Cup of Blood

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“I do not care who you are, Wynchecombe,” rasped Stephen through cracked lips. “Why the hell am I here?”

“I do not believe you understand the seriousness of your situation, Sir Stephen,” said the sheriff. The stuffy chambers at Newgate closed in on them. Its hearth light flickered off their faces. The other sheriff, John More, was, as usual, nowhere to be found.

Stephen sat while the sheriff circled him like a raven looking for an opportunity to swoop down on a carcass.

Crispin leaned against a far wall in the shadows. Lips rigid, he studied the proceedings.

Stephen snorted at the sheriff’s last remark. He wiped at his bruised face and again straightened his torn coat. Though he sat with legs wide in a seemingly relaxed manner, his features winced when he moved and the red blood on his left temple shone bright against his pale skin. He rubbed his wrists. They were ringed red with raw abrasions. “As I see it, my situation is no longer serious. I have been rescued.” He smiled an unsavory grin at Crispin. “And I have you to thank.”

Crispin said nothing. He moved only to breathe long, slow breaths.

Stephen dismissed him and glared again at Wynchecombe. “So why does it appear I am under arrest?”

“For the simple reason,” said the sheriff, pouring himself some wine, “that you are.”

Stephen launched from his chair. The sheriff shoved him back down with one hand. “Be advised, my lord, that my men are within hearing.” Wynchecombe sat on the edge of the table and resumed pouring his wine. He lifted the cup to his lips and drank, wiped his mustache with his fingers, and set the cup aside. “You are here because of murder.”

“Murder?” Stephen rolled his shoulders and slid to the edge of his stool. “What murder?”

“The man at the Boar’s Tusk two nights ago.”

“Gaston D’Arcy,” said Crispin from his corner.

Stephen’s lips parted. A retort appeared ready on his tongue. But he glanced swiftly at Crispin and then at the sheriff. Stephen slowly sat back and set his mouth into a thin line. “I know not what you speak of.”

Wynchecombe rose, walked the few paces to Stephen’s chair, and loured over him. The sheriff stood a head taller than most men. His dark features made him even more imposing, though Crispin suspected he could not intimidate the dour knight.

“Come, come, Sir Stephen,” said Wynchecombe. “You were seen arguing with the man and not long thereafter he was dead.”

Stephen scowled and stared at his feet. “I will say nothing.”

“That does not bode well for you,” said Wynchecombe. He stood with his feet apart and his hand on his sword pommel. “Did you know that this dead man-this Gaston D’Arcy-bore the mark of a Knight Templar?”

Stephen stiffened but remained mute.

“This surprises you?” asked the sheriff. “Or are you just surprised we know?”

“Say what you want, Wynchecombe. It changes nothing. You have no evidence. Release me.”

“On the contrary. We have nothing but evidence against you. If you will not speak now, perhaps some meditation in a cell will do you good. Arise, my lord.”

Scowling, Stephen rose and stood toe to toe with the sheriff. Wynchecombe opened his hand. “Your sword, Sir Stephen.”

Crispin’s chest filled with a warm flush. “Yes,” he said just over Wynchecombe’s shoulder. “Surrender your blade. See how it feels.”

“You are behind this,” Stephen said to Crispin. “Have you not learned enough? Do you require more lessons in humbling?”

“I am learning more each day.” Crispin’s mouth cracked into grin. Between clenched teeth he echoed the sheriff, “Surrender your sword.”

“Very well, Lord Sheriff. I will pay whatever surety you require and we may end this.”

“I have not yet prepared your writ for the jury, Sir Stephen. We will talk of sureties later. For now, I demand your sword.”

“You mean to go through with this? To imprison me?”

“Indeed I do. Your sword.”

Stephen’s nostrils flared. With stiff fingers he unbuckled his baldric and handed strap, sheath, and sword to Wynchecombe, never taking his icy gaze from Crispin’s face.

Crispin beamed.

The sheriff held out his hand. “Your knife.”

Stephen yanked the frog from his belt and slapped the sheath into the sheriff’s palm.

“And now a cell,” said Crispin.

Stephen lurched forward with fists clenched, but Wynchecombe stopped him. His hands flattened against the knight’s chest. “Peace,” Wynchecombe said and glanced once at Crispin before motioning for Stephen to precede him to the door.

“You are making a mistake, Lord Sheriff,” growled the knight. “I will have your head for this.”

“Careful, Sir Stephen. If you wish to eat, you’d best be civil to the man who commands your gaolers.”

“I will not be here long. When the king hears of this-”

“I will send my writ to him forthwith with all its evidence. King Richard loves the law but loves not lawbreakers. You will be my guest. For how long? Well, that is what your trial will decide. A gibbet is a simple thing to build.”

