Cup of Blood: A Medieval Noir: A Crispin Guest Medieval Noir Prequel

by Jeri Westerson

  After another long moment, he finally turned and walked away, stuffing the bread back into his tunic and dragging his feet. He choked on a prayer. Fear, caught up with other innumerable emotions, left him confused and mute.

  He looked back only once and shivered. Death stalked so close. Too close. He had been only too lucky himself. If that Tracker hadn’t said and that apothecary hadn’t cured him, he was loath to consider what would have happened to him.

  His steps were lighter as he thought about it. Gratitude surged within again. “And a prayer for Crispin Guest, too, I reckon,” he muttered. “If he hadn’t have caught me, I’d be a dead man now.”

  Turning the corner, he smacked right into the sheriff’s men. Disoriented for only a moment, he jerked back when one of the men pointed at him and said, “It’s him. Grab him!”

  Jack took no time at all to pivot on his heel and took off running.

  He was young and full of verve, but the sheriff’s men had a task set to them and they stayed close behind.

  Jack knew the city like no one else. No nobleman, no shopkeeper, knew it like he did. He scrambled down a narrow close and skidded low through an open arched window. He slid down and hit the straw-laden floor of the storeroom and kept running. Up the stairs and behind him, he heard them struggling to squeeze through the tiny window.

  He threw open the door and looked around. The abandoned storeroom often served as a dry place for him and others, and was strewn about with broken barrels, shattered pottery, and blackened floors where vagrants like him had dared to make small fires for warmth. He dashed for the front door, pulled it open, and fell into the arms of more of the sheriff’s men. Fingers closed over his arms, yanking him one way while another man yanked him the other.

  “Mercy! You’ll pull me apart!”

  “Don’t think it hasn’t crossed my mind to do just that,” growled one of the men in a mail hood. He gave Jack’s arm a particularly hard pull, one that nearly dislocated Jack’s shoulder. “Be still or I’ll wrench every limb from your body.”

  Jack stilled and sagged. It wasn’t his day. “What’s this about, Master? I haven’t the strength to fight you, so I’d like to know at least what you think I’d done.”

  The men who had finally gotten through the window of the storehouse met them at the door.

  “What you’ve done?” said the mail-coifed man. “Listen to him.” He gestured toward the men and they surrounded Jack with shadowed faces and dark intent. “What you’ve done? I’m arresting you in the name of the king and the Lord Sheriff. For murder.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Newgate prison stood high above London’s streets, flaunting its gray stone walls to the encroaching sun like an armored knight challenging all-comers.

  Crispin sauntered behind the nervous page all through the district’s streets. From time to time the boy looked back at him, pleading with desperate eyes for him to hurry.

  Crispin couldn’t help but look back over his own shoulder, wondering if the man in the robe was following somewhere behind.

  They arrived at the gates and the high walls. It was late morning and Crispin had yet to properly sleep, eat, or shave and now it seemed the day wore the possibility of being a long one.

  The messenger took Crispin up the familiar wooden stairway and through an arched door. The aroma of roasted meat clung to the room and when Crispin turned he saw the capon and a haunch of pork steaming on a platter. Nestled beside it sat a round loaf of white bread on a board and a wooden bowl heaped with glistening yellow butter. The sheriff poured himself a cup of wine from a jug.

  “My lord,” said Crispin with an abbreviated bow.

  “Crispin. Since you were a witness to this business, I thought you might be interested in its conclusion.” He quaffed the entire contents of the silver cup before he reached across the table for the bread. He tore a hunk, swathed it with butter, and shoved into his mouth. A shower of crumbs speckled his chest.

  Crispin shut his eyes. He wasn’t certain if his belly rumbled more from hunger or intemperance.

  “Are you hungry?” Wynchecombe asked, mouth full. “Have some. Here. Have some wine.” He poured Crispin a goblet and slid it across the table. Without a word Crispin took it, but before he touched the rim to his lips, Wynchecombe raised his cup and said, “To the king.”

  Crispin paused. He considered casting the cup away in a defiant gesture; laughing outright and returning the cup to the table untouched, leveling a steely gaze at Wynchecombe; cursing the king and taking a long quaff.

