Slowly she opened her eyes. Calm descended within them and her look of horror fled. “How did you do it, Crispin? That is twice you cheated certain death.”
“Rosamunde!” Stephen shook her, but she only gazed up at him with a curious smile.
“You do not know what I have endured,” she said. “Gaston promised so much. And yet he took so much.”
Her words were muffled when Stephen gathered her hard against his chest. “Rosamunde,” he whimpered, lips trembling. “For God’s sake, say no more.”
“It’s too late for that,” said Crispin.
“So now your revenge extends to my sister,” he cried over his shoulder. “I thought you were done with this.”
“So did I. But a man has a change of heart when his former love tries to murder him. How many more would have died, Rosamunde, to satisfy you? Rupert of Kent was another, but you did not poison him. No. For him, you used a blade and stabbed him in cold blood. How many more? Stephen? Jenkyn? Your betrothed when he ceased to entertain you? How many?”
Crispin’s words changed the expression on Stephen’s face. He glanced at Jenkyn’s puzzlement before turning to Crispin. “Rupert of Kent?” he asked softly.
“The apothecary who sold her the poison. I was there when he was killed. I saw the back of the killer’s hooded head and no more. I did not even know it was a woman, but there was still something familiar about it that struck me, though I never would have connected it had she not confessed it to me while I lay dying at the Boar’s Tusk.”
Stephen released Rosamunde and stepped back to stare at her. “Tell him he lies. Why will you not tell him he lies?”
She shook her head and Stephen turned a desperate face to Crispin. “We will go away then,” he said. “Will that satisfy you? Does our history together mean nothing?”
“History,” Crispin sneered. “It is a matter of responsibility. You were willing to die for love of her,” he said to Stephen, “as I might have done at one time. But she was not willing to do the same for you.”
“A woman hasn’t the courage of a man.”
“It has less to do with courage and more with self-interest.”
Stephen stared at Crispin. At last, the knight turned to Rosamunde. His face paled with bewilderment. “You would have let me hang for a murder you committed?”
Rosamunde seemed to awaken and she moved imploringly toward him. He recoiled. She stopped halfway and pressed her hands together prayerfully. “I tried to prove you innocent.”
He frowned, his dark lips now gray. “And if you failed?”
“With Crispin out of the way no one would have implicated you.”
“And do you think this is justice?”
“What do you fear?” Her chin rose arrogantly. “You are a knight. You have faced worse.”
“No. I have never faced worse than this. You do not know…you cannot begin to know…”
She shrugged. “It does not matter. Crispin is alive and Gaston is dead with good reason. Leave it at that.”
“I am very much afraid,” said Crispin, “that we cannot.”
She laughed. “Do not be a fool. What are your plans? To arrest me? Who will believe you? Look at you. A rusted knight; a shabby banner of days past. You are no one. You are less than no one. You told me you were once a gong farmer. What is lower than that? No one will ever believe you.”
Stephen slumped his shoulders. “I do.”
Rosamunde’s gaze snap toward him. “Stephen!”
“I once thought the world of you. How innocent you were. Now look at you. I was silent when you became Gaston’s lover. If I were a better brother…” He shivered. “Instead, I said nothing and fled to France to secure your marriage, hoping you would come to your senses and end it. But this. This is no game of courtly love. This is murder. For the love of Christ, Rosamunde! You killed two men!”
Crispin grasped her arm. She looked down at his chapped fingers curled tight over her sleeve.
No anger, no pity. Nothing lay in the hollow of his chest. He knew it would not last but he savored the numbness so he could do his duty. “It is time to pay, my dear. Perhaps there will be mercy. Perhaps the law will judge you kindly. But do not doubt that I will convey you myself to Newgate.”
Her eyes were quizzical and subtly changed the longer she appraised him. She turned toward him and placed her free hand on his chest. “Crispin. You cannot mean what you say. Consider it. Consider us.”
He leaned forward and kissed her gravely on the lips. She raised her hand to cup his face, and they held that pose for several moments before he drew away.
