Cup of Blood

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Crispin sat at home and stared into his untouched bowl of wine. After he left Newgate and returned to his lodgings, he realized he was back to the beginning, with no murderer.

De Marcherne and his henchmen. Crispin had all but ignored him in favor of convicting Stephen.

“Stephen,” he muttered. He did not want to envisage it, but now his mind could not erase the image of Stephen St Albans and Gaston D’Arcy. Crispin met Stephen a year before encountering Rosamunde. He fought beside him in battle. He never suspected the man capable of what his mind conjured. It wasn’t as if he had not known sodomites. Some were even his friends, but Stephen…

He shook his head and quaffed the wine. Rubbing his face, he listened to the silence of his room. Below, he could hear Martin Kemp’s wife Alice berating him for some husbandly error among the clatter of pots and pans. Not long after, a door slammed and the quantity of smoke from the outdoor furnace suddenly billowed, cascading across Crispin’s open window and tumbling into his room. Crispin took two strides to close the shutters, but not before watching Martin Kemp jam wood into the inferno, no doubt thinking of something other than wood burning in the fierce blaze and going up in smoke.

Crispin sighed and leaned his hand against the lintel. “I must return to the problem,” he reminded himself. “Who is the murderer?”

He started when Jack Tucker opened the door and walked in as if he’d lived there all his life. He smiled upon seeing Crispin. “Master. What’s the news?”

Crispin stared, unused to the ease with which Tucker had insinuated himself. He still wasn’t quite sure what to make of the lad and his motives, but he shook his head and walked away from the window. Standing in front of the fire, he mechanically raised his fingers to the flames. It did little to warm him.

“The news, Jack, is far from good.”

“Oh?” Jack settled on the floor beside the fire. He took out a wedge of cheese from his pouch and began eating it. With a wad bulging his cheek, he stopped and offered the hunk in his hand to Crispin. Crispin glanced disinterestedly at the food and shook his head.

“Stephen St Albans is not guilty of murder.”

“No! It’s that wretched sheriff to blame.”

“No, no. It is not the sheriff. It’s me. I have talked with Stephen and mulled over the evidence and I do not believe him guilty.”

Jack eyed him and continued chewing. “The woman, then,” he offered slowly. “That Lady Stancliff.”

Crispin shook his head. “Nor her.”

“Blind me, Master. Who’s left?”

“Exactly.” Crispin sat on the hard wood of the chair.

“Maybe it’s them anti-pope men like I said.”

“Yes. I do consider them. But I also consider D’Arcy’s Templar companions.”

“Eh? Why would they murder him? They were his friends, weren’t they?”

Crispin tapped the wooden bowl with his fingers. “Not entirely. I cannot tell you all, Jack, but it might have been simpler for them to merely eliminate him. Remember, they did steal the body.”

“Oh, aye.” He chewed and thought. “It’s complicated, isn’t it?”

“That it is.”

Crispin rose again to retrieve the wine jug and poured more into the bowl. He stood for a moment with the jug still in his hand and stared into nothing.

“Master,” said Jack at his elbow. “Why don’t you ask them Templars. Get it straight from them.”

“Because I cannot find them. They find me.”

“Then what of de Marcherne?”

“At least I do know where he is.” He put the jug down and ran his hand over his day-old beard.

“Where, Master?”

He sighed, but it came from a weariness far beyond the rigors of the day. “Court,” he answered.

Jack whistled. “Have you been lately to court, Master Crispin? Since…well, since…”

“No. I have not. But I have made many a deal with the Devil today. One more won’t hurt.”

Two strides took him to his wash basin, and he proceeded to shave without a word.

Jack insisted upon escorting him to Westminster Palace, and in the back of his mind, Crispin felt glad the boy came. He tried to look his best. Crispin had shaved, clipped his hair, and groomed his poor clothes as best he could, and though Jack’s attire obviously belonged in no court, it was better to have some kind of retainer than none at all.

