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

by Jeri Westerson

  He smiled, hoping it might ease the boy’s tight fists. “Well…you have been very helpful, Jack.” He rose. “Are you thirsty? I have wine.”

  Jack jumped up. “Master, it is for me to serve you!”

  Crispin waved him away and poured two bowls, offering one to the boy. Jack stared but did not reach for it.

  “Take it, lad. Today, we are not master and servant. Lady Vivienne’s visit of last night put me in a congenial mood.” But his humor darkened upon thinking about the inn. “Although that mood is…fleeting.”

  Jack muttered and took the bowl. He slurped the wine. “Isn’t she a married lady?”

  Crispin raised the bowl and turned it, eyeing the color at rim height. He scowled at the sudden reminder of that which he conveniently put aside. “Yes. What of it?”

  “It seems that a man ought not to worry over his property when it goes about town.”

  “You have a strange morality for a thief.”

  “It isn’t my morality I’m worried over.”

  Crispin’s scowl deepened. “We will not discuss my personal business, Tucker. Nor my morality.”

  Jack shrugged. “Very well. Beg pardon.”

  Crispin sat in the chair and drank. “Lady Vivienne asked me to follow a man. It seems he possesses an object of great value that she says belongs to her. Yet she would not divulge the man’s name nor the object. I do not know why. But at any rate, I have been chasing wild geese, for she now says it was not this man that so interested her, but another who now has this mysterious object.”

  Jack took a slurping gulp of wine and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “And what is the object?”

  “She would not tell me.”

  “By the saints!”

  Crispin nodded and drew the dead man’s pouch from his coat. “I don’t know what to make of it all—these dissimilar cases—but Stephen St Albans is in the thick of all of them. This dead Templar had an object Stephen wanted as well as this Stancliff woman.” He showed Jack the embroidery and pulled out the pinky ring and the necklace with the cross, and showed him the words inscribed on the reverse.

  “What does that mean, ‘Cup Bearer’?”

  “It means he was the keeper of the Holy Grail.”

  Jack’s jaw hung and he becrossed himself. “Christ Jesus! Can it be true?”

  Crispin snaked the long chain back into the pouch and again tucked it inside his coat. “I see you have heard of the grail, at least. But whether it is the true grail, I am not certain. These Templars certainly believe it and they want it back.”

  “It’s gone then? Stolen?”

  “Yes.”

  “Aren’t they the men what abducted you?” He gestured toward Crispin’s wounded chest.

  Crispin gulped his wine and shook his head. He stared detachedly into the flames coming to life with more peat (and where had that come from?). He glanced at Jack. The fire warmed and foiled the shadows. But Crispin realized it wasn’t just the fire that gave the room its amiable quality.

  Jack was just a boy. A boy! Small, insignificant. He would barely have aroused Crispin’s notice back at his lost estates in Sheen. And yet here he was confiding in the churl. He would have laughed if he had thought it the least bit funny.

  Setting his mouth into a somber line, he turned the wine bowl in his hand. “No. It was not the Templars who did this to me. I have since met these Templars. No, the men who abducted me were the French anti-pope’s men. It seems they, too, want the grail for their own purposes.”

  “God’s holy eyes!”

  “Just so.” Crispin saluted with his cup and drank. He listened to the congenial quiet, to the fire crackling, and inhaled the satisfying aroma of wine before the unpleasant memory of his encounter with the sheriff and the grail intruded.

  Absently, Crispin rubbed his sore chest. “It all started as just a simple murder.”

  “Simple murder?” huffed Jack. “Is that what murder is? If so simple then why are so many now involved? Who is the murderer? Is it that man you hate? Stephen St Albans?”

  Crispin chuffed a laugh. “Yes, Jack. But that is not the half of it. The first man Lady Vivienne would have me find was the dead grail knight. I am almost certain of it.”

  “What has Lady Vivienne to do with these two gentlemen?”

  He thought of her encounter with the strange man in the tavern. Now he wished he had intruded. “That, my boy, is the puzzle.”

