Cup of Blood

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

He stood his ground and let the men approach. He knew these alleys. By coming to Crispin, they cut off their own escape. He tensed with fists clenched, wondering if he would need his dagger.

They breached the boundary of shadows, and light flooded their faces.

“Forgive us,” said Parsifal holding out his empty hand.

“We did not startle you, did we?” Edwin gestured to another knight Crispin did not know.

Crispin relaxed his guard but not completely. “I did not expect to see you. What is it you want?”

“We are only asking about your progress in finding the object we seek.”

Crispin’s instinct included glancing behind him, which he did. The alley lay empty. “I have not yet found it.”

Parsifal lowered his head and shook it slowly. His tonsured scalp caught the vague sunlight and gleamed. “We are sorry to hear that. We hoped to be gone from this place by now.”

“My apologies. But these things take time. In the interim, why don’t you tell me something of Gaston D’Arcy.”

Edwin kept his steady gaze on Crispin. Parsifal and the other knight exchanged furtive glances. “And so you know his name,” said Edwin.

“Yes. A piece of information you did not deign to share with me. Tell me of his character.”

Edwin smiled. “It matters little now. He is dead.”

“Yes. He is. And no end of trouble has come from it. Tell me about his character.”

“We do not see the point. It is past; over and done with.”

“A man sits in gaol for his murder. Do you care nothing for that?”

“It is no longer our affair.”

Crispin guffawed and slowly paced around the three disguised knights. “No longer your affair? A pretty picture, this. Funny you should mention affairs. It seems Gaston D’Arcy was involved in many ‘affairs.’ Your celibate knight had many paramours, I hear tell.”

Edwin snorted. “Rumor and innuendo.”

“On the contrary. I have reliable testimony. Did you know your Cup Bearer was so engaged?”

The unnamed knight drew forward, his hand on his sword hilt. He began to withdraw it. “You are insulting, sir, to the honorable order of Templars!”

“Hold, Anselm” said Edwin, stepping in front of the knight. “Crispin is our ally.”

“He does not sound like an ally,” grunted Anselm.

Crispin postured. “Do you draw your blade on me?”

“Yes. To any man who makes such accusations.”

“Then hear this,” said Crispin. “Lately I have heard much about Templars; how they deceive in order to conquer; how their only aim is to dominate. Perhaps the grail is how you wish to achieve it. Perhaps you never had it to begin with.” He glared at each solemn knight. “Maybe to silence the rumor and innuendo, you killed your own comrade.”

Anselm drew his sword and shoved Edwin aside. Crispin backed away from him, desperately searching for something that could serve for a shield.

“Crispin!”

He saw Parsifal offer his sword. The knight tossed it and Crispin caught its hilt. He curled his fingers around the leather and wood-covered grip and felt the heft and perfect balance of the weapon. How good it was to feel a sword in his hand again! But with almost the same breath he glanced up at the oncoming knight and realized that it had been seven years since he had last used one.

Anselm slashed. Crispin swung his own sword to block it. The metal clanged. Anselm swung again. Crispin ducked in time to save his head. While low, he jammed the heavy pommel into Anselm’s boot. The knight yowled and staggered back. Anger flushed his face and he increased his volley of blows upon Crispin. Crispin backed away. The shock of Anselm’s blade against his sword weakened his arm. His unused muscles screamed at the new activity demanded of them. Anselm backed him against the wall but Crispin blocked his blade with a heavy downward stroke and kept it there with a trembling hand.

Anselm bared his teeth. Close enough to feel his angry breath upon him, Crispin cocked back his left fist and punched.

He heard a satisfying crunch, and blood rushed from Anselm’s nostrils. The knight’s eyes rolled upward, he dropped his blade, and fell backward into the mud.

Crispin stood over him and panted for a moment before he handed Parsifal his sword. “Much thanks,” he said once he caught his breath.

Edwin sighed and looked down at the supine Anselm. “I am sorry for my brother’s hot-headedness. Believe me. He is a good knight. Far better than…than our dearly departed.”

“And so,” said Crispin, straightening his coat. “You admit it.”

“Yes,” he said stiffly. “He was unable to keep his vows. His time with the grail was almost up and once it was, I was to take him to the Master and have him removed from the order.”

“Why did you wait?”

“It was hoped the grail would change him,” offered Parsifal. He lowered to one knee to minister to Anselm. “It changes many who guard it.”

“Then you still maintain there is such an object.”

“Of course!” cried Parsifal. “We have all seen it. Touched it.”

“Then who is Guillaume de Marcherne?”

The three knights froze. Edwin was the first to move and he seized Crispin’s arm. “Do not have congress with that man. He is the Devil incarnate.”

“That much I gathered. But who is he? I believe he is allied with the anti-pope.”

“That and more,” said Edwin.

Anselm rose to his feet, a torn piece of his shirt was stuffed into his bloody nose. “You fought right well,” he said good-naturedly and offered Crispin his hand.

“As did you,” Crispin answered somewhat perplexed. He took Anselm’s hand and gripped it once before letting it go. “You are no longer angry with me?”

Anselm shook his head. “I was never angry with you. It was a test.”

“A test? What nonsense is this?”

Edwin eased Crispin aside with a gentle tug on his arm. “Crispin. Your king may have seen fit to degrade and dispossess you, but we recognize a noble nature that cannot be suppressed. We offer you your knighthood as a brother in Christ.”

“What?” It came out as a puff of air.

“Yes, Crispin,” he went on. “We ask you to join us as a Knight of the Temple. Don your sword again and be a soldier of Christ. Once you find the grail you shall be one of us.”

Crispin took a step back and studied their solemn faces. “Me? A Templar? You must…It is a jest.”

“No. Our brethren are chosen carefully. D’Arcy was once a young idealist but he strayed and allowed the face of woman to lead him away from the straight path. He was weak.”

“Gentlemen,” said Crispin. He opened and closed his fists. “‘The face of woman’ is oft foremost on my mind. I am afraid I am not made for chastity.”

“A man can learn,” said Parsifal. Crispin looked at him for seemingly the first time. So young. The same age as Crispin was when he was knighted. At that age, he, too, might have pledged his chastity. He had been just as fervent to do his job well and to find his honor in it.

“What you offer…” Crispin shook his head and paced around the men. “It’s extraordinary.” De Marcherne offered the same, but it wore the stench of dishonor about it. And how could Crispin ever raise his head and serve in the French court?

But here, in the Templars, there was great honor and just enough mystique for added enticement. The feel of a sword again; a horse; armor. All the accouterments he yearned for, the trappings that defined him. Even the vow of chastity did not seem as repellent as it first appeared. What had women done for him except to cause him pain and disappointment? There could be great nobility in this notion of sacrifice.

“I do not know what to say,” he offered feebly.

“Then say nothing for now,” said Edwin. “When you find the grail, you will find your way. It is God’s manner to work in us in this fashion.”

The two knights bid their farewells and each took one of Anselm’s arms to help him.

Crispin watched them, these noble knights. Then the thought occurred to him. How well they distracted him with the one thing he most wanted. Like the Devil, they found the weakness in his armor. “One thing more,” called Crispin before they disappeared around the corner. He strained to keep the anger from his voice. “Do any of you know of a man named Stephen St Albans?”

Subtly, almost too subtle to detect in the half shadows of the alleyway, Crispin saw a look pass between Edwin and Parsifal. He could not describe it with any accuracy, and any other man might have missed it. But Crispin’s instincts always served him well and he carefully noted the fleeting moment like a scribe scratches a quick, black mark with the tip of his quill.

“No,” said Edwin. “We do not.”

They nodded their farewells again and left Crispin alone in the alley.