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

by Jeri Westerson

  “Ah! Then I would remove his name from the hunt for the grail. So that means he didn’t kill no one for no grail.”

  Crispin nodded.

  “So if Sir Stephen didn’t want the grail,” Jack continued, “then why did he kill him?”

  “That has yet to be seen, for he will not say.” He tapped the slate with the quill nib. “By Lady Stancliff’s actions, it appears she well knew of D’Arcy’s Templar history but believes, for some reason, that the grail belongs to her, and may stop at nothing to get it. She is a woman of questionable character.”

  Nodding, Jack fingered the edge of the slate. “That sounds like you might be blaming her for the murder.”

  “I very well might be.”

  “But Master! What of Sir Stephen?”

  “It does not remove the possibility that they worked together.”

  “But you said Sir Stephen knew naught of the grail.”

  “Lady Stancliff can be very persuasive.”

  Jack whistled. “Aye. You have not yet mentioned about Lady Rothwell. You were hired to find her brother and find him you did.”

  “Yes. She was seen arguing with Sir Stephen during the time she said he was missing. Obviously, he was missing for far less time than she admitted. She must have feared something in that brief disappearance. Yet she, too, was seen talking to D’Arcy.”

  “How does she know him?”

  He shook his head. “She will not say. She says it is a private matter.”

  “The grail?”

  “I know not.”

  “There’s something I left out. What of the dead apothecary, Rupert of Kent? I think he was killed to silence him.”

  “Very good, Jack.” Crispin drew another line on the slate. “Rupert was indeed killed for that reason so that the identity of the person to whom he sold the poison would remain a secret.”

  “How about the dagger that killed him?”

  “It was of very ordinary origin. It was even possibly owned by Rupert himself. No clue there.”

  Jack studied the slate and cocked his head, sipping his wine. “So what’s this you’re at, sir?”

  Crispin chuckled at the boy’s audacity. “It is a diagram of what transpired so far and those involved. It’s everything you just talked about.”

  “God blind me!” Jack stared at the slate with renewed interest, though Crispin knew he could not read the names.

  “You said you came to a conclusion, Tucker. Do you now name a different murderer?”

  “Well, sir, you say it is Stephen St Albans but I think it is the anti-pope’s men. They are the ones that wanted the grail so badly. For the murderer must know something of the grail as it seems of great import. Whether it exists or not. And as you said, Stephen don’t seem to know ought of the grail.”

  “I see.” He eyed Jack with admiration. Not only was Jack greatly skilled with nimble fingers, but his mind seemed equally so. Crispin supposed it would have to be for Jack to have survived on his own in London at so young an age.

  Crispin looked at the slate and pushed his hair back from his forehead, flattening the dark locks with his hand. “I thought this list would help. There is still something missing. Something I am forgetting.”

  Slurping his wine, Jack returned to the fire. “I say that you do not worry further over it. You have captured your murderer and will get your revenge. Either Stephen is lying about the grail or there is no grail. Either way it don’t affect you. Forget the grail. Take the money you have and go in hiding for a time until this blows over. You will be in good stead with the sheriff and you will have made some coin from it all. And you will remain alive.”

  “But what of Rosamunde?”

  Caught in mid breath, Jack deflated. “Ah now. The lady. I did not consider…”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said tossing the slate on the table. “She no longer loves me and will not have me. She said so.”

  “And Lady Stancliff?”

  “Lady Stancliff,” he said, though it came out a growl. “I must go to see Lady Stancliff. I need some answers. I’m off to the Bell. Stay by the fire and warm yourself, if you like. You have earned it.”

  Crispin headed down the lane toward the Bell, never considering what he was going to say. Instead, his emotions took over and bubbled in his chest like a kettle’s dancing lid. The feeling of being a cuckold remained strong, though the lady had a husband and only Lord Stancliff had the right to any feelings on the matter. But still. If de Marcherne paid her a call… Crispin thought of that night at the inn when Vivienne met a mysterious man. He was now fairly certain it was de Marcherne.