  Jack picked up his wine bowl. “That’s a fine bit of pastie, isn’t it? All these bits of dough pressed together.” He slurped the wine and licked his lips. “So this is what you do, eh? Tracker. Well, I suppose it’s a fair sight better than making a shoe or weaving cloth.”

  “It is also considerably more dangerous.”

  “Aye. It is that. But it is an occupation that makes a man think. Is there much money in ‘tracking’?”

  Crispin shrugged. “Look around you.”

  Jack did, but Crispin did not see disgust or pity in his eyes. To the boy, it was shelter and a damned sight better than the streets. “There is something satisfying in putting one’s mind to it instead of one’s back,” said Jack.

  Crispin watched the wheels turn in Jack’s mind. He smiled.

  The boy took a hasty sip and belched. “If you truly think the murderer is this man who betrayed you,” said Jack suddenly, “then he must have the grail, eh?”

  Crispin’s smile faded. The thought made him uneasy and he leaned back in the chair. “He must. It appears he intends to sell it or give it to the anti-pope.” He raised the bowl but didn’t drink. “Such treachery. It is one thing to conspire against another man. But to conspire against the seat of Peter…”

  “But if it isn’t the true grail…”

  “Who can know? Not I. I have yet to see it.”

  Jack drank thoughtfully, clutching the bowl with one hand. He wrapped his other arm around his upraised leg and scooted close to the fire. “It’d be funny, wouldn’t it?”

  “What?” Despite the warmth of the fire and the wine Crispin was wide awake.

  “It’d be funny if your Lady Vivienne were looking for the grail, too.”

  Crispin leaned back and closed his eyes. He raised the wine bowl to his face and drank the sharp taste of the pungent liquor. “Yes. Funny indeed.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Crispin groaned and rolled his head along the stiff, linen pillow. Jack lay curled up like a dog before the hearth. He and Jack had ended up drinking all the wine and talking half the night before Crispin dropped off from exhaustion somewhere in the middle of one of Jack’s recitations.

  He glanced at the shutters. Early morning. His lids hung heavy and his body felt lethargic, but he could not find enough sleep, and little wonder with so much on his mind. So many tangles and snags. This whole business made him uneasy. He wanted his revenge on Stephen. Of that much he was certain, but the circumstances did not sit well with him. He did not like the idea of Rosamunde being anywhere related to conspiracies and heresies. But she was there with Stephen at the Rose not too long ago, much more recent than the week she admitted to. Why did she say nothing of this? And then there was Vivienne with her secretive schemes.

  He threw his legs over the side of the bed and clutched his aching head. Rising, he stumbled to the washbasin and threw cold water on his face and stared at his reflection in the polished brass mirror hanging on the wall. His thoughts were as distorted as his image. He splashed more water on his face, shaved hastily and sloppily—nicking his chin—and toed Jack awake from his place before the fire.

  “I need you to do something for me,” he said to the drowsy boy.

  Crispin paced before the White Hart. He looked up through a cloud of breath at the window he reckoned was hers. The foggy morning revealed nothing beyond the inn’s slate roof but whiteness. The fog obscured the lanes, and London looked like it consisted of only a few alehouses and shops. Spires, smoke, even sounds were absorbed by the shrouding white.

  Crispin could sta
ll no more. He slapped his scabbard for comfort, strode through the door, and climbed the stairs to the rooms. Her manservant Jenkyn stood beside the door and stepped in front of it to block Crispin.

  “My lord. What business have you with my lady?”

  “My own. Announce me.”

  “My lord, it is early. I dare not.”

  “Then I’ll announce myself.” Crispin maneuvered around him and pounded his fist on the door.

  “My lord! Please!”

  “Who is there?” asked Rosamunde’s maid and she opened the door a crack. Crispin saw her eye stare at him and widen. The door swung to close but he thrust his foot and leg between the door and the jamb before it could close.

  “Leave us,” said Crispin and pushed the door open.

  “Master, I cannot—”

  He grabbed the maid by the shoulders and shoved her across the threshold into Jenkyn’s arms. Crispin slammed the door and bolted it. When he turned he inhaled sharply.