Stephen’s lips pressed tightly and paled. “The noose is already about my neck before I am even indicted, is it? Your folly, Wynchecombe, is to listen to Crispin Guest. He will get you both killed. No jury will convict me.”

“You forget,” said the sheriff, “I pick the jury.” He thrust Stephen into the corridor. The knight stumbled against two gaolers. “This way, Sir Stephen,” he said politely.

The gaolers took up their positions on either side of Stephen and escorted him toward an open cell, followed by the sheriff and finally Crispin. The gaolers pushed open the door and gestured him forward and Stephen walked onto the straw-covered floor before the gaolers closed and locked the door after him.

Wynchecombe looked through the small barred window. “Crispin played little part in putting you here,” he said. “Perhaps you must look to your own actions. It is a man’s actions, after all, that truly condemn him.”

The sheriff turned away from the cell and glared once at Crispin to follow him before striding down the passage.

Crispin stared at the cell. He longed to gloat over Stephen in his disgrace. Hadn’t he waited seven years for this? But he trailed the sheriff instead. They walked all the way back to his gatehouse chamber.

He should have been pleased that Stephen finally sat in a cell with the shadow of the hangman stretched over him. Yet there were many loose ends, too many questions yet to be answered.

The sheriff’s voice startled.

“Well? You’re free to go. Is not your business here complete?” Wynchecombe threw back his head with a huff of recollection. “Oh, I see. There is a matter of sixpence. Here.” He dug into his pouch and pulled out the coins, more than six pence. “I feel generous today. Take these with my thanks.”

Crispin took no notice of Wynchecombe but stared into the hearth. He sagged against the doorjamb and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Guest! Did you hear me?”

“My lord,” he answered distantly. “When I first brought Stephen here, he had bindings on his wrists. And he thanked me, however grudgingly, for his ‘rescue.’ Yet neither of us have been able to determine why Stephen was in such a disreputable state with bindings.”

“You heard him. He refused to say.”

“And that is good enough for you? Why did he need rescuing? And where is the grail?”

Wynchecombe leapt from his chair. “God’s teeth, Crispin! Are you still bringing that damn grail business into it?”

“Yes, my lord.”

The sheriff gestured into the air. “I’ll have none of it. Does the thing even exist? Rumor is not enough. I will believe only when I see it.”

“So said Doubting Thomas.”

“Nevertheless.” Wynchecombe reached for his wine and paused. “I have never seen this side of you, Crispin. Why are you so willing to believe?”

“You saw the grail knight.” He shouldered into the room and hovered near a chair long enough for Wynchecombe to relent and offer it to him.

Crispin sat heavily. “And I talked to other Templars, his companions. It’s not that I believe in the grail itself, but that there is a cup that has been stolen. Surely it is valuable to these men for they wish for me to find it.”

“You would make of this a conspiracy. I say lay it to rest. The murder is solved.”

“Is it?”

Wynchecombe’s wine poised at his lips when he slammed the goblet on the table. Red splattered onto his papers. “Now see here! Enough is enough. The murderer is in that cell.”

“It remains to be seen.”

“You heard him. He would not speak of it.”

“A man is not necessarily guilty just because he is silent.”

“And that’s where you’re wrong. According to the law, silence is affirmation. If he has nothing to hide, why not speak?”

“Perhaps he has something else to hide.”

“Crispin…” Wynchecombe shook his head and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palms. “Why must you always make more of it than there is? Is it the six pence? I already said I’d pay you extra for your trouble. Just take the coins and vex some other worthy.” He tossed them to the table and Crispin watched them clatter and land, gleaming in the fire light.

“It is not for that, my lord, and you know it!”

Wynchecombe gulped from his goblet and gazed at Crispin steadily. “What is it that truly vexes you?” he said quietly. “I know your history. All of court knows it. By the mass, all of London knows it. So why are you suddenly so reluctant when before you were hot for his blood? Come now. You might as well tell me.” He reached for his pouch and laid another two coins carefully on the pile already on the table.

Crispin licked his lips, eyes darting toward the bounty. “Stephen-despite my feelings and my personal history-has always been an honorable man. If he were guilty…I think he would admit it.”

The sheriff glared at him, grinding his teeth. He jolted to his feet. “Very well. We will get it out of him. Now.”

Crispin moved swiftly to block him. “Allow me to do it.”

The sheriff guffawed. “I should let you interrogate him?”

“Commission me then.”

“And what will that cost me?”

“My lord…” Crispin closed his fists and bowed his head. “I give my word as a tool of your office to interrogate him and behave in a fitting manner. For no fee.”

They both fell silent. Even the crackling flames muted in the still air. Wynchecombe considered. His brows fumbled and his mustache buried his lips. He took his time deciding.

“Very well. See to it, Guest. But I tell you now, if you are wrong and he complains to the king, it’s your head in the noose, not mine.”