But the closer Crispin got to the gates, the harder it was to breathe. “I wish to God I had a horse,” he muttered.

Jack nodded. “It would be more seemly, but a man has to make do.” He glanced up at the walls and the finery of the guards ahead and moved closer to Crispin. “How long ago did you say you were last here?”

“Seven years. Yet it seems like only yesterday.”

They reached the gatehouse and the porters looked them over. Each guard wore a mail hood that covered their chins and rested under their lower lip. Their conical helms fit snugly to their heads. One man-at-arms stood back under the shadows while the other approached. “And what would you want?” he asked.

Crispin resisted the urge to straighten his coat. No amount of tugging would hide its repairs. “I am here to see the dignitary from the French court; Guillaume de Marcherne.”

The guard squinted at him before glancing back to his companion. Although Crispin looked like a common tradesman his manner of speech gave them pause.

“And what would the likes of his worthy want to see you for?” asked the man-at-arms.

“I have business with him. I would send my man here to give him a message.”

The man glanced at Jack and sneered. “What? Him?”

“There now!” cried Jack. He gestured with a jerk of his thumb. “This here is Sir Crispin Guest, and you best show the proper respect for him. He has business at court.”

The man made no effort to move except to lick his lips. “So?”

Crispin tried on his haughtiest expression. “I am sending my man with a message. Now.”

But the guard dropped his hand on his sword pommel. “Take the tradesman’s entrance. Back there.” He gestured half-heartedly and turned his back.

Crispin felt his muscles tense and the urge to grab for his own sword was strong, even though no sword hung at his side.

Tight-lipped, he gestured for Jack to follow him and they walked around the palace by another arch. Men unloaded sacks from a cart and carried them in under the distracted eye of a man-at-arms. Crispin nodded for Jack to follow his lead and they each picked up a sack, hoisted it over their shoulders, and carried it inside. Once they were out of sight of the knights in the courtyard, they dropped their loads and entered a long corridor. Crispin found a wooden staircase and grabbed the railing. “Come along, Jack. Keep close.”

“Aye, Master,” he murmured, grasping Crispin’s cloak.

They reached the top of the landing and entered a wide hall. The space was as large as any nave in London’s bigger churches, spanned by huge trusses and ornate beams, all held aloft by two rows of pillars. The floor, painted in a large checkerboard of blue and white, stretched forward. Long banners hung from the far walls while the closer walls near a raised dais glittered with a colorful scene of men on horseback hunting a boar, and ladies plucking flowers. Crispin glanced at the shimmering banners and the many pallets still set up for sleeping servants, and headed across the expanse of floor. But Jack’s tugging at his cloak slowed him to a stop.

“Jack! What are you doing?”

“Sweet Jesus.” His voice seemed smaller amidst the hall’s echoes. “What is this place?”

Crispin wanted to hurry through. He did not want to be forced to look about the hall, to remember where he had sat many a time, recalling the great feasts and the fine food. He did not wish to bring to mind with whom he talked and the women with whom he danced. But Jack’s fear forced him to take stock and he made himself survey the place that had been home to him since before the time he was Jack’s age.

“It is the great hall. This is where the evening meals are served.”

Jack clutched Crispin’s cloak tight and peered around him. “Does the king eat here?” he asked, still whispering.

“Yes.” Crispin sighed and turned toward the dais. He pointed to the largest and most ornate chair situated in the center of the long plank table. “There, next to his ministers and now his wife.”

“Blind me! Did you ever sit up there?”

“Sometimes. That was in Edward III’s court. Before Richard was ever heir.”

Jack raised his eyes to the high ceiling and its ornate beams painted in stripes and diamonds. Gold leaf gleamed from carved leaves, and below them hung huge, round coronas filled with candles, none of which were now lit. The hall’s light came from large clerestory windows and flaming cressets.

The tapestries lining the walls rustled from a draft from the open passage doors. Above them hung the banners of knights and houses nearly as old as England itself. Crispin’s banner once hung there. The family name of Guest had thrown in their fortunes with Henry II, and for two hundred years counted themselves among the elite of court society.

