. She had rucked up her skirts, exposing blue stockings gartered just below the knee, with a bit of pale leg visible above. “What the hell do you think you are doing?” he cried.
    She spared him one swift glance before she turned back to the wall, concentrating on where to put her hands and feet as she carefully but deftly made her way closer to him. “I will go with you,” she said breathlessly. “I want to help you find Roger’s slayer.”
    He was about to chastise her again, forbid her to come along, but she was already past the halfway point. Damn the woman! Frustrated but admiring her at the same time, he held out his hand until she was able to grab hold of it.
    He yanked her up and hauled her unsteadily over the side, depositing her none too gently onto the floor.
    He helped her up and scowled. “That was an extremely foolish thing to do.”
    She pulled her skirt into order again, hiding her legs. “Foolish for you, or foolish for me?”
    He did not answer, but turned instead to the room. At least the sheriffs’ men did not seem to have disturbed the room’s