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

by Jeri Westerson

  “But you could stop it, Crispin.”

  “I will testify at his trial and nothing will stop me then. If he is innocent, then I am certain the jury will find him so. But trouble me no more about it. I have too much work to do.”

  He stalked forward out of the room, but Jenkyn pushed out from the anteroom curtains and stood in his way. A frown darkened the servant’s features and he would not move. His smooth face free of lines belonged to a younger man. He wore his years well. Crispin wanted to say something to the man, wanted to warn him of her unreliable devotion, but in the end he could say nothing out loud. There were no more words for him at the moment; nothing articulate except to growl his sentiments.

  Angrily Crispin shoved Jenkyn aside without a word. Outside, he rumbled along the lane. He must get to Newgate. That thought and only that thought drummed in his ears. He hated to ask the sheriff for a mount. What if he refused? Would he be forced to tell him the whole degrading tale? His dagger, purse, and shabby cloak were all Vivienne left him and he pulled that mantle over his chest with a grunt.

  “I have to get to Newgate,” he grumbled, and felt uncertain relief when it came into view.

  A shadowy figure stomped before the walls to keep warm and it suddenly cheered Crispin to see it. He slapped Jack on the back in greeting and told him to wait by the stables. Jack trotted away gratefully, but when Crispin entered Wynchecombe’s chamber, the sheriff did not look pleased to see him.

  “This writ is done, Crispin,” he said over a mound of parchments.

  Crispin shook his head reluctantly. “No, my lord. I fear it is not.”

  “Damn you, Guest! What is it you want? More money? I will not pay.”

  “My lord, I believe Stephen has an accomplice. I must pursue her, but I need a horse.”

  “What? Now you want a horse? From my stable?”

  Crispin studied his borrowed shoes. They were slightly larger than his own shoes and less worn. He decided he would stuff them with straw the next time he donned them. “As you know, my lord, I no longer own a horse, nor can I afford to hire one.”

  “How do I know you will bring it back?”

  Crispin raised his face.

  “Never mind,” said Wynchecombe. “I suppose you will berate me until I relent?”

  “You are generous, my lord,” he said flatly.

  “I have not yet said I would agree to this.” He furrowed his brow and bristled his mustache in his most sincere expression of displeasure. Hastily he scribbled his name on a writ and thrust it forward. “Here! Get you to the stable and bring back your prisoner, or I swear my oath to the Almighty that I shall lock you in a cell and throw away the key!”

  Crispin waved the writ at the stable’s guard, relieved the sheriff’s man did not choose to argue. He met Jack and the boy watched as he quickly saddled a mare, the only horse the sheriff was willing to give him. “I will take Aldgate. There is a small convent she may be staying in outside of London. She will not expect me to follow.”

  “And what of me, sir?”

  What of him? How many days ago now was it that he caught the cutpurse stealing his last bit of money? And now Jack was becoming a permanent feature in his life. It was with a certain amount of irony that he reached into his purse. He gestured to the surprised boy and dropped the coins into Jack’s open hand. “Take them. You may need them if I am gone longer than a day. Keep all well in my lodgings.”

  Jack was momentarily silenced before he was able to rasp a hasty, “Thank you, Master.” He held tightly to the bridle. “God keep you, sir. Come back safe and sound.” From his tunic he pulled a small loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese. “For your journey, sir.”

  Crispin took them solemnly and stuffed them into the scrip at his belt. He dared not ask where Tucker got them, for he did not remember such from his own pantry.

  He swung up onto the saddle and settled like he used to do on the smooth leather. He grasped the reins and wrapped them about his hand. “I will, Jack.” He pulled up on the reins and spun the horse about. He squeezed with his thighs and felt the horse surge ahead over the stony courtyard until he was free of Newgate’s confines and headed down Newgate Market to the other end of town toward Aldgate, where he could take a road into the countryside.

  London’s streets were crowded as they always were, and he maneuvered the beast down narrow lanes clogged with donkey carts and pedestrians. It took less time than he reckoned to reach the gatehouse at Aldgate, he tipped a bow to the guards there, who didn’t give him more than a glance.