  Crispin talked briefly with the innkeeper and found her chamber door. When he knocked, he heard her voice calling out, expecting a servant.

  Crispin entered, closed the door behind him, and leaned against it. “Vivienne.”

  She whirled. “Crispin!”

  He noticed chests and baskets packed and stationed by the door. “Yes, Madam. It’s me.” He strolled forward and, with a smile, curled his arm around her waist and yanked her hip against him.

  She tried to extricate herself. “Crispin. What an unexpected surprise. How did you find me?”

  “I am the Tracker. Is a lost lady so difficult?” He nuzzled her neck, sniffing first the aroma of lavender, then perspiration. “Vivienne.” He raised his face and kissed her, though he noticed the return of that kiss seemed distracted and less ardent than before. “Since last we met,” he whispered and nipped her lips, “I have not been able to get you out of my mind.”

  She stood stiffly against him with his arms wound tightly around her. “Truly? That is very flattering, though I regret we should have become so entangled. I am a married woman.”

  Crispin drew back to look at her askance. “Surely this should have occurred to you before. It is rumored that I am not the first.”

  “Well. Rumors….”

  “Are you leaving, Madam? I see your baggage is prepared.”

  She laughed nervously and touched her throat. “I must return to my estates. I have been too long away.”

  “But the object of great value? Did you find it?”

  “Alas, no. I must leave it for now and return at a later time.”

  His hand inched toward her wrist, grabbed it, and shoved her arm up her back. She cried out but he yanked her hard against him. “What troubles you, sweeting?” he said, teeth clenched. “It did not tax you to be so close to me the last time.”

  “You are hurting my arm!”

  “Am I? It is only to impress upon you the seriousness in which I take my work. Though I was diverted before, I will keep my attention focused this time.”

  She struggled but could not free herself. In any other circumstance, Crispin might have found such physical contact delightful, but he knew he had to keep his anger in check. He did not wish to inflict any real damage. Not yet.

  “So tell me,” he said, tightening his grip on her wrist. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “No. I told you…”

  “I hope you do not intend to lie to me further. I have no more patience for it. Tell me again. Do you have the grail?”

  “The what?”

  “The Holy Grail. Where is it?”

  She smiled even in her agitation. “Holy Grail? You can’t be serious.”

  “I am extremely serious.”

  “You thought I sought the Holy Grail? Blessed Virgin!”

  Crispin still held her tightly, but now he began to doubt his reasons for doing so. He released her and stepped back. Vivienne lowered her arm and rubbed her wrist.

  “What, then? What had you to do with Gaston D’Arcy?”

  She raised her shoulders but only to heave a great sigh. She turned from him. “Is it so important?”

  “If your neck is at all important to you, for I shall surely break it if you do not say!”

  Her lips evened to a tight line. “Gaston D’Arcy was my lover. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  E
xpected, but it still hurt. “Did you know he was a Templar?”

  “No! I knew he was a secret knight, for he kept his armor hidden and I saw the cross upon his surcote, but it was a game to me. Never could I have dreamed…”

  “Then what went awry? Did he tire of your promiscuity?”

  She delivered a hearty slap to his face. Crispin did not react except to feel the cold sting of her hand and the hot aftermath that radiated outward from his cheek.

  “As a matter of fact,” she said, resting her fist in her hip, “I tired of his.”

  Her expression appeared defiant, but with an underlying streak of pain, the kind on a child wrongfully punished. Something about it stabbed his heart with empathy. He knew he should say something. He wanted to ask about de Marcherne, but somehow, to utter his name now when she looked so vulnerable, seemed unnaturally cruel. Instead, he said nothing.

  He approached slowly. She did not react at first, but allowed his arms to encompass her. Stubbornly, she would not raise her face to his, so he captured her chin between his thumb and forefinger and lifted it. Silver tears glistened on her cheek, darkening her long lashes. Her eyes were her history, written in the pain of almost as many hurts and humiliations as he had suffered.

