Cup of Blood

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“It’s not like me to say ‘I told you so,’” Jack rattled, “but breaking one of the Almighty’s commandments never bodes well.”

“For God’ sake, be still, Jack!” Crispin’s angry voice muffled under the shirt he pulled over his head.

“Master Kemp was kind enough to give you them clothes and shoes. A proper payment should be made to him to set things aright.”

“Why don’t you just ‘come by’ more of his coins and balance the books!”

“I would, Master, but you told me not… Oh, I see. You are angry with me. Well, don’t kill the messenger.”

Crispin wrestled with the shirt’s laces. “No. I am not angry with you, but with myself.” He sat heavily on the end of the bed and pulled on each stocking, tying them to the braies’ waistband. “I let myself be duped by a woman!”

“She could not have gotten far.”

“The tavern keeper said she left before nightfall.”

“Then she would have to stay at an inn or a monastery along the way to her estate, eh, Master Crispin? You said they were near Chelmsford.”

“Yes.” He yanked on the oversized coat and pulled mercilessly on the buttons. “But I will never be able to catch up to her without a horse and that takes money.”

Jack absently brushed the dust from Crispin’s shoulder. “There’s the money from de Marcherne.” Crispin’s glare told him that topic was prohibited. “Or…er… you could talk to the sheriff. He might see his way to lending you an animal if it was on the king’s business.”

Crispin sighed heavily and sat back. His body sagged, crumpling the coat. “That is good advice, Jack. And I must pursue her.”

“Aye, Master. This makes me reluctant to tell you that Lady Rothwell has sent a messenger saying she wants to see you.”

Crispin dragged his hand over his head and down to the back of his neck. His muscles stiffened and ached. “I am compelled to see her first.” What would the boy do now? Stay at Crispin’s side? He certainly proved his worth by bringing him some clothes.

“You may…do what you will, I suppose. Er…return to my lodgings, if you wish.”

The lad’s grateful expression smoothed his own sour temperament.

“Or perhaps go to the sheriff and tell him…”

Jack frowned. “I’d rather not, Master. The sheriff gets me skittery.”

“Yes. He gets me equally ‘skittery.’ But if you will, go ahead of me and wait outside Newgate. I will hurry back as quickly as I can from the White Hart.”

Pinched and drawn, Rosamunde’s face looked like a mummer’s mask. “Crispin. I thank you for coming.”

“My lady.” He bowed and waited. She wrung her hands and paced. He could hear Jenkyn and her maidservant behind the anteroom’s curtain. When Crispin served as a page many years ago, he had ears only for the needs of his master. Any other conversation was sacrosanct, though he could not vouch for the integrity of servants of a lower class. He flicked his gaze toward the still curtains and frowned.

“Yesterday I went to see Stephen,” she said.

He thought he could, but when the moment arrived, he could not look her in the eye. He listened to his own breathing, and felt the strangeness of his feet in borrowed shoes and his body in Martin Kemp’s long shirt and coat.

“Oh, Crispin,” she whispered. “How could you have done it?”

“The evidence-”

“Damn the evidence. He is my brother. He has done nothing. I know it.”

“He knew the dead man, he argued with him, and he was the last to see him alive. There is little left to infer.”

“He did not do it. He could not have done,” she pleaded, wringing her hands. “Poison, Crispin? You know Stephen well. Would a man of honor use poison?”

“A jury must decide.”

“He told me you captured him.”

At first it had felt good to apprehend Stephen and escort him to prison; to see him in that cell, a cell similar to the one Crispin resided in all those years ago. It did feel good, but only briefly. Now he stood before Rosamunde like a schoolboy awaiting the rod. He entwined his fingers. “That is so.”

“I hate your vengeance. I hate your anger. Is your revenge for me, too? To make me suffer so?”

“A crime was committed.”

“And yet you would hang an innocent man.”

“He has not proven that!” Crispin jerked away from her scrutiny and stood by the window. The open shutters threw a wash of pale light across the floor before him. “He says nothing. He is as stubborn as you are.”

She moved to him and raised her delicate hands. “Once, you loved me. You were even Stephen’s bosom friend. We were to be family. All of us. But your selfish, stupid act ruined it all. We barely recovered from it.”

“Bless me.” He exhaled into the cold air of the open shutter. “What a pity. You barely survived. Well. I must say a rosary or two in repentance for that.”

