Cup of Blood

CHAPTER TWELVE

Crispin walked the muddy streets of London, little minding the driving rain that raised the foul odors of the gutter. Enclosed by his hood, Crispin mulled his fractured thoughts. “The power of God,” he muttered. In his head he called it absurd. But it had sent a chill down his spine he could not explain. Even now, the pit of his belly tightened like a hard core. They explained how possession of the cup could change the tide of events, win battles, confuse one’s enemies. It still seemed very vague to Crispin but he felt a sense of impending disaster when the Templars described the possibilities.

He also knew the Templars had stolen back the body of their comrade. Crispin hadn’t asked but hadn’t needed to. Why had they? Probably to keep their secret. No body, no evidence. No more talk of a secret society.

He tightened the hood about his face and inhaled the tang of wet leather. Who killed the man, then? The anti-pope’s men were first on his list. It was obvious that they believed in these wild tales. Enough to torture innocent men for it. Could murder be far behind?

But how did Stephen fit in? Crispin shook his head, trying to picture Stephen with the Templar. Did he steal the grail for himself hoping to sell it? That did not seem like the character of the man he knew all those years ago. He had to admit that Stephen was an honorable man, even if that honor was sometimes misplaced.

But Crispin also knew that time could change anyone, and circumstances could force good men to perform ill deeds.

Still. These henchmen of the anti-pope. These men seemed capable of killing the Templar. But if so, why then do they not possess the grail? Who had it? The woman?

“The grail,” he whispered. Could such a thing truly exist? During his travels throughout the Christian world, Crispin saw many such relics boldly displayed, often for a fee. He did not believe easily. He knew the tricks of the craft. The blood of martyrs that miraculously changed from dried powder to liquid. Made of red ochre powder, the “blood” was encased in a monstrance with paraffin and oil. Once handled and warmed, the paraffin and oil would loosen and melt, mix with the dry powder, and look to all the world like liquid blood. Hen’s bones served for saint’s remains; ordinary oak splinters for a piece of the cross; dried pig’s skin for a saint’s flesh.

How could something as precious and as holy as the cup of the blood of Christ be hidden for so long?

Crispin stopped and looked upward. He found himself staring at the oaken doors of a humble church. The moment seemed to call to him and he pushed at the yielding door and slowly trudged inside.

The nave was only a few yards long. A crucifix hung above the altar rails behind a rood screen in the candlelit darkness. Seeing no one about, Crispin walked up to the altar rail, becrossed himself, and knelt.

He looked up at the shadowed crucifix. “You know I do not come to You as often as I should. But today…today, well. You heard them. Do I believe it? How do I approach such a task? Dare I even try?”

He heard a shuffled step. Instinctively he grabbed his dagger and spun.

The white-faced young priest raised his palms in defense.

Crispin sheathed the blade and shrugged. “I beg your pardon, Father. It is an old habit.”

The priest’s weak smile reassured. He lowered his hands. “Such habits! Should they not be curtailed in the house of God?”

“A reflex. But…” He scanned the small chapel and detected no one else amongst the shadowy arches and apse. “If you have the time, I should like to talk to you.”

“Do you wish to be shriven?”

“Me? No, Father. No. Not today. It is information I seek.”

The priest shrugged and gestured toward the rectory door. “There is a warm fire there,” he said walking toward it. “Come. We will be more comfortable.”

Crispin followed the young cleric through a low doorway into a small, warm room. Vestments with gold embroidery lay folded in an open coffer.

“Father-”

“Father Timothy,” the priest interjected and settled opposite him beside the hearth.

“Father Timothy, then. Tell me. What do you know of religious relics?”

“Well, let me see,” he said, poking the fire with an iron rod. His face both gilded and darkened with the jumping flames. “I have seen many.”

“But how many of them do you believe in?”

“Oh, I see.” Timothy nodded and smiled when he set the poker aside. “Yes, there are some for which I have my doubts. Which ones trouble you?”