  Her red lips parted. To curse him? He would never know. Leaning forward, his mouth took possession of hers with unexpected fervor. It did not take long for her arms to encircle his neck, and once they did, his arms tightened about her and mashed her breasts against his chest.

  He remembered unlacing her gown, and she pushing his shirt out of the way, and very little else but the sweetness of passionate oblivion.

  When Crispin awoke, he forgot where he was. He raised his head and noted the darkness of the room. No candle burned and the fire had dispersed to warm ashes.

  Wrapped in the sheet and nothing else, Crispin lay for a while. Once the cloud of pleasure dissipated from his head, his memory returned.

  A sinking feeling suddenly thumped his gut. “Vivienne?” he called weakly.

  But even a cursory look about the room confirmed that she, along with her baggage, had vanished.

  Another perusal made Crispin’s lips part with dismay. “God’s blood!”

  All of his clothes were gone as well.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “It’s not like me to say ‘I told you so,’” Jack rattled, “but breaking one of the Almighty’s commandments never bodes well.”

  “For God’ sake, be still, Jack!” Crispin’s angry voice muffled under the shirt he pulled over his head.

  “Master Kemp was kind enough to give you them clothes and shoes. A proper payment should be made to him to set things aright.”

  “Why don’t you just ‘come by’ more of his coins and balance the books!”

  “I would, Master, but you told me not… Oh, I see. You are angry with me. Well, don’t kill the messenger.”

  Crispin wrestled with the shirt’s laces. “No. I am not angry with you, but with myself.” He sat heavily on the end of the bed and pulled on each stocking, tying them to the braies’ waistband. “I let myself be duped by a woman!”

  “She could not have gotten far.”

  “The tavern keeper said she left before nightfall.”

  “Then she would have to stay at an inn or a monastery along the way to her estate, eh, Master Crispin? You said they were near Chelmsford.”

  “Yes.” He yanked on the oversized coat and pulled mercilessly on the buttons. “But I will never be able to catch up to her without a horse and that takes money.”

  Jack absently brushed the dust from Crispin’s shoulder. “There’s the money from de Marcherne.” Crispin’s glare told him that topic was prohibited. “Or…er… you could talk to the sheriff. He might see his way to lending you an animal if it was on the king’s business.”

  Crispin sighed heavily and sat back. His body sagged, crumpling the coat. “That is good advice, Jack. And I must pursue her.”

  “Aye, Master. This makes me reluctant to tell you that Lady Rothwell has sent a messenger saying she wants to see you.”

  Crispin dragged his hand over his head and down to the back of his neck. His muscles stiffened and ached. “I am compelled to see her first.” What would the boy do now? Stay at Crispin’s side? He certainly proved his worth by bringing him some clothes.

  “You may…do what you will, I suppose. Er…return to my lodgings, if you wish.”

  The lad’s grateful expression smoothed his own sour temperament.

  “Or perhaps go to the sheriff and tell him…”

  Jack frowned. “I’d rather not, Master. The sheriff gets me skittery.”

  “Yes. He gets me equally ‘skittery.’ But if you will, go ahead of me and wait outside Newgate. I will hurry back as quickly as I can from the White Hart.”

  Pinched and drawn, Rosamunde’s face looked like a mummer’s mask. “Crispin. I thank you for coming.”

  “My lady.” He bowed and waited. She wrung her hands and paced. He could hear Jenkyn and her maidservant behind the anteroom’s curtain. When Crispin served as a page many years ago, he had ears only for the needs of his master. Any other conversation was sacrosanct, though he could not vouch for the integrity of servants of a lower class. He flicked his gaze toward the still curtains and frowned.

  “Yesterday I went to see Stephen,” she said.

  He thought he could, but when the moment arrived, he could not look her in the eye. He listened to his own breathing, and felt the strangeness of his feet in borrowed shoes and his body in Martin Kemp’s long shirt and coat.

  “Oh, Crispin,” she whispered. “How could you have done it?”

  “The evidence—”

  “Damn the evidence. He is my brother. He has done nothing. I know it.”