“I do have my regrets over killing you, my dear,” said Crispin. “For you were dear to me once. Surely your reward will be greater in Heaven.”
Her face paled in the recognition of her own words and she suddenly struck out at him, beating him on the chest with her clenched hands.
He drew back his fist and punched her jaw. Her head snapped back and she slumped. He caught her before she hit the floor.
“I am taking her to Newgate. Do you interfere with me?” he asked Stephen.
Stephen’s gaze met Crispin’s. “She is my blood.” He slowly withdrew his sword.
Crispin laid her on the bed. “I expected no less.” He looked at Stephen’s blade and scowled. “I do not have a sword.”
Stephen nodded and sheathed his weapon. He pulled his dagger instead and Crispin did likewise.
The room fell silent except for their labored breathing. Neither wanted to lift his blade first until a pall of resignation bleached Stephen’s features. With a roar through grit teeth, he fell toward Crispin. Crispin raised his arm in defense.
Stephen made no half-hearted feints. He stabbed toward Crispin, and Crispin deftly dodged each attempt. They both fought in earnest, maneuvering their way around the room, casting furniture aside.
Stephen’s blade struck upward and the tip caught Crispin on the cheek. He felt the sharp sting only momentarily, but it was enough to spur him on. He tossed the blade into his left hand and landed several blows with his fist into Stephen face with his right. Stephen wobbled and Crispin maneuvered him into a corner. He pinned Stephen’s dagger arm to the wall and pressed his own blade to Stephen’s throat.
Stephen looked up miserably at Crispin. “Do it,” he rasped. “Take me out of this world. Oh Jesu! I should have let you hang me!”
Crispin clamped his lips together and breathed furiously through his nose. All at once, he lowered the blade. “For Jesus’ sake, let us make an end to this.”
“How can I let you arrest her? She cannot bear it.”
“Two men have died. Are they to suffer no retribution?” He looked past Stephen at Jenkyn’s stark face. The servant had pressed himself against the wall trying to avoid the fighting. “What say you, Jenkyn? She almost made a murderer of you and then would have let you hang. You have a say.”
“I was loyal all my life to this house. Why would she do that to me?”
Crispin gestured with the knife. “She is a selfish creature, Jenkyn. Best concern yourself—”
Jenkyn’s eyes widened. “Look out, Master Crispin!”
Instinct moved his hand before he turned. His dagger sunk deep with that familiar sensation of slicing flesh and oozing blood. When his head swiveled enough to spy the edge of her disarrayed hair he let go of the blade with a horrified gasp. With a silent rend of his own heart he knew it was too late.
Rosamunde pulled the dagger from her belly at once but it only served to blot her gown in a growing irregular stain. The dagger clattered to the floor.
Rosamunde looked up at Crispin and smiled. Blood tinged her lips. She let her own jeweled dagger fall from her hand. “Justice?” she whispered before crumpling to his feet.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Crispin sat in the dark. He barred the door even from Jack, who gave up trying to enter hours ago. Gilbert and Eleanor tried to coax him free of his lodgings. Even Martin Kemp made an effort, but none could budge him
.
Today, especially today, he would not leave the haven of his shabby room. Though the day ended, he could not bring himself to light a candle. He did not feel deserving of even that singular illumination while they buried her.
The knock on the door surprised him. He hoped they had all given up by now.
At first he didn’t answer. But the gentle voice on the other side of the oak roused him to his feet. He stood at the door and stared at the bolt. Finally, he threw it back and returned to his chair and sat.
The door slowly creaked open and Father Timothy peered in. He blinked into the darkness. “Do you invite me in, Crispin?”
Crispin did not reply. He only sighed, but Timothy acknowledged it and entered, closing the door behind him. “Surely we can light a candle?”
“It is dark where she is.” His voice cracked. He realized he had not actually spoken in some days.
“We do not know that,” Timothy said and sat on the chest.
“It is dark in the grave.”