  Rosamunde stood in the center of the room. Her startling beauty always gave him pause and today was no different.

  She looked more annoyed than shocked. She wore her green gown again and a gold fillet encircled her head. She was softness and elegance; everything in its place.

  “You lied to me,” he said.

  “I?”

  “Do not compound them.” Her gaze fastened on him, following his step as he made a slow orbit of her. “Why did Stephen argue with the dead man? What do you keep from me?”

  She looked down. Her proud shoulders fell slightly, but her demeanor did not change. “Nothing.”

  The facts coursed through his head. Rolf at the Rose saw Stephen and Rosamunde together. Eleanor at the Boar’s Tusk saw Stephen arguing with the dead man and also saw a woman talking with the dead knight after Stephen left, but Crispin assumed this must have been Vivienne. Now he did not feel so certain.

  “Was it you?” he breathed. “Was it you who spoke to the man in the Boar’s Tusk? I found a witness.”

  She did not raise her face when she said at last, “Yes. It was me. I did talk to him.”

  Crispin closed his eyes and could not speak for several heartbeats. When he opened them again her expression remained unchanged. “Why?”

  She strode to the window and looked out through the open shutter. White, gauzy sunlight cast her skin in an ashen pallor. “Does it matter so much?”

  “Yes. It does. It could make you a murderer.”

  She whirled.

  “Rosamunde, you must tell me why you were there and what was said. I must know it all.”

  She shook her head.

  “Rosamunde.” He strode to her side and lifted his hands to touch her, but then thought better of it. Gently he said, “It is me, Rosamunde. Have you forgotten how it was with us? We could keep nothing from the other. What has changed that you cannot confide in me?”

  “I did not kill that man.”

  “I know that. But if you tell me—”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “I cannot tell you. Too much has changed between us. It is not as it was. It can never again be as it was.”

  “So much has happened. To the both of us.” Her words, her face, all etched an unpleasant picture in his mind. “Lord Rothwell. Was he cruel to you?”

  She shook her head and one tear traveled down the length of her pale cheek. It sat there like a diamond, didn’t move even when she shook her head. “I do not know what cruel is anymore. Anyway, it is past. He is dead.”

  “You should have sought me earlier.”

  “To what end? Were you to save me, Crispin?” She brushed his arm lightly before letting her hand fall away. “I was a married woman. To commit adultery—”

  “No, no. Never. Ah, Rosamunde, Rosamunde.” With the word “adultery” all he could think of was Lady Vivienne. So accessible, whereas Rosamunde was as unreachable as always.

  He inhaled a breath and held it. “What has Lady Stancliff to do with you?”

  “Lady Stancliff?” Rosamunde’s brow rose. “I only know her from court…and from your lodgings. I could ask the same of you.”

  He shook his head. “Never mind. Tell me about the Rose, then.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “You know me and yet you think me a fool? You were seen at the Rose only a few days ago speaking with your brother. What were you doing there?”

  “I needed to discuss a private matter with Stephen.”

  He turned and looked at her. The tear on her cheek finally fell, leaving a crooked, wet track down her face. Her damp lashes made her eyes appear bigger, deeper. He walked the few paces to stand before her. Cupping her soft face in his hands, he bent and kissed her full lips. A tender kiss, meant to last for only a moment. But she prolonged it, fingers reaching up to his chest and closing around his neck. She opened her lips in a bittersweet embrace. He wanted more, clutched her to take more, but he felt her fingers release him and he knew that he, too, must step away.

  She hugged herself and moved to the fire. “I cannot tell you what we spoke of. It is too private. It is likewise so what I said to Gaston D’Arcy, the dead man. You must believe me when I tell you our conversation had nothing to do with murder and everything to do with my private business, which I will not share with you and certainly not with that oaf of a sheriff.”

  The brief kiss did nothing to alleviate his craving. “I see. But that does not excuse your brother.”

  She scowled. “You only think him guilty because you hate him.”

