Cup of Blood

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Crispin stepped back against the wall and absorbed de Marcherne’s words. The Templars had been so persuasive. He had even considered their offer with some amount of soul-searching. Was this just another deception on de Marcherne’s part? Or the Templars’?

De Marcherne grabbed the grate of the door’s spy hole. “My lord,” he called within. “I would speak with you.”

Crispin looked over de Marcherne’s shoulder and watched Stephen approach the door. He wore a five-day-old beard and his hair fell dirty and mussed about his cheeks. “Who the hell are you?”

“I could be a friend.”

“I know that voice,” Stephen hissed. “You bastard!”

“Alas,” said de Marcherne. “Such a recognizable voice. Unfortunately, my companions haven’t the subtly to question a prisoner properly and I am forced to do it myself. I must look into instructing them.”

“I have nothing to say to you that I haven’t said before.”

“Yes. Such colorful metaphors they were. So many intriguing ways to blaspheme myself.”

“And I meant every one of them!”

“Yes, I know. I only have the one question left.”

Stephen sneered at Crispin. “What’s he got to do with it?”

De Marcherne sent only a perfunctory glance back. “Him? He has nothing to do with it. He is merely the sheriff’s lap dog and insists on accompanying me. Do not bother with him.”

“I will not bother with either of you. Have you not heard? I am under a sentence of death even before my trial. Do you think I care what you have to say to me?” He turned his back, and leaned against the grate.

“Even if it will free you?”

He did not move except to adjust his shoulder. “Lies,” he spat.

“I can have you freed with one word to the king. But I require something from you in return.”

He whirled and grabbed the grate, though it failed to startle de Marcherne. “The damned grail, is that it?”

De Marcherne turned to Crispin. “You told him?”

“Yes,” said Crispin dispassionately. “I wondered if he had it. He doesn’t.”

“No? Are you certain?” Crispin nodded and de Marcherne ticked his head. “You do not have the grail?” he asked Stephen.

“I never saw it. As I said.”

“Alas. It means you have nothing to bargain with. Pity.” He lowered his face for a moment before bringing up a sardonic smile. “Good luck with your trial.”

De Marcherne turned and appraised Crispin. “I thank you for your most interesting tour. I hope we shall meet again.” He leaned closer and said in quieter tones, “My offer to you still stands. Think on it.” He cast a dismissing glance to Stephen before he waved to a gaoler standing some distance down the passage. “Do not bother to escort me, Master Crispin. This fine gaoler will lead me out. Au revoir.”

His footsteps stopped echoing long before his stately figure disappeared into the shrouding shadows.

“Why did you bring that bastard here?” Stephen grimaced. “Never mind. I know. To further torment me. Satisfied?”

“In fact, no. Yet I have some questions of my own.”

“Do you? Well you know what you can do with your questions.”

Crispin toed the dirt at the foot of the door and then peered into the dim cell. A dismal fire sputtered in the hearth. A stool, a table, and a pallet with a straw mattress were the only furniture in the room. He remembered it well from his own incarceration seven years ago.

“I am trying to discover what possible motive my future brother-in-law would have for murder in this deceitful manner.”

Stephen rushed the window again but instead of flinging insults he pealed his lips back and bared his teeth in a smile. “You are bluffing. Rosamunde would never marry you. She’s already betrothed.”

“Liar,” he growled. “She never said-”

“Why should she discuss such a matter with you? I tell you she is betrothed. It is only a matter of months before she is wed again.”

As if struck by an arrow, Crispin staggered back and took a moment to catch his breath. When he looked up again Stephen calmly appraised him.

Crispin shook his head. How tired he was of games. Everyone, it seemed, lied to him. Rosamunde, the Templars, Vivienne, Stephen. He straightened, rolled his shoulders. “Why would Rosamunde tell me you were missing longer than was true?”

Stephen sniffed. “Gone one day? Would you have bothered to search?”

“Why was she suspicious?”

“Because I went to speak with D’Arcy and she did not trust him.”

“Why?”

Stephen pressed his lips together.

“Lady Stancliff was his lover. Did she want the grail?”

“I know nothing of that. I never knew he was a Templar.”

“And what of your affair with Lady Stancliff?”

“Mine? Never.”

“You lie. She said you were together. She remarked how cruel you were to her.”

“She made accusations. And that kind of woman does not get away with insults to me.”

“You never had an affair with her?”

“No. She is a liar if she claims so.”

“At first I believed the object she sought was the grail, but she has since told me it was something as innocuous as a ring. A ring I happened to have in my possession all this time.”