The banner was gone. Every memory of it wiped clean from English recollection. Others stood in its place, proudly jutting upward toward the arched ceiling, like angels’ wings stretched protectively over the throne.

Jack turned a melancholy face to Crispin. His eyes were wide and moist. “By the saints. This is what you lost?”

Crispin turned away. He tried to swallow the ache in his throat. “Come along.”

Quickly they passed through the great hall to an outer chamber framed by clerestory windows. Here, oil lamps lit their way along more painted floors. Murals and tapestries enlivened the plaster walls.

A cluster of maids bustled ahead and Crispin drew back to allow them distance. Except that the maids had a familiar look about them. And one in particular.

He rushed forward, Jack trying vainly to catch up.

“Vivienne!”

She stopped and turned. Her maids stood before her protectively, especially the ones who recognized Crispin.

A small smile formed on her lips and she shook her head. “Crispin Guest. You do turn up at the most unexpected places.”

“As do you, Madam.” He bowed. Nudging Jack, the boy followed suit.

She glanced at her maids but seemed to decide she needed a shield. She did not dismiss them or move to stand before them. “I found it necessary to return to court. I made a, perhaps, too hasty departure.”

“Indeed. What brings you back so swiftly?”

“Unfinished business.”

“And yet I thought your business was finished.”

The smile on her lips now appeared painted there. “This is other business.”

Crispin glanced at the maids and then at a perplexed and defensive Jack. There was only so much he could say in front of an audience. “Then…I hope you will come to me if there is anything more I can do for you.”

She bowed her head and curtseyed. “You will be the first to know.” She turned on those words, and without looking back, proceeded up the corridor.

Crispin watched her leave with a wave of anxiety. He took a step forward, but stopped. He longed to ask her about Guillaume de Marcherne, but too many eyes and ears made that impossible. And he had been as good as dismissed. He knew in his current standing he had no authority to delay her.

“But she left London…” Jack whispered.

“Yes. She had.” He pressed a fist to his hip. “And now she is back. And I wonder now if I was right in not apprehending her. The sheriff will have my hide if I change my mind on it.”

“Then don’t change your mind,” Jack muttered under his breath.

Ahead, he heard voices and hoped it came from the pages he sought. He moved quickly and turned the corner much too fast and ran into a lordly man surrounded by a cadre of equally attired knights and squires.

Crispin blanched and stepped back. Belatedly, he bowed in apology and tried to skirt them by walking backwards, trying to escape before they recognized him, but the lordly man shot out a hand and grabbed his arm.

Crispin gasped and looked up. The man was older. The beard running along the underside of his jaw and his neatly trimmed mustache were black but graying, yet there was no mistaking that stern nose and those aggressive eyes.

He glared at Crispin for a long moment. His pale lips parted to speak, but in the end, he said nothing. He released Crispin’s arm and turned from him abruptly, striding quickly down the corridor with his entourage of knights. He never looked back, but his entourage did, with scowls and accusing expressions.

Crispin froze. Careless. Incredibly careless.

Jack waited for the men to disappear through an arched doorway before he tugged on Crispin’s cloak. “Who was that, Master?”

Crispin breathed again, unaware he had held his breath. “That was John of Gaunt, duke of Lancaster.”

“Jesus mercy,” whispered Jack and becrossed himself.

Crispin did not move except to shake his head. “It was a mistake to come here.”

“But you have to question de Marcherne, do you not?”

“To what end? I cannot arrest him. He could easily escape to France before the sheriff ever decides to make his writ. Wynchecombe already has his murderer, remember?”

“Then what are you going to do?”

His body felt numb, his limbs limp. “I do not know.” Curse his impetuosity! It had been a proud choice to return to court. He believed that if he summoned the courage to do this, then nothing, not even the cold reality of Rosamunde’s broken chastity, could crack him. But he was wrong. This was too insurmountable.