  In the end, he did none of it. He lifted the goblet politely in salute and murmured, “To the king,” before downing the wine. He felt it worth a little swallowed pride to get the taste of all of last night from his mouth.

  Wynchecombe chuckled, refilled Crispin’s cup, and slid the tray of meats toward him.

  “I shall continue to reserve my doubts about you,” said Wynchecombe after another quaff. He ran his finger under his wet mustache. “But I shall never doubt your cunning.”

  “I do not believe my cunning was ever in doubt,” said Crispin, tearing a leg from the capon and taking a bite. He muffled his groan of pleasure.

  Wynchecombe shook his head. “There you stand. Are you a mockery to the court or a defiant martyr? I have never been able to distinguish which, and the longer I know you the less I can reckon it.”

  “Do you truly know me?” he said quietly between mouthfuls.

  Wynchecombe laughed. He narrowed his eyes at Crispin over the rim of his cup. “No. I suppose I don’t.”

  Crispin continued to chew.

  Wynchecombe leaned forward. His large hand surrounded the cup of wine. “I’d like to get to know you, if for no better reason than to cut your legs out from under you from time to time.”

  Crispin raised his brows but said nothing while he ate.

  “Still,” said Wynchecombe, sitting back while Crispin stood. “You must admit, your circumstances forced you to learn new skills.”

  “Starving?” he said, mouth full. “Yes, it is a new skill. One I would rather not have learned.” He swallowed the meat in his mouth, set the stripped bone aside, and wiped his hand on the tablecloth. “Though in France one was often required to go without the comforts of roasted flesh or wine. Ah…but, of course, since you never did battle in the king’s army, you would not understand such sacrifice. My lord.”

  Wynchecombe’s face flushed and darkened. He threw down the slice of pork. It slipped off the plate and hit the floor with a slap. He grabbed the tablecloth and jabbed at his beard and mustache. “I did not summon you here to eat,” said Wynchecombe, “but to show you our prisoner.”

  “I am curious, my lord, who you apprehended. There were so few clues.”

  “Don’t be coy, Crispin. It doesn’t suit.”

  Taking one more hasty bite of food and one last gulp of wine, Crispin followed the sheriff out.

  They descended the stairs into a dim passageway that smelled of a blend of musty damp, old smoke, and urine. The stench caused a chill of remembrance to ripple down Crispin’s spine.

  The passageway opened into a slightly wider chamber with a smoky fire blazing from a center hearth ring. Four guards hovered near the fire, ghostly gray shapes that snapped to attention when they noticed the sheriff. “Bring out that prisoner,” he told them, and one man with a large ring of keys on his belt ran to comply.

  In a few moments the sound of dragging chains caught Crispin’s attention. When the prisoner reached the yellow nimbus of hearth light, Crispin snorted in disgust.

  Paler, even sickly-looking, the boy’s shackled feet lost all their youthful spring, but there was no mistaking the cutpurse Jack Tucker.

  “What have you gone and done, Wynchecombe?” The words left Crispin’s mouth before he could stop himself, but the sheriff, in his triumph, took no notice.

  “No one escapes from me, Guest. Especially murdering cutpurses.”

  Recognizing Crispin, Jack’s face lighted. “My lord!
” He threw himself at Crispin’s feet. “Tell the Lord Sheriff it is all a mistake. I didn’t murder nobody! I swear on the Holy Mother’s veil. I never killed nobody!”

  Wynchecombe leaned toward Crispin. “He told us he’d been to an apothecary. He said he was looking for a cure. For poison.”

  Crispin nearly laughed, but he turned his sharp nose toward Wynchecombe instead. “My Lord Sheriff, I can easily explain this otherwise guilty behavior of our young friend besides the actions of a murderer.”

  Amused, Wynchecombe cocked his head. “Can you? By Christ, Guest, you astound me. Protecting the likes of cutpurses now? How low will you stoop?”

  “Never have I said he is innocent. Of thievery, he is abundantly guilty.”

  “Aye, sir,” said Jack, bobbing his head. “I am that. Christ help me for the sinner I am.”

  “But of murder?” continued Crispin. “No.”