Stephen’s face changed, growing pale. “So? Did you give it to her?”

“Yes. It belonged to her, after all. Did it not?”

Stephen scowled and ran his hand over his chin. With that simple gesture, he seemed to release something, and his eyes surrendered into an expression of bleak indifference. “So she said.”

“What troubles you? That she was not your mistress?”

Stephen laughed bitterly. “That harridan? As if I would have her.”

“She warned me you would speak ill of her.”

Stephen measured Crispin and cracked a wry smile, a smile devoid of joy. “You slept with her. Well and why not! The both of you are whores. She with her cadre of men and you selling your time to the highest bidder.”

Crispin’s hands curled into fists but he checked his anger. After all, Stephen sat in a cell marked for death, not him.

“You are right. She did not, in fact, claim you were her lover.”

“And so.”

“But there was another lover. She said so. D’Arcy had many, in fact.”

Stephen turned away from the door and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Lady Stancliff,” Crispin continued, “told me of his many conquests. If he became the lover of another man’s woman…say, yours, perhaps…”

“I have no one in my life now.”

“There must have been another lover involved.” Jealousy. He could easily see jealousy as a motive, and jealousy worked well with poison. Crispin struggled with his thoughts, trying to think if he missed something or someone who could possibly be D’Arcy’s lover. And then the sudden insight came to him and struck like a pike piercing his heart. “Jesu! Why did I not see that before?”

At the same moment Crispin pronounced, “Rosamunde!” Stephen challenged him with a stout, “No!”

“Rosamunde. It was Rosamunde, wasn’t it?” Stephen’s expression was a muddled mix of anger and fear. Fear? Crispin drew closer, examined his face, and frowned. “That was not the name you expected me to say, was it?”

Stephen glowered into the fire. “I do not know your meaning.”

“You were prepared with a denial. Whom did you think I meant to say?”

“No one. If you suspect Rosamunde then I dare you to accuse her yourself!”

“Who else, Stephen? You know something, damn you! Are you prepared to die for it? Answer me! Who else?”

“Go to the Devil, Crispin!”

Crispin postured and leaned with both hands on the door. “If you had no lady for D’Arcy to woo, then why do you act like a jilted lover? It’s as if…” He stared at Stephen’s bewildered face; saw grief suddenly on his features and something else. Terror. Not the same fear Stephen wore when he spoke of de Marcherne’s men torturing him. This look in his eyes was deeper, older. He studied Stephen, from the rich leather of his boots up to his broad shoulders.

Like a cascade of icy water, his mind snapped to.

“Christ’s blood,” Crispin muttered. “Christ’s merciful blood!” He planted his feet before the door and crossed his arms over his chest. “You. Dammit, it was you.”

Stephen never moved from his haven by the fire but he turned to Crispin. One side of his face bronzed from the flames while the other fell into shadow. “You…you have no proof.”

“Your expression is proof enough! And you do not deny it! You killed him to keep your secret.”

Stephen hurled himself at the cell door. “I did not kill him!”

“You were lovers. Answer me!”

Stephen trembled, but not from fear. “Damn you.”

“Well, well, well!” Crispin drew back and strutted before the cell door. “Not only will you be hanged for his murder, but you will be exposed for the disgrace you are!”

“Crispin.”

Crispin spun on him. “Do you plead with me? You?”

Stephen took a deep breath. “Hang me if you must. But I implore you. Say nothing for Rosamunde’s sake.”

“Then you admit to murder?”

“If it will spare her, yes.”

Crispin frowned. This man he had known, who had been his friend. Crispin never suspected this secret side of him. But why then did he murder D’Arcy in such a cowardly way? Why did he lie about the grail, for surely he must have known D’Arcy had it, knew where it was? What was the point in keeping it secret now?

The more Crispin thought about the murder, the harder it was to imagine it. A crime of passion required the spilling of blood. From experience, Crispin knew that it felt far more satisfactory to let the offender see the blade coming, for him to feel it slice into him, and for him to know that his life’s blood would ebb away.

He looked up at Stephen’s woeful expression and gritted his teeth. He could walk away now, satisfied of his revenge. He could. Instead, he took a tentative step closer and peered through the grate almost nose to nose with him. “You did not kill him, did you?”

Stephen shrugged and pulled his cloak over his chest. “I might as well have done. Perhaps I should have. And so,” he said with a shuddering sigh. “You can still have your revenge. Just let me hang.”

Crispin’s lips peeled back in snarl. “Not if you’re innocent!” He pushed away from the door and furiously paced.

“You have a strange sense of honor.”

“Why shouldn’t I have my revenge?”