  Once out on the open road, he let the scenery pass him by without much note, and though his mission was a mixed bag of embarrassment and anger, he allowed his thoughts to turn to the pleasant sensation of sitting aloft a horse.

  The feel of the horse’s gait beneath him, the leather in his hand, and the pungent scent of the animal, was all a salve to his aching heart. Such simple joys. He missed them the most. He almost missed them more than the jousts and the finery and the huge feasts that lasted for hours. And the dancing. An accomplished dancer, Crispin had taken his turn with the women of court and they’d compete for their place with him. He remembered the halls filled with candles. How the smoky galleries above the dance floor would crowd with intimate couples seeking a quiet and discreet place, and how he would find himself there many a time with a willing lady. He missed that, too. He missed the artful games of courting, their subtleties and rules. He missed the masculine camaraderie of knights discussing the lists or a battle.

  But the simplest of pleasures like riding his own horse with his own tack tailored to him, were particularly missed.

  Perhaps it took his meeting again with Rosamunde to finally believe he would never have those things again. They were gone. As ephemeral as mist.

  He stroked the horse’s mane and patted the neck while it bobbed with the rhythm of her gait. London fell behind him and gave way to green rolling hills and farmland. Windmills on distant hillocks moved their sweeps sluggishly, like squires flagging down a knight on the lists. The occasional grange house spilled into the view, their rambling stone gates along the road marking their territories. He saw little else but sheep and cows grazing over the hillsides.

  By midday, he took a small portion of Jack’s bread and cheese from his scrip and nibbled as he rode, letting the horse take his own pace.

  He reached the small convent by early evening. The porter at the gatehouse stared uncomprehendingly at the writ Crispin held out for him to see. “If it’s the sheriff’s business,” he said, “then I’ll oblige. What is it you want?”

  “I am looking for a lady who may or may not be using her true name. She is Lady Stancliff, Vivienne by name.”

  “Oh, aye. She is here. She is traveling to Chelmsford.” He leaned forward bearing a burning cage of coals. Bits of burning embers spit and fell from his cresset. “Are you going to arrest her?”

  “I might. Has she an entourage with her?”

  “Only two maids and one manservant. But he is older than I. He won’t put up much of a fight.”

  Crispin tightened his hold of the reins. “Then where may I find the lady?”

  “Through the arch and to the right. There’s a small cottage there near the stewponds. Will you be needing help?” The porter grasped a large staff propped in a corner. “I used to be a fair fighter with the staff in my day.”

  “I do not think that will be necessary, but I thank you.”

  Crispin dismounted and tied the horse near the gatehouse arch. On foot he approached the cottage and stealthily made his way to the window. The shutters were barred but he made out the lay of the room through a crack. The hearth light glowed enough for him to see two maids working on the seated Vivienne. Her hair lay unbound from their braids and each maid brushed out a long strand of it like a horse’s tail. The light shimmered along her black tresses and fell in feathery layers to her uncovered shoulders, for she wore only her shift.

  He smiled. Leaving the window he went to the door
and knocked gently.

  A maid’s muffled voice asked, “Who is there?”

  In his best imitation of the porter, Crispin said, “There is a message for your lady.”

  “Very well,” she sighed. “One moment.”

  He knew they would cover Vivienne with her gown before they would unlatch the door. He pulled the dagger free from its sheath and stood ready.

  The bolt lifted and the door opened a crack. Crispin shoved hard and the maid fell over with a squeal. The other screamed and ran to a far corner. Vivienne jumped to her feet and grabbed the nearest object of any weight, an iron poker.

  Crispin sheathed the dagger and rushed her. He grabbed the wrist holding the poker and twisted. With a cry she dropped the makeshift weapon to the floor. The maids rushed out screaming into the night and when they did, he lunged for the door and bolted it after them.