The Tracker. He snorted. He could not even find his own dignity. He thought he did find a portion of it through feats with the lower classes, but all of it was mummery.

The palace walls closed in on him, trapping him in the illusion of the freedom he mistakenly thought he possessed.

“Crispin Guest?”

Crispin spun and stared at a young page. His fears gathered about him again. “Yes?”

“His grace the duke wishes to speak with you.”

Crispin felt his skin go cold. “With me?”

“Yes. Follow me.”

Crispin looked once at Jack before he lifted his deadened feet to trail the page. Jack followed a little further behind.

They entered a small door to an anteroom where Lancaster sat on a sumptuous chair.

“Your servant can wait outside,” said Lancaster.

Jack seemed only too happy to oblige and he bowed to the duke very low and once more to Crispin before exiting.

Warm. Familiar. Crispin recalled gazing at this room’s rich tapestries many a time, losing himself in the adventures depicted on their clever panels. He and his fellow squires and knights used to warm themselves by that same fire, sharing cups of wine and speaking of deep things that only men who had shared the experience of war could discuss.

Being Lancaster’s protégé, Crispin had been allowed in the next chamber, Lancaster’s bedroom. Pleased to serve as Lancaster’s personal varlet, Crispin’s training began with these menial tasks for his lord. He had cut his meat at dinner and he had served him cups of wine. They never seemed like lowly chores then, for he loved the man who raised him, knighted him, trained him, and took him on his campaigns.

Yet now, Crispin stood before him like the menial he had become. He kept silent knowing he no longer had the right to speak freely.

Lancaster studied him. “It has been a long time, Crispin,” he said at last.

Crispin tried to smile but could not recall how. “Yes, your grace. A very long time.”

“I did not know of your return to court.”

Crispin tapped his scabbard with nervous fingers. “I have not exactly been brought back, your grace.”

“Oh?” Lancaster’s gaze began its slow travel over Crispin’s shoddy clothes, lighting last on his left hip, the place where his sword should have been. “Well,” he said, seeming not to know just what to reply. “You look well, at any rate. A bit thin, perhaps. What do you do with yourself?”

Never had Crispin felt so aware of his lack of a sword, as if he were standing naked before Lancaster. “I solve puzzles, your grace,” he managed to say. “I recover stolen goods, bring criminals to justice, right wrongs.”

“Right wrongs, eh?” Lancaster’s lips curved into an ironic smile. “If not for yourself than for others, is that it?”

“Perhaps it is a penance, your grace.”

Lancaster ticked his head. “I have missed you, Crispin. But I have also been extremely angry with you. And disappointed.”

Crispin shut his eyes. “I know, your grace. I say again, I apologize. And I do thank you for speaking for me, for asking the king to spare my life. I was never able to convey that. I was ushered away so quickly, and then…”

Lancaster nodded and stared at the floor. “Yes. Well. I am surprised you are in London. I would have thought…”

Crispin raised his head. “There was truly nowhere else to go.”

Lancaster nodded. “Just so.”

Crispin wondered if he should say more. Lancaster looked old suddenly, and very tired. When Richard took the throne at the tender age of ten, a council had been appointed to rule until he came of age, and Lancaster ruled that council. For all intents and purposes, he was the power of the throne. In the end, Crispin’s traitorous efforts toward that resolution had been premature.

Being outside the sphere of court, Crispin had been unable to determine if Lancaster had any further influence on his nephew and charge. But now, at sixteen, King Richard showed himself to be the petulant autocrat Crispin feared he would become, even though he was not at full majority. Like his doomed great grandfather Edward II, Richard kept close too many favorites who were given too many privileges and too much access. Crispin believed if this continued into Richard’s majority, the king’s fate might follow that of his unfortunate ancestor.

“What is your business here, Crispin?”

“Strange business, your grace. I am investigating a murder.”