“That is the core of it, isn’t it?” Stephen shook his head. “This isn’t about justice. It’s about you. You blame everyone else but yourself. God’s bones! You committed treason, Crispin! You acted against the rightful heir! You acted against England itself. Why can’t you see that?”

“I did what I thought was just.”

“You thought! What about the law? Oh how well you now uphold the law, but what about then? If we have not our laws and the rule of succession, we are nothing. We might as well go back to wearing skins and painting our faces blue.”

“But Lancaster-”

“Never had rights! God, Crispin! Lancaster was not in line! It was Richard. Richard was the rightful heir. No matter that he was a child at the time. It would not matter if he was a babe. He was king, not your Lancaster. Mother of God! It’s been seven years and you still don’t see how wrong you were. Revenge? Everyone else is to blame but you.” He shook his head and wiped the spittle from his lips with the back of a trembling hand. Stephen’s anger fell away. His shoulders slumped and he turned from the door. “But as for me,” he whispered, placing his hand on his chest. “This has been champing at my heels all my life. Don’t you think I would change if I could? Try to understand…”

Crispin shook his head. “Understand? You must be mad!”

“Yes. I thought as much. The great Crispin Guest. Protégé to Lancaster.” He gestured to Crispin’s clothes, his lack of a sword. “See where your pride has taken you.”

“At least I am not behind a prison door.”

“No visible door.”

“No.” His eyes narrowed again with vicious fury. “And I have you to thank.”

“Seven years ago,” Stephen said solemnly, “I discovered a plot and I was honor bound to reveal it. I did not know that it involved you. Not at first. But by then it was far too late. Don’t you realize? You were not the only one destroyed. It destroyed Rosamunde. It destroyed our family. You and I. We were friends. That, too, was lost.”

Crispin shook his head and swallowed a hard lump in his throat.

“I did not kill him,” Stephen said softly. “Not for me and not for Rosamunde, for I know she and he…” He sighed. “It was one of the reasons I broke it off with Gaston. For God’s sake, she was my sister! And he knew it, the bastard. Another reason was…oh, there were many reasons.” He threw his head back to gaze up at the arched ceiling. His lashes were moist. “He said many things, made many promises.”

Crispin grimaced. “Spare me.”

“He gave that ring to me! I thought it was mine. When I discovered it was not I threw it back at him.”

Crispin wiped his face with a clammy hand. “So you are saying Rosamunde… She was his…his…” Crispin could not bring himself to say it. It was worse than D’Arcy and Stephen. Almost.

“Yes,” Stephen finally answered, covering his face with one hand before dropping that hand away. “But she does not know about me.”

Crispin suddenly wished he never came to Newgate, never met Templars and dead men and courtly ladies. He wished to go back to the Boar’s Tusk and drown his senses in bad wine and smoky hearths.

Wearily, he heard himself ask, “What of her betrothed?”

“I know not. The last I heard, he was still in France.”

Crispin froze. “France? Your French business?”

“Yes,” nodded Stephen. “We have been negotiating for months.”

Crispin fell silent. The neat package tied up in a tight string was now unraveling and so much else with it. He pulled distractedly at his coat. Suddenly he felt weary. “For what it is worth,” he said, voice hoarse. “I believe you. And whatever you believe about me, I am a man of honor, however misplaced. I will do my best to see you freed, though the sheriff will not like it.” He strained on the next part, wondering even at the last moment what he was going to say. “I will say nothing to Rosamunde about the…the other matter.”

Stephen lowered his head and heaved a long sigh. “Thank you.”

“You…” He stopped and started again. “It’s…” No use. What could he say? Crispin compressed his lips and shook his head. “I do not understand any of this.”

“I’m…”

“No.” Crispin held up his hand and grimaced. Now more than ever he longed to strike Stephen, but the man was safe, for now, behind a barred door.

Crispin turned, but the ragged thoughts would not leave him. “For God’s sake, Stephen! You frequented a brothel!”

Stephen shrugged. “To keep up appearances.”

“What in hell did you do there?”

He smiled sheepishly. “I played cards.”

Crispin kicked at the straw-littered floor.

Stephen stood at the door, fingers resting on the iron bars. His pensive expression flickered in the torch light. “Will you truly ask the sheriff to release me?”

“Yes. I said I would. I will not be responsible for hanging an innocent man. But he will ask me what I shall ask you now.” He turned to face him. “If you did not kill D’Arcy, who did?”

Stephen shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Wynchecombe will not like that answer and will require convincing.”

“If anyone can do it,” he said, eyes locked on Crispin’s, “it will be you.”