  With a snort he stood back to gaze at Vivienne. Her gown fell open exposing the light shift beneath. He fondly recalled touching all the curves and valleys revealed by the shift’s transparency, until he also remembered in what manner she left him.

  “Surprised?” He sat in her chair.

  She inhaled deeply and strolled to the hearth, all the while rubbing her wrenched wrist. “Indeed. I did not think you had a horse.”

  His smile was not meant to comfort, and by her pale expression he could tell it did not offer it. “We have unfinished business.”

  “Do we? I said all I intended to say.”

  “I believe you have something of mine.”

  A ghost of a smile raised one corner of her mouth. “Yes. I do.” She moved to the chest and opened it. Neatly folded, she took out Crispin’s clothes.

  He took them without ceremony and tucked them beside him in the chair. “I am obliged to you for not taking my belt with its dagger and money pouch.”

  “I am not a monster, after all.”

  His lips curled but not to smile. “No indeed. Let us begin, then, where we left off. What is it you sought from Gaston D’Arcy? What is this ‘object of great price’?”

  “Well it certainly is not the Holy Grail.” She relaxed and leaned against the wall. She did not try to close the gap of her gown.

  At first, Crispin did his best not to look, but then decided that courtly manners had no place with her. “For the sake of argument, I will believe you on this point…for now. If not the grail, what then?”

  “It is something of mine. Rather, of my husband’s. Something he gave me and wishes to see me wear again. A valuable piece of jewelry.”

  “D’Arcy stole it?”

  She rolled her eyes and ran her hand up her other arm. “No. I gave it to him. A love token.”

  Crispin laughed. “You gave your husband’s love token to your lover?”

  “Do not laugh at me!” The relaxed stance dissolved. “You do not know what I endured at the disgusting hands of my husband! Do you know how old he is? How fat and how diseased? How would you like to be sold like livestock to the highest bidder?”

  “Forgive me for stating the obvious,” he said, “but you agreed to the marriage.”

  “And my alternative? Some other old wealthy creature? Or worse, a nunnery. Could you imagine me in such a place?”

  “No, my lady. I admit I cannot.”

  “You think your choices were few without your knighthood. Imagine it as a woman.”

  He sighed and stared at his boots. “Very well. I concede it. And what does this have to do with Stephen St Albans?”

  “Gaston sold it to him.”

  “Ah!”

  “And he would not sell it back to me.”

  “So you became St Alban’s lover as well.”

  “It was not for lack of trying, but he would do neither. The last time I confronted him he claimed he did not have it.”

  “May I ask?”

  “You are a stubborn man!” She whirled again and paced erratically, casting her arms about and rippling the gown that tried vainly to follow her unpredictable moves. “It is a ring! A ring. Now I must return to my husband empty-handed. He will surely suspect the worst and I shall be put in a nunnery after all. How would I look, I wonder, in habit and veil? I do not favor black, Crispin.”

  Crispin burst into laughter, so much so that he leaned forward to slap his thigh.

  Amazed, she planted her fists in her hips and glared.

  He tried to stop but just as it subsided it flared up again. Finally, he reached into his purse and pulled out D’Arcy’s pouch. He opened it and pulled out what he took for a man’s pinky ring. “Is this your ring?”

  She fell on it with a cry and landed at Crispin’s feet. “Where did you find it?”

  “Forgive me, Madam, but I had it all along. And this you did not manage to steal. Had you but said earlier…”

  “Oh, Crispin, I could kiss you!”

  His laughter rumbled down to a low chuckle. “Can you?”

  Looking up at him, she rested her hands on his knees. “Yes,” she whispered. “And more, if you wish.”

  He sat back and gazed at her languidly. “You already paid me. Remember?”

  “Was it enough?”

  Vivienne was a most pleasant sight kneeling between his thighs, her fingers resting lightly on his knees. He could think of any number of ways she could repay him. By the flush of her cheek and the dewy moisture of her lips, she must have thought of them, too. He took a breath. “Yes,” he said reluctantly. “It was enough.” He rose and her hands fell away from him. He stood beside the shuttered window and inhaled the fresh, cold air creeping in from a chink in the wall. “I always thought that a Knight Templar is bound by a vow of celibacy.”