Lancaster raised a brow in a familiar way. It eased Crispin somewhat to think that Lancaster might find something in him to be proud of again.

“You work with the sheriff, then? I had not heard this.”

“Not exactly, your grace. I am a free agent but the sheriff does call upon me from time to time.”

Lancaster mulled this while examining Crispin’s shabby clothes. “You have a retainer. That boy.”

Crispin smiled. “Yes. He won’t seem to take ‘no’ for an answer.”

“Who is he? An apprentice investigator?”

Crispin’s smile fell. “No. A cutpurse.”

“What?”

“Reformed.”

“I see. This is the manner of men you traffic with?”

“It is now.”

Lancaster acceded with a nod. “I take it there is someone here you wish to interview about this murder.”

“Yes, your grace. It is somewhat thorny.”

“It isn’t the king, is it?” His voice carried a familiar sardonic lilt.

“No.” Crispin smiled. “It is only the French dignitary, Guillaume de Marcherne.”

“‘Only’, eh? Crispin, can I trust you in this?”

“With my life, your grace. I owe it to you at any rate. I need only talk with him. But, in truth, it would help a great deal if I could examine his rooms without his presence.”

“Crispin, Crispin.” Lancaster rose and walked across the Saracen rug before the hearth. He stood just as Crispin remembered: strong, straight, tall. His posture reminded him of those days on the battlefield and especially after, when Lancaster walked amongst his men and toasted them with a shared cup of ale.

The hearth flames were kind to his aging features, and Crispin could almost transport himself back to those lost days when he grew to maturity under this man’s shadow. Strange, he thought, that a man only ten years his senior could seem so much older and wiser.

“What are you thinking, Crispin?” he said in his mentor’s voice. “Are you trying to get yourself hanged?”

“No, my lord. Far from it. But I must know more of this man. There are some facts I know already, but I must be certain if they are true. He is a master of lies.”

“What is your plan?”

With an awkward smile, Crispin shrugged. “I have no plan.”

Lancaster shook his head with disdain. “After all these years, still hot-headed as ever. Do you recall nothing of my lessons? I told you to curb these impulses or you will get yourself killed.”

“As you see,” he said, opening his arms, “I am still alive.”

“Yes. God must love you greatly. Or does not wish eternity yet with you.”

Crispin waited. Was he to be escorted from court? Surely Lancaster would not turn him in. He wondered just why Lancaster asked to see him at all. He hoped it was because of their mutual affection. But times had changed. Crispin was no longer the asset he had been. If he were found in Lancaster’s quarters, even now after seven years…

Lancaster turned back to the fire. The years fell away and it was again him and Crispin plotting and planning. He remembered quiet evenings in these chambers while Lancaster’s first wife Blanche played a psaltery. They would sit together, a family, listening to the quiet strains of music before a roaring fire. Occasionally, Lancaster’s son Henry would join them. Henry, the same age as Richard, seemed a world apart in temperament from his monarch cousin. Not often at court, Henry likely stayed busy with his own knight’s training. After Blanche died, Lancaster married Costanza of Castile. She was not the motherly matron that Blanche had been to him, but he missed her, too, and her kind attention.

Crispin suddenly frowned. It didn’t do to fall into the trap of sentimentality. There would be no more quiet evenings by Lancaster’s fire, no more private moments with the man. He looked up at the duke and saw all the same thoughts pass over Lancaster’s features. Lancaster scowled and he suddenly seemed much older.

“Listen carefully,” Lancaster said at last. “I will have de Marcherne brought to me now and you will have no more than a quarter hour to see to your business in his rooms. After that, I am no longer responsible. I did not see you and I did not speak with you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, your grace.”

“Go now. If I recall, he is in the west corridor.”

Crispin longed to clasp Lancaster’s hand, but that intimacy had long past. Crispin bowed low instead before he hastily departed.

Jack hovered in the shadows trying to disappear when he noticed Crispin. “Master!” Jack scurried alongside him. “What happened?”