  “Then explain to me why such an innocent boy should seek an antidote to a poison to which he had no knowledge and no familiarity.”

  Crispin smiled. “He drank some. Or at least he thought he did.”

  The sheriff’s smug expression fell. “What? What is this nonsense? Why should he drink it himself? He knew how lethal it was.”

  “Precisely. Had he known our knight was dead from poison he never would have touched that wine. But I saw with my own eyes what he did: He cut the man’s purse, took a few baubles, and took a sip of wine before he left. Like me, he thought the man asleep, never suspecting the truth. He did not drink from the dead man’s wine, but another of the many on the table. Else he would certainly be dead himself.”

  Wynchecombe could deny it all. Crispin braced for it, studied his changing expression, and wondered just what he would do: Save face and hang Jack Tucker anyway, or be a good Christian and admit his faults?

  “Damn you!” Wynchecombe spewed at Jack. “Why didn’t you say?”

  “I did, m’lord! I tried to tell you, but I’m only a thief, not a great lord like this gentleman.”

  “And damn you, Guest. You could have saved me the trouble.”

  “You believe me, then?” Crispin denied himself the pleasure of reminding Wynchecombe that Crispin specifically told him to forget about Tucker.

  “Yes, I suppose I do.” The sheriff made a reluctant wave of his hand, and the guard took this as a command to release Jack from his shackles.

  Jack rubbed his bloody wrists and fell to his knees before the sheriff. “Thank you, m’lord! God’s blessing on you, m’lord.”

  “There is still this crime of thievery,” said Wynchecombe.

  “My Lord Sheriff,” said Crispin wearily, “he has made good. And he promised me not to thieve again. Didn’t you, Jack?”

  “On me mother’s heart, Lord Sheriff. I have learnt the error of me ways. I’m a new man.”

  Wynchecombe breathed through clenched teeth. “Just get him out of my sight.”

  Two guards shoved Jack in the direction of the arch.

  Wynchecombe tapped his foot and opened and closed his sword hand. “Look what you have done to me,” he growled. “You have made me magnanimous!”

  “Lord Sheriff…”

  “Oh, hold your tongue, Guest.” The sheriff turned and stomped back through the passageway to his warm hall.

  Crispin followed slowly and lingered in the doorway, studying the floorboards at his feet.

  Back in his tower chamber, Wynchecombe sat in his chair and brooded. He stared at the food getting cold.

  “Did you discover who the dead man was?” asked Crispin.

  “No. We found no clue to his identity.”

  Crispin pushed away from the wall and reached into his coat. “Perhaps this may help.” He held the pouch forward and pulled out the gold chain with the bejeweled cross.

  Wynchecombe sat up and snatched the cross. He turned it over in his hand and ran a thick finger over the inscription. “Where did you get this?”

  “Tucker may be no murderer, but he is an accomplished cutpurse. He took my money pouch before stealing the dead man’s. I gave chase and captured the boy along with his spoils.”

  Wynchecombe gave him only a cursory glance while examining the cross. “How enterprising of you.” He touched the engraved letters and muttered, “Pocillator.”

  “It means ‘cup bearer’.”

  “I know my Latin, damn you.” He examined it another moment more before asking, “But what exactly does ‘cup bearer’ mean? Is he a priest?”

  Crispin shook his head. “I know not. There was also this.” He showed Wynchecombe the pinky ring.

  “No signet. No inscription. This does not help.” Wynchecombe discarded both and grabbed the cloth pouch.

  Crispin noticed its embroidery for the first time and without a word of apology, seized the pouch out of Wynchecombe’s hand. “Let me see that.” He turned the pouch and ran his finger over the needlework. “I did not note this carefully before,” he said, pointing to the stitching of a red cross. “This is a Templar’s badge.”

  “What? Are you mad? There are no more Templars. Not since King Edward of Caernarvon’s day.”

  “Nevertheless, it is the Templar’s sign.” Crispin tapped his lip with a finger. “Why would a man carry such a thing?”

  “A family bequest?”

  “It is practically new.”

  “Part of his arms?”

  “What fool would add this to his arms? Surely ill-luck would follow him.”