“Stephen St Albans sent word after the burial. She is safe at her ancestral estates.”
Crispin absorbed this and nodded. He didn’t know whether the news pleased him or not.
“May we light a candle, then?”
Crispin said nothing. Timothy proceeded to the hearth and lit a straw. Cupping the glowing sprig in his hand, he brought it to the table and lit the tallow candle in its dish on the table.
The priest’s young face immediately sprang into view. He smiled. “There now. A little flame does no harm.”
“What have I done?”
Timothy eyed Crispin with sympathy. “It was an accident. The justices declared it so. It spared her an arrest and a trial, after all. And the punishment. It is justice, when all is said and done.”
“Yes, but whose?”
“She was a murderer, one who killed more than once for vain reasons. It was a mercy this way.”
“Then why is it I feel like a murderer?”
“Not so. In the end, she forgave you.”
He raised his face to the priest, gazing into his sympathetic eyes. They glittered in the candlelight. “Were you there?”
“Yes. I gave her absolution. She lasted two days, as I’m certain you know. And as a faithful Christian, she forgave you for all of it. Without reservation.”
Crispin stared at the candle a long time and finally raised his hand to his face. He wiped his dry features before dropping his hand away. “I am glad.”
“Now then. There is other business I came to you about. It is time for you to arise from this tomb you have made. You have much to do.”
“And what is that?”
“Your life!” Timothy rose and threw open the shutters. The sunset spilled streaks of red and gold across the floor. A fresh breeze washed the stuffy room and puffed a breath across the hearth’s embers, awakening their dormant glow to flames. The room came alive with golden light and even Crispin’s gray features warmed.
Crispin sat back against the chair. “Why?”
“Because many people care about you and would help you.”
“Yes. I suppose.”
“And there is much good you do. It still needs to be done.”
Crispin would have shrugged if he could summon the energy. He chose not to.
“A terrible thing has happened,” Timothy continued. “But you proved your worth in this. In fact, you have nullified your shame of years ago.”
“Oh? Who says so?”
“I do. And others who know and respect you.”
Crispin grunted. These were empty sentiments now. “It does not make all this go away.”
“No. Not today. But someday.”
Crispin took in Timothy’s kind but stern expression and allowed himself a reluctant smile. “Your optimism astounds me.”
“And me at times,” Timothy chuckled.
“But that is not the only reason you came.”
Timothy’s gentle laughter petered out and his dark eyes settled on Crispin’s. His smile changed to a wry one. “No. No, indeed.”
“How did you know?”
“I have my sources.”
“Of that, I have no doubt.”
Timothy smiled and leaned on the table. “Well? Have you decided?”
“Yes. I decided some time ago.” Crispin reached into his coat and carefully removed the object. He laid it reverently on the table but kept his hands upon it, his thumbs rubbing the etchings along the rim. “I toyed with the idea of trying to use it on Rosamunde. I dismissed it just as quickly.”
“Yes. You understand, then.”
“If indeed it is miraculous, it must not be used in that way.”
“But others would.”
Crispin nodded. “Like Guillaume de Marcherne. I recognized his character.”
“His mistake was in not recognizing yours. But as I understand it, he will be making no more bargains. I believe I heard that he is dead.”
“Good.”
“I know he promised you much.”
“I never took those promises seriously.”
“But Edwin also made promises to you.”
“And I do not hold you to them.”
“On the contrary.” Timothy watched Crispin stroke the cup but did not reach for it. “I make the same offer.”
Crispin smiled and shook his head. “And I make the same answer. The ‘face of woman’ is too much on my mind. Especially today.”
Timothy sighed. “Very well.” Timothy rose and held out his hand. It wasn’t to bid Crispin farewell.
Crispin, too, rose. Now he noticed the sword hanging from Timothy’s belt hidden beneath the cleric’s mantle. It didn’t surprise him in the least. He picked up the cup and placed it into the priest’s open palm. Timothy held it for a moment. He turned it to examine the markings and to run his finger over them. He smiled at Crispin before he consigned it to his scrip.