“He’s helping us, but we must hurry.”

Crispin trotted and Jack followed. They skirted pages and servants and finally made it to the west corridor. Crispin moved Jack and himself into a small window alcove and pulled the drapery around them. “We must wait here,” he whispered. He grabbed the two curtains with his fists and peered through a small crevice.

A page strode down the passageway and entered the door to a suite of apartments. Not long after, he came out again followed by de Marcherne and two of his men. Like a military unit, they marched down the passage and soon disappeared into the distant shadows.

Crispin opened the curtains and without bothering to motion to Jack, went up to the door and pulled on the door ring.

Locked.

He knelt. Using the long metal aiglet from one lace of his shirt and his dagger’s point, he inserted both into the lock. He fished and jiggled until the pins set and the lock released.

Jack whistled. “Blind me. Where’d you learn that?”

“You’d be surprised at the things I’ve learned.” He pushed open the door and peered inside. At first he feared the other men would be lying in wait for him, but a cursory examination of the chamber told him otherwise.

Crispin moved to one of the chests and opened it. He rummaged through the many layers of rich clothing until his fingers encountered something hard. He removed a box, tripped the lock in the same way as he had the door, and opened it. Brooches, rings, other fine jewels. Nothing of any consequence. He handed the box to Jack to return to the chest and immediately grabbed the boy’s hand. “Jack, there are no spoils from this venture. Put it back.”

“But Master! Surely you don’t think-”

“Jack, I am not a fool. I saw you take the ring. Now return it.”

Grumbling, Jack cupped his palm and spit the ring into it. He stuffed the wet object back in the box which he placed with care under the clothes in the first chest.

Crispin checked the other chests and found nothing. He stood looking at them before he knelt to the first chest again. Opening the lid, he examined the inside, running his fingers along its edges. A soft click, and a panel opened. He reached in and removed an empty pouch. Embroidered on it was the Templar’s cross.

“Jesus mercy,” whispered Jack.

“Indeed.”

Crispin rummaged inside the trunk’s secret hiding places but found nothing more. He likewise searched the other chests and found similar hiding places, but those contained only silver and gold coins.

Crispin returned all to its proper order when they heard footsteps approach from the passageway. “Quick, Jack. Go to the window and hide behind the curtains.”

“What about you?”

“Don’t worry about me.”

Jack complied and Crispin moved to a large chair and relaxed into its velvet cushion just as the door opened.

De Marcherne’s men noticed Crispin first. Both drew their swords and advanced on him. De Marcherne turned and his surprised expression changed to one of admiration.

“Hold!” he told his men. Crispin did not move and glanced from one sword tip to the other. “Well, Crispin,” said de Marcherne. “What a welcomed surprise.” He assessed the room. Satisfied, he addressed his henchmen. “Put away your weapons. I would speak with this man alone.”

The henchmen did as told but moved hesitantly toward the door. “Go on,” de Marcherne insisted, encouraging them with a sweep of his hand.

Once alone he sat in the chair opposite Crispin. “Have you come to accept my offer?”

“To be a knight in the French court?” Crispin chuckled mirthlessly. “I would not ask a dog to do that.”

De Marcherne frowned. “Well then. Why are you here?”

“I have some questions for you. I would rather ask them in the manner you asked me.” He smiled unpleasantly. “Unfortunately, I am in no position to do any such thing.”

De Marcherne’s face relaxed. “No, of course not. I do wonder at the gall of your being here at all. I will not even ask how you got in here.”

Crispin shook his head. “I am asking the questions.”

“I could easily call the palace guards. It would not go well for you.”

“It hasn’t gone well for me for some years. However. My questions. Tell me about being Grand Master.”

De Marcherne laughed, a long, rolling laugh, one that included his clapping in amusement. A laugh that only made Crispin’s apprehension tighten and his anger sizzle.

