Cup of Blood

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“I am having a nightmare.”

“No, Sir Crispin. Indeed not. Please. Sit.”

“Do not call me ‘Sir Crispin’! I am a knight no more!”

“Your pardon,” said the younger one, his black hair and white tonsure in sharp contrast in the flickering light. “You still bear the unmistakable nobility of knighthood.”

“Sitting drunk in a tavern? You have an odd perception of knighthood. But then again, you two would.”

“You do not believe our identity?” asked the older.

“There are no more Templars. You must be mad!”

“Please, Sir Cr-Master Guest,” pleaded the older one. “Sit. Listen to what we have to say. If it is to your liking, you may stay. If not, then you are free to go. Is that not fair?”

“Brought here by the point of a dagger? Is that fair?”

“Not fair,” said the older one, “but necessary. Indulge us?”

Crispin frowned and looked back toward the dark passageway. His curiosity encroached on his good judgment. With a petulant thud, he sat on a keg and rested both balled fists on his knees. “Well then?”

The monks exchanged looks and the younger deferred to the older. The white-haired man began. “As you seem to have guessed, we are Knights Templar, Master Guest. Though it was true that His Holiness Pope Clement V seemingly abolished the order over seventy years ago-allowing the savage execution of many of our French ancestors-some did survive…under the secrecy and protection of Rome.”

Crispin rolled his eyes and rose, but the younger one pleaded, urging him back down. With a dramatic sigh, Crispin complied, cocking his head impatiently.

“Yes. Pope Clement V’s own emissaries were sent to Chinon castle to interview the Grand Master Jacques de Molay.” He frowned when he added, “He and his Templar brothers were accused of sodomy and blasphemy. We do not take well these accusations.”

Crispin twisted his lips. “Very well. You do not like being called sodomites. I concede it. Go on.”

“The pope’s emissaries heard as much from the knights themselves,” the older one went on. “They did not believe the lies against the Templars. After the emissaries sent word to Rome, the pope was convinced of their innocence and immediately absolved and pardoned them.”

“That is not how history tells the story.”

“No, Master Guest. These erroneous and sensational rumors about the Templars aroused such passions that the pope did not make this absolution public, fearing a schism.” He shrugged. “A schism happened anyway. At any rate, King Philip had his own agenda. Although it was in his power to do so, the French king did not pardon the knights. He coveted their wealth and put them to the torch instead, some 2,000 of them, before the pope could make his decree public. By then, of course, it was too late.”

“This is all only by your word.”

“I assure you, Master Guest, that it is the truth. Succeeding popes knew of the decree and of the small band of remaining Templars. You see, they understood the necessity of our order.”

“And what is that necessity? It was said the Templars only wanted to seize power, and possessed an enormous cache of hidden wealth to back it up.”

The older man gazed at his boots and took a deep breath. “They never sought the kind of power attributed to them, Master Guest, though it is true that some of our ranks…” He darted a glance at the younger man, who nodded his agreement. “Well, some failed to live up to our high ideals. And as for wealth.” The old knight raised his arms and dropped them to his sides. “If any there was, there is little left now.”

He walked slowly around Crispin, weighing his words. “Master Guest, we are now a humble order, our former status a thing of the past. As knights and as monks, we follow the proscribed path given to us from ancient days. We have our duties.”

“To protect the way for travelers in the Holy Land.”

“Yes. Once. But that is a thing of the past.”

“Then what? What are you dancing around? I’m losing my patience.”

The old monk stepped uncomfortably close to Crispin. “We have been given a singular honor in all the world, Master Crispin. We alone have been entrusted to safeguard an object of immeasurable value.”

“Gold? Then there is a cache.”

“Not gold. A relic.”

“Relic?” Crispin’s collar suddenly felt too tight. He licked his lips. “What relic?”

“Surely you have heard the tales.”

A weak sensation tingled in his bones. He didn’t like the look in the old man’s eyes. “I’ve heard the tales. Everyone has. But…it can’t be true.”

“No?” The old man shrugged and turned away. “Then you are free to go.”

Crispin eased his fists along his thighs. He laughed nervously. “You aren’t going to say…you aren’t going to tell me that…”

“That we are the keepers of the most Holy Grail? The cup of Christ?”

Crispin snapped to his feet. “I am at my wits end! There are no Templars, there is no Holy Grail, and you are fools or madmen…or both! I listened to your tale and I have been wholly amused. Now I wish to go.”

“You must believe us,” said the younger man, his hands pressed together prayerfully. “The good of the world depends on it.”

“The good of the world?” Crispin grumbled. He marched toward the chute and rested his foot on its edge. “You are mad,” he said over his shoulder. “The murdered man, then? One of your madmen?”

The old monk smiled gravely. “Yes.”

“He’s dead. Nothing more can be done for him.” He measured the old man. “Maybe he’s the lucky one.”