“Only one. The Holy Grail.”

“The Holy Grail? Who has filled your head with such privy waste?”

Crispin perched on the edge of his stool. “I take it by your reaction that you do not believe in its existence.”

Father Timothy pressed his lips together and stared into the fire. “I did not say that. I merely have my doubts of anyone who claims to possess such a rare object.”

“But if someone did? What would be its worth?”

“You jest. It would be priceless. Kingdoms could be traded for it.”

“Then it seems the safer course is to have such a thing under lock and key, guarded day and night.”

Timothy touched his lips with ink-stained fingers. “Not necessarily. I would choose to keep it a moving target, if you will. Keep it guarded, to be sure, but never in the same place.”

“And create a band of men for the sole purpose of its protection?”

The priest nodded with a smile. “Yes. Legend has it that the Knights of the Temple had that duty.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“But if such a thing were true, then it would already be lost, would it not? The Templars were a ruthless order of shrewd warriors who were not above treachery to further their agenda. They were rightly destroyed.”

“’Rightly destroyed’, Father? Strong words from a cleric…about fellow beadsmen.”

“Beadsmen,” he sneered. “Greed and the gluttony of power overtook them. I shed no tears for the passing of the Templars.”

Crispin drew his lip between forefinger and thumb. His words muffled under his hand. “In France they were betrayed by their king and put to the torch.”

“Yes, but in England they were spared and became cloistered monks, not warrior monks. So it is said.”

He eyed the young priest’s face, smooth and unlined, his dark hair likewise unmarred by white or gray. Still, his manner and words seemed far beyond his age. “You do not believe it.”

“No,” said the priest. “There are many secrets about the Templars I fear we will never know. Secrets harbor evil. In God there are no secrets, only light.”

“‘The secret things belong unto the Lord our God,’” Crispin quoted.

The priest smiled. “Just so.”

Crispin edged forward and bathed himself in the warmth of the rectory hearth. “Then you do not believe the Templars’ place in the tale of the Holy Grail?”

“No, I do not. They are said to be the cupbearers, but I fear their treachery. I fear they would use it to ill ends.”

“Why?”

“Because domination was their goal and nothing has changed that. If they were to use the power of the grail to that end, what could stop them?”

Crispin’s frown grew deeper. “Then what of the pope of Avignon? He, too, must be a danger to all that is good and Christian in the world.”

The priest cocked his head. A smile raised one corner of his mouth. “Your mind worries over many things. It spins from one thing to the other like a whirlwind.” He rubbed his hands close to the fire. “Very well. To answer your question, the anti-pope does pose a danger to the Church. Anything that may force good men to split their conscience is not good for the soul.”

“Does he not pose a greater danger than the Templars? If they exist.”

The priest’s expression changed while he concentrated. The hearth light made his face appear as young as Jack Tucker’s. “Difficult to say. The anti-pope has many followers on the continent, but the Templars had compatriots in all lands known to civilized man. And they worked in secret. Who can say who the bigger threat would be?”

Crispin muttered under his breath.

“But you must tell me, my son. What is it that you know of the Holy Grail?”

He stared at the priest. “What is the grail’s power? Do you know?”

“Other than it touched the lips of Christ and held His precious blood both in the guise of wine and in the blood on the cross? Is that not power enough?”

“The power of God,” Crispin muttered. “But how can one wield this power to do ill in the world?”

Timothy twirled the ring on his finger in a thoughtful gesture. He stopped when he noticed Crispin stare at it. “It is said to be a cup of healing. Whoever drinks from it shall not die.”

“Is that all? Healing?”

“No, not all. The power is said to be much more than that. More terrible than can be imagined. Man is not prepared to wield such power.”

Crispin shivered though he sat close to the fire. He glanced once more at the ring before looking away. “Then, are you saying that the Templars may be no better to guard the grail than, perhaps, the anti-pope?”