“I am amused that you are so intrigued by this.” He shook his head. “Yes, I was Grand Master of the Order of the Knights of the Temple. For many years. I knew their secrets, I knew their membership, and where each resided. I knew who was loyal and who was not. I meted out punishment and my word was law. It was a sacred task of unimaginable power. ‘So’, you must be thinking, ‘why did he leave? Was he ousted? Threatened?’ The answer, my dear Crispin, is that I left it all behind.”

“Forgive me,” he said dispassionately. “But I think you are lying.”

“Indeed? No. I left it. I foreswore my brothers and I sold their secrets, and I nearly got away with the grail. Why?” His smile widened and his even teeth gleamed in the firelight. He lifted an index finger and ticked it from side to side.

“You won’t tell me.”

“Patience, Crispin. I must keep you interested and involved. I do not think of you as my quarry, as I think of so many men. I think of you as an equal.”

“Merciful God.”

“Oh, it is a compliment, though you may not recognize it now. You see,” he said leaning forward, “I believe you will convert to my way of thinking once you know all. You will become my ally.”

“I doubt that.”

“Do not dismiss me so quickly. You have no idea how far this thing extends. Or how far back.”

Crispin blinked, hiding his bewilderment behind his lids. “This ‘thing’?”

“This coven of the grail, Crispin. Indeed, the grail goes back nearly fourteen hundred years. And for fourteen hundred years men have sought it. Do you ever ask yourself why?”

Crispin snorted. “It is the Last Supper cup. It held the Savior’s blood.”

“So pedestrian.” He sighed. “Of course it did. But do you think most men are sentimental fools? Do you think they want it simply to cherish such a thing?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Crispin, Crispin. I did not take you for a maudlin man. To cherish it! Bah! There are relics aplenty for reverence. No. The reason men want the grail is for power. Unimaginable power.”

“Power?”

“Yes. Of course there is the power of healing, but there are more secrets to the grail. Power over others in ways that can never be resisted by trebuchet or arrow.”

Crispin’s neck hairs stood up and he drew forward. “What are you talking about?”

“I am talking about the power of God.”

Crispin shot out of the chair and stood over de Marcherne. “You and these Templars! I am supposed to believe that God’s power is there in the grail for the taking?”

“Yes. That and more. Do you not listen to your priest’s sermons? Do you not know that God’s ways are not our ways?”

Crispin stared at de Marcherne’s unruffled demeanor and felt a chill run down his spine. “You do not speak of God at all,” he said in a low voice. “You are the Devil incarnate.”

“You don’t believe me. I expected as much.”

“I believe many things about you, to be sure. And I wonder if you killed Gaston D’Arcy to get the grail. You and I both know you will get away with it. I cannot apprehend you. The sheriff cannot touch you. But I have the need to know.”

“Is that why you came? To investigate an unimportant murder? How commonplace.”

“Did you?”

“He was not in the plan for the grail. Ask your Templar friends. They know.”

“Dammit! Did you?”

De Marcherne stood and glared nose to nose with Crispin. “Why is this so important? I tell you, there are far greater things at stake than catching a murderer.”

Crispin grabbed de Marcherne’s coat and fisted the cloth in his hands. He brought his face within inches of de Marcherne’s. “Tell me now, or I swear I will kill you!”

The curtains rustled. Suddenly they crumpled upon themselves with a great, thunderous crash of rod and plaster that startled Crispin and de Marcherne from their confrontation.

Jack stood alone in the little alcove, the thick curtains encircling his feet, his face white. “For the love of Christ, Master, let us leave this hellish place!”

Livid, Crispin released de Marcherne and glared at Jack.

The Frenchman straightened his houppelande and brushed it off. “Perhaps your little friend is right. Perhaps it is time for you to leave before I call the palace guards. Or mine.”

Crispin swept the room with a furious glance. He grasped Jack by the collar and hoisted him inches above the floor while dragging him forward, but de Marcherne’s parting words slowed him.

“And Crispin. Since we no longer have an agreement, I must warn you. If you find the grail first, it will be the last thing you ever do.”