  “He knew the dead man, he argued with him, and he was the last to see him alive. There is little left to infer.”

  “He did not do it. He could not have done,” she pleaded, wringing her hands. “Poison, Crispin? You know Stephen well. Would a man of honor use poison?”

  “A jury must decide.”

  “He told me you captured him.”

  At first it had felt good to apprehend Stephen and escort him to prison; to see him in that cell, a cell similar to the one Crispin resided in all those years ago. It did feel good, but only briefly. Now he stood before Rosamunde like a schoolboy awaiting the rod. He entwined his fingers. “That is so.”

  “I hate your vengeance. I hate your anger. Is your revenge for me, too? To make me suffer so?”

  “A crime was committed.”

  “And yet you would hang an innocent man.”

  “He has not proven that!” Crispin jerked away from her scrutiny and stood by the window. The open shutters threw a wash of pale light across the floor before him. “He says nothing. He is as stubborn as you are.”

  She moved to him and raised her delicate hands. “Once, you loved me. You were even Stephen’s bosom friend. We were to be family. All of us. But your selfish, stupid act ruined it all. We barely recovered from it.”

  “Bless me.” He exhaled into the cold air of the open shutter. “What a pity. You barely survived. Well. I must say a rosary or two in repentance for that.”

  “Do not jest…”

  “No, indeed. I do not jest. What a pity that your honor barely survived.” He turned to her then. “Do you know what living hell I endured for the last seven years? I starved, Rosamunde. I took scraps from almoners before I could find some kind of work to feed myself. I slept in church doorways and nearly froze to death. And the very first employment I got—and I was damned lucky to get it—was mucking out latrines for one penny a day. And do you know what I discovered, Rosamunde? Shit is shit no matter who expels it, king or beggar.” He tore away from her and walked stiffly across the room.

  “After three months of that I became a henchman for a rich burgess. It was my duty to protect him and, on occasion and for extra pay, I beat nearly to death his debtors.” He rubbed hi
s knuckles absently, remembering.

  “The next year was better. I was a scribe and worked for merchants. They were kind to me, for the most part. I received more generosity from their little gestures than can be found in all of court.” He heaved a breath. “I can assure you, my dear lady, that you, too, would muck out a privy if it meant one more day alive. So do not weep over your poor little life. Because I know what it is to hang from the lowest rung.”

  She shook her head slowly. “I felt so sorry for you once. How bitter you have become.”

  “Bitter?” He grabbed his hair in frustration and bellowed out a guffaw. “You have a great gift for understatement!”

  She pressed her hands together prayerfully and touched her fingertips to her lips. “I asked you here to plead for my brother’s life.”

  He straightened and brushed off his coat. “Why come to me? You would have greater luck petitioning the sheriff.”

  “I know you. At least, I used to.”

  “Yes, yes. While your honor suffered so.”

  “Crispin, please. You know he could not have done it. Surely there are other suspects.”

  His gaze was steady. “How do you know Gaston D’Arcy?”

  “I met him at court.”

  “And how do you know Lady Stancliff?”

  “I told you before. Also from court. We do not know one another well.”

  “What is it you spoke to D’Arcy about?”

  Her hands were still linked in prayer. The skin was white and veined in blue. Her wedding band encircled her left ring finger. “I cannot say.”

  “Damn you, Rosamunde! I cannot help you unless you speak!”

  “There are just some things, Crispin, that cannot be said aloud.”

  “Yet you said it to him?”

  “Try to understand.”

  “Never, Rosamunde. Never!” Only now he recalled their devilish arguments. Why did he fail to remember that until this moment?

  He grabbed his beard-stubbled chin and rubbed it raw. He simply could not stomach deceit. She never hid anything from him before. What was so terrible that she could not say? He wanted it to be the key to the case, but he feared it was only his frustration at being cast aside.

  “Then there is nothing more to say. I must go.” He reached the doorway and even stepped through it before he made himself stop. Over his shoulder he said, “You are tying the noose about his neck yourself by refusing to say.”