“Do not jest…”

“No, indeed. I do not jest. What a pity that your honor barely survived.” He turned to her then. “Do you know what living hell I endured for the last seven years? I starved, Rosamunde. I took scraps from almoners before I could find some kind of work to feed myself. I slept in church doorways and nearly froze to death. And the very first employment I got-and I was damned lucky to get it-was mucking out latrines for one penny a day. And do you know what I discovered, Rosamunde? Shit is shit no matter who expels it, king or beggar.” He tore away from her and walked stiffly across the room.

“After three months of that I became a henchman for a rich burgess. It was my duty to protect him and, on occasion and for extra pay, I beat nearly to death his debtors.” He rubbed his knuckles absently, remembering.

“The next year was better. I was a scribe and worked for merchants. They were kind to me, for the most part. I received more generosity from their little gestures than can be found in all of court.” He heaved a breath. “I can assure you, my dear lady, that you, too, would muck out a privy if it meant one more day alive. So do not weep over your poor little life. Because I know what it is to hang from the lowest rung.”

She shook her head slowly. “I felt so sorry for you once. How bitter you have become.”

“Bitter?” He grabbed his hair in frustration and bellowed out a guffaw. “You have a great gift for understatement!”

She pressed her hands together prayerfully and touched her fingertips to her lips. “I asked you here to plead for my brother’s life.”

He straightened and brushed off his coat. “Why come to me? You would have greater luck petitioning the sheriff.”

“I know you. At least, I used to.”

“Yes, yes. While your honor suffered so.”

“Crispin, please. You know he could not have done it. Surely there are other suspects.”

His gaze was steady. “How do you know Gaston D’Arcy?”

“I met him at court.”

“And how do you know Lady Stancliff?”

“I told you before. Also from court. We do not know one another well.”

“What is it you spoke to D’Arcy about?”

Her hands were still linked in prayer. The skin was white and veined in blue. Her wedding band encircled her left ring finger. “I cannot say.”

“Damn you, Rosamunde! I cannot help you unless you speak!”

“There are just some things, Crispin, that cannot be said aloud.”

“Yet you said it to him?”

“Try to understand.”

“Never, Rosamunde. Never!” Only now he recalled their devilish arguments. Why did he fail to remember that until this moment?

He grabbed his beard-stubbled chin and rubbed it raw. He simply could not stomach deceit. She never hid anything from him before. What was so terrible that she could not say? He wanted it to be the key to the case, but he feared it was only his frustration at being cast aside.

“Then there is nothing more to say. I must go.” He reached the doorway and even stepped through it before he made himself stop. Over his shoulder he said, “You are tying the noose about his neck yourself by refusing to say.”

“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?”

Vivienne was resourceful, to be sure, and competent. But he agreed that her wilier nature was capable of much more intricate means to serve her ends.

“I confess I used you ill,” she went on. “I am sorry for that. But I am only sorry for lying to you…not with you.”

He paused before he approached her.

“Will the sheriff arrest me?”

He sighed. “Guillaume de Marcherne is a dangerous man. But I suppose you already know that. If he threatened you in some way…”

She sighed, a world-weary expulsion of breath and soul. Moving toward the fire she stood before it, head bowed, gown gathered tightly about her. “And if he did?”

“Vivienne. You must tell me.”

“Why? Why must I? Is not our business now over? I’m leaving as much for your sake as mine.”

“He did threaten you. Extortion? Worse?”

“Do what he says, Crispin,” she whispered. “I fear for you.”

“For me? Do not worry over me. I can take care of myself.”

Her brightened eyes roamed over his borrowed coat and stockings. “Of course,” she said.

He took her shoulders and turned her to him, gently this time. Her head hung listlessly. “He forced you to try to get the grail from me?”

“He only wanted to know if you already possessed it. But he frightens me. And extortion or no, I fled London. I am not brave like you, Crispin. I thought I could fool my husband for a time should de Marcherne make good on his threats.”

“But now you have your ring. His threats are groundless.”

She smiled. “Thanks to you.”

“If I were you, I would stay on your estates for a good long time. With your husband.”

Her smile sagged.

“And I will deal with de Marcherne in my own way.”

He turned to go but she stopped him by touching his arm. “If someday…I should find myself a widow…and in London…”

He did not face her. He gathered his things in silence and left.