  Wynchecombe turned the pouch again and shook his head. “Strange, indeed. I know of no knight who would own such a thing.”

  “Where is the body now?”

  “God’s teeth, Guest. What is on your mind?”

  “Nothing, perhaps. May I see it?”

  Wynchecombe relented and led Crispin outside and across a courtyard to the stone chapel. The body lay on a platform inside the dim interior. Two friars in dark robes knelt beside it. The clerics were startled to their feet when both men marched down the aisle and stopped before the corpse.

  “Our apologies, brothers,” muttered Crispin to the cowled men. The friars nodded and stepped aside for them, finding a new place at two prie-dieux beside a fat, white candle.

  Crispin cast aside the gauzy shroud covering the body and stared at the plain surcote. No arms or badge to indicate the man’s background, title, or name, but Crispin whispered a curse when he saw that the surcote was white. A Templar color.

  “That means nothing,” said Wynchecombe, seeming to read his thoughts.

  Crispin ignored him and examined the hauberk of finely linked rings. The clerics had dressed the man in his mail hood and hauberk and covered it all with his white surcote. They laid his hands over the hilt of his sword that now rested on his legs, point downward. He wore no shin armor. This would have been observed peeking out from under his merchant’s gown, Crispin supposed. His leather belt was cinched tightly about his waist, and on it hung a dagger and an empty pouch like a scrip.

  Just as he had completed his examination, the candles flickered, casting light across the dead man’s chest. Crispin bent lower. The shadows of some irregular stitching marred the otherwise smooth line of his surcote, as if something had been embroidered there. No, not on the surface but beneath, on the other side.

  Crispin reached for the corpse’s surcote but Wynchecombe stayed his hand.

  “Crispin, even you would not desecrate a body…”

  “I mean no disrespect,” he said more to the corpse than to the sheriff. “But there is something I must see.”

  Crispin pulled down the surcote, and looked on its inner face. There. The Templar’s cross stitched lightly over his heart in white. It matched the cross on the pouch.

  Crispin stepped aside so the sheriff could see it.

  “Mother of God,” Wynchecombe gasped.

  Crispin returned the surcote in place over mail, padded gambeson, and lambskin shirt.

  “I would not believe it—”

  “—if I had not seen it,�
�� Crispin finished. “It seems the Templars are not extinct after all,” he whispered, mindful of the friars.

  “But what does this mean? Now what’s to be done? Do we notify Rome? The Knights Templars were disbanded and abolished seventy years ago.” He bit his lower lip. “Perhaps we should send a message to the Archbishop of Canterbury…”

  “No. Do nothing yet.” With half an eye fixed toward the friars, Crispin’s voice drew low. “This business of an abolished order and a poisoned man. It smells of treachery.”

  Wynchecombe licked his lips and changed his weight from one foot to the other. “I do not like this.”

  “Nor do I. There is much to discover. Do I have your leave to go, Lord Sheriff?”

  The sheriff eyed him darkly. “Crispin. Leave it alone.”

  “I am the Tracker. It is now my vocation.”

  “Tracker of what? There is nothing lost here.”

  “A life is lost. A murderer is worth discovering.”

  Wynchecombe stuck his thumbs in his belt and stared down his nose. “You are mad to pursue this, especially since no one will pay you. Do you have leisure now to waste time on such? Leave it alone, I say.”

  “‘There is no great genius without some touch of madness.’”

  “Scripture?”

  “Seneca. Do you need me further, my lord?”

  Wynchecombe scowled. “Perhaps you would do better with Scripture and not with pagans, no matter how sage.”

  “Are you suddenly concerned with my soul, Lord Sheriff?”

  “What? What nonsense. Off with you. Let me see nothing of you and corpses from now on.”

  Crispin grunted his reply, but becrossed himself cursorily before leaving the chapel. Once free of Newgate, he breathed the smoky air of London with relief.

  His mind worked on Templars and poisons, of crosses and Latin phrases. The sheriff would not help him. Nothing unusual there. But this was no ordinary murder if it involved a long abolished order. Templars? He could scarce believe it.

  Poison might be administered by anyone. It could have been stealthily done with the victim none the wiser. It was best to discover just who was at the Boar’s Tusk last night…