  She rose. “He never told me he was a Knight Templar.”

  “Do you know a Guillaume de Marcherne?” He turned to watch her face.

  She said nothing for a long time. Too long. “No. Should I?”

  Crispin scowled. “Vivienne.”

  She gathered her gown about her with trembling fingers. “Perhaps…I have heard of him.”

  “In what sense?”

  “He…is from court, no?”

  “A guest of the court. How do you know him?”

  She squared her gaze on him. “Perhaps I simply met him there.” She said nothing more.

  He debated with himself whether to confront her with his knowledge that she knew him far better than that, but the truth seemed more painful to bear. “Didn’t he ask you to get the grail? From me, perhaps?”

  Her gaze wavered toward Crispin but mostly stayed fixed on the fire. “Why should he do that?”

  He grabbed her shoulders and spun her to face him. “Don’t lie to me. I will take almost anything but a lie. I’ll only ask you once more.”

  “Yes! Yes! So he did. You may recall, I never did ask you for such.”

  “Not directly. But instead you sent me on a futile errand to find D’Arcy when you knew—”

  “I did not know he was dead. Not then. Not when I first came to you.” Her eyes searched Crispin’s. Once more he was uncertain if that look was calculated or sincere. “But once I did know he was dead,” she went on, “I thought Guillaume did it.”

  Guillaume? He growled and pushed her back. “Did he?”

  “I thought so at first. But now…” She shrugged. “I don’t know. So many people despised Gaston. It matters not,” she said, dismissing him with a wave of her hand. Her hair fell away from her cheek.

  Walking away from her, he ruminated on her words and the unnaturally harsh manner she said them. So if it was true that de Marcherne tried to force her to find the grail, her own purpose was stronger. But did this mean she had nothing to do with D’Arcy’s death? He wasn’t so certain. “Do you know Lady Rothwell, Sir Stephen’s sister?”

  “You asked me this before and I told you that we are only acquainted by sight.” She lifted her chin to throw back her tossled hair. “Don’t you believe me, Crispin?”

  “There should be no reason in your lying now that you have your
‘object of great price’.”

  She clutched it in her fist and held that fist to her heart. “You have saved my life. I thank you.”

  He bowed. “You are welcome.” When he lifted his head his mouth hardened. “Did you kill Gaston D’Arcy?”

  The fist lowered to her side. She opened her hand and stared down at the ring for a long time before she took it from her palm and placed it on her finger. “Why do you ask me such a question?”

  “I have asked so many today. Surely one more will not break you.”

  She paused. “I certainly had good reason to.”

  He had wanted so badly for Stephen to have worked alone that he did not wish to entertain the possibility that the crime might also include her.

  “You are displeased,” she said. “Is it because I left you as I did?” She smiled and waved her hand in dismissal. “No, that is not the reason. Very well. I will give you cause to celebrate. I did not kill him. But I cannot say I am aggrieved to see him dead.”

  “Vivienne, for the love of Christ, if you are lying to me I will find you out.”

  “I know.” Her bravado faded. “And so I do not lie to you now. I killed no one. And I should not hang for a crime I did not commit.”

  “Did Stephen act alone?”

  “I know nothing of it. I should think the sheriff would know more than I.”

  “If Stephen did it, then why?”

  She shrugged. “For the grail?”

  “He knew nothing of it either.”

  “Then for another reason. As I said, Gaston had many lovers. Maybe Stephen’s woman was one of them.” She lifted her hand to examine her ring. “Do you believe me, Crispin? Or will you arrest me? I know that is why you came.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “I thought you had ties to Stephen.”

  “No. Not beyond this ring. It was all I sought. It was all I ever sought. De Marcherne be hanged. I only wanted my ring. He can look for his grail on his own.” She looked at him with squared shoulders. “Do I seem like the kind of woman who needs to resort to murder?”