  “It makes it easier to believe, but the evidence suggests it was him.”

  “Crispin! It is my flesh and blood you speak of!”

  “It is justice I speak of. Do you not wish to bring to judgment the slayer of an innocent man?”

  “Of an innocent man, yes.”

  He measured her words and slowly approached. “Do you mean to say that Gaston D’Arcy was not an innocent man? In what way?”

  “Just go, Crispin! What do you think to gain by coming here like this, manhandling my poor maid? What are you thinking?” She wiped hastily at her face. “Did you think that we would grow close again once you hanged my brother?” Her brow wrinkled unpleasantly. “We are different people now, you and I. I loved you then. And yes, there is still something alluring about you; something earthy that always compelled me. But I do not love you, Crispin. Not anymore. You are too angry to love. Too lost. And I am too weary to try.”

  The pain in his heart rose to his throat and it thickened momentarily before he could speak. “I have been charged with finding Stephen,” he said, voice coarse, “and find him I will. And if he be hanged…” He stalked to the door and grasped the latch. “If he be hanged, I will tie the noose myself. You and your brother can both go to Hell.”

  He pulled the door open and the maid fell into the room, followed by Jenkyn. They chattered like angry squirrels but he pushed them both roughly aside and departed.

  Outside, Crispin mashed the muddy lane with his boots. The case started as an interesting diversion, but now all of it disgusted him with its compounding twists and deceptions. He could trust no one, not a soul this side of Purgatory.

  “This investigation is cursed,” he spat, following the winding alleys and lanes.

  Though now it was afternoon, few traveled the streets amid the dense white fog. Crispin trudged with head down and hood up. He listened to his own feet tramping. So long in fact that it took some time to notice the unmistakable echo to his steps.

  Subtly he hurried. The echo fell slightly behind at first but sped to match his pace. Crispin remembered the man with the sword lit by a cresset’s flame, and he cursed under his breath that he lacked a sword himself.

  He rounded a corner and flattened against a wall, waiting for the moment his shadow appeared. He felt like pummeling someone and he did not care who.

  He listened. Steps approached and stopped.

  Tensing, Crispin expected a figure to pass by. The moment stretched. He leaned toward the edge of
the wall and peered into the thick mist.

  No one.

  Unsettled, Crispin reached the Rose and sat by the fire with his back to the hearth and tipped a cup of wine to his lips. He watched patrons come and go but did not see Stephen. After two hours he stretched his back and left, kicking the tavern door shut behind him.

  The fog never lifted since Crispin first entered the Rose and it tumbled down the narrow lanes almost as if following him to the Spur. He did not bother to scan the room for Gaston D’Arcy, the Frenchman in the foreign gown. He knew he would never return. Crispin instead climbed the stairs and walked across the gallery to stop in front of the room he visited before. He glanced at the floor surprised. Crouching on one knee, he ran his rough fingers across the floorboards and found the red threads. He tried the latch. Locked. With his knife’s blade he slipped it between door and jamb and managed to lift the bolt.

  Quickly he assessed the room, but nothing had changed except for the shrine. The crucifix, the candle, and the velvet cloth were gone.

  He frowned and left the room, thinking deeply. He slowly descended the stairs and left the Spur. He trudged to a privy at the edge of the riverbank, hitched up his coat, pushed his braies aside, and relieved himself into the filthy pit, sighing at the futility of the past several hours that were as black and as awful as the hole before him.

  He tied his braies and turned to leave when he heard shouts outside his door.

  Men scuffled and struggled just beyond the privy and he opened the door a crack in time to watch a man roll by. Two others picked him up. Loose ropes were bound to the escaping man’s wrists, their free ends dangling like tassels. The two tried to drag the fugitive away, but the man swung at them. His fist mashed one in the nose and down he went. Then the other pursuer threw a wild punch and missed.

  Crispin smiled grimly. He pushed up his right sleeve and opened the door. With relish, he smacked his fist in the face of one of the aggressors. A spray of blood fanned from the man’s mouth and he tumbled backwards into the mud and lay still.