“Yes. Perhaps. But Master Guest. There is a reason we brought you here.”

“And had me followed?”

The old monk looked at the younger monk. “We have not followed you, Master Guest.”

“Robed like the ones you are wearing. And you claim you have not shadowed me?”

The old monk bowed. “You have my solemn oath.”

“And this?” Crispin took the folded parchment from his pouch and shook it open revealing the red cross.

The old monk smiled. “Yes, Master, that was us. We left it thinking you might know what it meant. That we would soon speak with you.”

Crispin snorted and crumpled the parchment, tossing it to the floor. “You didn’t have to be so melodramatic.”

The monk stepped toward him but stopped when Crispin laid his hand on his dagger. “The reason we brought you here, Master Guest,” he said, “is the grail. The cup Christ drank from at the Last Supper-was stolen from our dead companion.”

Crispin blinked. An uncomfortable feeling started in his gut and traveled up his body to his chest. “He was the ‘Cup Bearer’?”

“Yes.”

Crispin turned and faced them. He listened to his own breathing and watched it cloud in the frigid storeroom, felt his heart pound. “Suppose…what you say is true-I am not saying I believe it. But if so, why? How did such an object get to England?”

“If you will sit, I will explain,” said the older man.

Crispin blew out another long cloud of air before he finally returned to the wooden keg and sat.

“My name is Edwin,” said the older knight.

“And mine Parsifal,” said the younger.

Crispin guffawed. “You jest.”

“No. It is my christened name. A very interesting coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

Crispin ran his hand over his beard-stubbled face but said nothing.

“And so,” Edwin began. “It happened that our Lord drank from this cup at the Passover and was betrayed that very night. Joseph of Aramathea obtained the cup, and while our Lord suffered on the cross for our transgressions, he lifted the cup and saved some of our Lord’s precious blood within it. He kept the cup safe for many years and was eventually called by the Apostle Philip to evangelize the Britons, our ancestors.

“Joseph sailed along England’s rocky shores and finally came to the place known as Glastonbury Tor. He thrust his staff into the stony hillside and it miraculously stuck and took root. He took this as a sign that his journey had ended. The Angel Gabriel directed him to build a church on the spot and Christ Himself appeared in a vision declaring that the humble church of wattle and daub be dedicated to His mother.

“Joseph, feeling his life nearing its end, buried the grail at the base of the church.”

Crispin put up his hand to interrupt. “And why have we heard nothing of this miraculous church?”

“Alas. It burned to the ground in 1184.”

Crispin leaned back and folded his arms. “Alas.”

Edwin smiled. “Even so, legend followed myth, and myth flowed into history, blending with the old tale of King Arthur and his Camelot knights-including one Sir Parsifal charged with the quest to find the grail.” He smiled at Parsifal who grinned and blushed in reply. “But knights were chosen to guard the cup,” he continued, “yet they did not hale from misty Camelot. They were called from the Holy Land by the hand of God, and were chosen by that same angel who directed Joseph of Aramathea to guard the grail and keep it free of the plunderous hands of man.

“We, the few Templars left, are warrior monks. We live by vows of poverty and chastity. Our single purpose on this earth is to guard the grail. One man is chosen each year to be the single bearer of the holy relic. And as you know, he was foully murdered.”

“Then the cup is gone?”

“Yes. We have failed in our mission.” Edwin’s bravado cracked, and he slumped, shaking his head in disbelief. “We failed. We believe it may be in the hands of the anti-pope’s men. Should it fall to the false pope-the one who is not the true successor of Peter-we fear for the fate of Christendom.”

Crispin’s heart drummed in his ears. Surely he could not believe such a wild tale, but their earnest faces and patrician manner tinted their narrative with credence. After all, how could so many of these noble men be under the same strange delusion?

“So who killed your knight?”

“We do not know. Perhaps the anti-pope’s men.”

“Possibly. But they did not obtain the grail, for the men who captured and tortured me still do not know where it is.”

Parsifal glanced at Edwin. “Then there is no time to waste. We must search for it. Crispin, will you help us? You are the celebrated Tracker. Yes. We know who you are. Will you help us find the greatest of lost articles?”

“I work for a fee,” he said.

“Of course. Name your price.”

“Sixpence a day, plus expenses.”

“Done,” they said.

Crispin immediately regretted agreeing. He’d agreed to too many dances with the Devil this week. “There must be some great power in this relic. What is it?”

“Its power,” said Edwin, “is…indescribable.”

Crispin sneered a smile. “Try.”

Edwin turned to Parsifal. “It has the power to change men,” he said. Parsifal nodded. “To redirect their course. To transform.”

“Transform? What do you mean? This is all very vague, gentlemen…”

“The power of God, sir,” said Edwin. “The power of God.”