“Perhaps not.”

“Then its safety may be better served by someone like you.”

“Me?” Timothy laughed and shook his head. “I should be a poor guardian. I would neglect my parish for the sole purpose of keeping watch of the precious relic.” The humor momentarily washed from his face and a wistful flicker curved his lips. “Who would not wish to…to touch such an object? To even adore it.”

Crispin stared at the light playing against his boots for a long time. At last he rose. “I thank you, Father Timothy for our conversation.”

“I fear I have told you nothing useful.”

“On the contrary. Every bit of it was useful. It is just that I am no more enlightened now than I was before.”

The young cleric smiled sadly. “If someone has told you a tale I beg you, do not pursue it. Leave it to others.”

“What others would that be, Father?”

“Yes. You may be right. Go in peace, then.” He blessed him with the sign of the cross.

Once out in the rain of London’s streets again, Crispin turned to measure the little church up the daubed walls to its tower of wood. A brass cross perched at the very top.

Who could resist the urge to be closer to God in some tangible sense? To own the cup, to touch it.

If the cup were real then it could be coveted by anyone. But who should have it? The Templars? Their discourse seemed honest enough, yet this priest had a different tale to tell. Who am I to believe? If he should find it and return it to the Templars would he be doing the right thing or exactly the wrong thing?

How to make this decision? He would have to confide in someone, someone who often made solemn decisions.

He looked over his shoulder one last time at the little church disappearing behind the sinewy frames of houses and shops. He snorted. “The one time I could actually use the help of Jack Tucker and he is gone for good.”

“Who is gone for good?”

Crispin turned.

Tucker stood behind him, ringing the hem of his threadbare tunic in dirty fingers. His eyes darted uncertainly until he finally rested his gaze on Crispin’s face.

Crispin couldn’t repress his laugh. “You, my shadow. I thought I rid myself of you.”

“No, Master,” said Jack firmly. “I followed you since you went into the chapel.”

“I told you I did not need a servant.”

The boy sniffed, ran a hand under his nose. “Thought you might change your mind.”

Crispin glared. “Oh, did you, now? Just where is it you go when you disappear? You are more mysterious than a sprite.”

“Oh, here and there.”

“You aren’t cutting purses are you?”

Jack frowned. “And what if I were? What it’s to you? You insist I am not in your employ.”

“But I do follow the law. You do not want to return to Newgate and lose an ear, do you?”

Tucker stepped back, alarm on his face. “But you wouldn’t do that, sir. Would you?”

Crispin sighed and surveyed the street. “You have the better of me now, Master Tucker. I would feel distinctly uncomfortable doing so to you.” The boy visibly relaxed. “But it doesn’t mean I will allow you further to engage in such activity.”

“No, sir.” He smiled.

Crispin felt as if he had been baited, the line tossed in, the hook set. “You were most conveniently absent when unknown persons ransacked my lodgings.”

Jack’s face blossomed into shock. “You don’t think I-”

“I must admit. Only fleetingly. Where did you go?”

“You seemed dead set against my being there so I lit out until you’d calmed down. Did I do wrong, sir?”

“No, of course not. It was, after all, my one order you followed.” He ticked his head looking at Jack. “Why do you vex me, I wonder?”

“You’re a great lord!” said Jack, not quite correctly interpreting Crispin’s lament. “I never been this close to a great lord like you, sir. And here you are, struck as low as a man can be. But you’re the same as ever you were. And you’re always thinking, thinking. It… contents me, sir.”

“Thinking is hard work sometimes.” The boy rocked on his heels. His tunic was a disgrace. His face was dirty. He looked like any number of strays on London’s streets, begging, stealing. Of course that was exactly what he was. It made Crispin wonder why he should care about the boy at all. But then his mind drew in all his most recent memories, of Templars and murdered men…and poisons.

“Tell me, Jack, which apothecary did you go to for your cure?”