Wordlessly, he turned toward the door.
“I will not see you again, will I?” said Crispin.
Without turning back, Timothy said, “No. I should think not.”
“That is as it should be. You are the new Grand Master, are you not?”
Timothy smiled and nodded. He turned. His bearing was completely different from before. No longer the contemplative priest. He stood like a knight. “How did you guess?”
“Your ring. The light was dim in your rectory, but that is no priestly ring.”
The young cleric raised his hand and ran his fingers over the gold band with its shield of a cross potent. “In all these years, you are the only one to have noticed.”
Crispin shrugged. “My mind may have been on Templars and Templar badges.”
“It is a pity you will not join us.”
“You have your cross to bear, and so do I. But I would know something before you go.” He stared at the scrip disappearing into the shadows of the priest’s gown. “I wonder. Is it…does it perform miracles?”
Timothy’s cheeks creased with a smile. “You would know that better than I.” He offered a final nod, pulled open the door, and was swallowed by the shadows of the landing.
Crispin sat again and stared at the empty table, empty but for the candle, its flame flickering from a draft.
The door opened again. Crispin didn’t move. The candle wavered, sputtered, but remained stubbornly lit. He was not surprised to see the small shadow of a boy stretch across the floor.
He turned and took in the sight of Jack Tucker. A pathetic child of the streets. A wretched thief. His tunic was nearly as threadbare as Crispin’s coat. His shoes had holes and his cloak’s hem hung with loose threads. Probably from the way the boy always worried at it. He was secrets and stolen trinkets and noise when Crispin desired only peace. Trouble was written all over him. “What to do with you, Young Master Tucker,” he sighed after a thoughtful pause.
The shadow lengthened and soon the boy came into the light. His face was wet from tears, making tracks through the dirt, and he wiped h
is nose absently with his sleeve. “It’s cold outside.”
“Yes,” Crispin agreed. The warmth from the fire was meager but it was warmth, of a sort.
“Master Crispin…I was wondering. I mean…I know you said you never wanted…” He twisted his cloak in his fingers again. “Blessed Saint Anthony,” he muttered. He looked down at his feet, huffed a breath, and started again. Amber eyes soft, his gaze settled on Crispin. “I promise…I won’t be no trouble. I swear to you, sir. I…I can cook. And clean. And do for you, sir. Fetch fuel and water.”
Crispin turned away from the boy to stare at the hearth. “A proper servant keeps his face and hands clean.”
A shuffle close behind him. “They do?”
“And never use their sleeves for snotty noses.”
Jack was now at his elbow. “A proper servant?”
Crispin sighed deeply and even smiled a little. It was cold outside. And getting late. “I’m thirsty, Jack.” He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, feeling the warmth from the hearth on his face. “Go fetch me a bowl of wine. There’s a lad.”
AUTHOR’S AFTERWORD
Let’s talk Templars. Let me set the record straight. Templars had nothing to do with the grail’s legend until the twelfth century when German poet Wolfram von Eschenbach wrote his epic poem Parzival. Here is where it is believed the tenuous thread between the grail legend and Templars originated. In the poem, Templars are mentioned guarding the “grail castle.” Arthurian legends furthered the tale and incorporated the grail into the expanding saga, integrating Parsifal and Galahad on a grail quest. The grail story begins to get very convoluted with different traditions melding and trading off. Wolfram’s grail, for instance, is a stone fallen from heaven. The grail from Celtic lore is a dish, or a flagon, one of many sacred vessels. Christian tradition has it as Christ’s cup from the Last Supper. It’s that last one that seems to stick.
Templars connected to the Holy Grail are fiction, fiction, fiction. Twelfth century fiction, but fiction nonetheless. But then again, we’re talking about the grail. Did that even exist? Who can know?
Cup of Blood: A Medieval Noir: A Crispin Guest Medieval Noir Prequel Page 28