Cup of Blood

CHAPTER THIRTY

Crispin’s eyes followed her until she disappeared out the door into the gray sunshine.

Rosamunde! He longed to scream it aloud, but no breath came; only a rushing sound in his ears and the approach of blessed death. Slowly-it seemed so slowly-he laid his face on the table. He made no more choking noises. He simply felt his cheek hit the surface and closed his eyes.

Oh God! Oh blessed Jesu! How could she? How could she kill me after all we were to one another?

There seemed little left to think about but this last betrayal. He wondered why it hurt so much. Why was it taking so long to die?

Through his closed eyelids, a bright light pierced the darkness, and he stared through the vibrant red. A moment passed before he realized the color was his own blood through his lids, but he wondered at the light, and with difficulty, pried open his eyes. The light shone starkly white and filled his view. Strangely, though he expected it to, the light did not hurt or make him squint. He simply looked into it and it seemed to go on a long way, a tunnel of pure light. He speculated about this strange apparition for some time. Shadowy figures moved past him but he did not fear them. He knew, without knowing why he knew, that they were friendly, even loving. He felt it a comforting place and he longed to move forward and join the figures that came into sharper focus. He felt glad to be away from whatever disturbed him, and he vaguely wondered why his memory of those events seemed so foggy.

A figure approached out of the bright light, coming closer. Crispin spoke to him, though he was slightly surprised that he did not need to open his mouth.

What is this place?

The figure looked at him. Crispin could not see his face clearly, but he felt the expression was one of paternal amusement. Don’t you know?

Crispin didn’t answer. The situation had all the earmarks of a dream. Yet it also felt distinctly unlike any dream he had ever had. No. Where am I?

Not yet, Crispin Guest. Not yet. There is more for you to do. Much more.

Before he could question the figure again, before he had time to contemplate the sensations rippling about him, the vision receded. Something wrenched him away from the light and the warm sensation of love.

He awoke and snapped upright with a long gasp. His body spasmed and ached, but even that subsided and he slowly warmed from the nearby hearth. He put his hand to his throat. The passageway opened and he felt only a vague sense of grogginess.

He froze with an awful realization. Was he a ghost? Doomed to haunt this place?

He turned to the man behind him and poked him in the shoulder. His finger did not pass through and the man turned to him with a stern but quizzical look. “What the hell do you want?” he growled at Crispin. But upon receiving no reply, he cursed, and turned back to his ale.

I am not a ghost. He ran his hand over his corporeal chest, trying to believe it. She poisoned him, didn’t she? Where was the death he expected?

He lifted his head and darted his glance about the room. No one seemed to take notice of him. He was just another patron in the Boar’s Tusk, one of many men who spent their evenings forgetting their troubles in the bottom of a wine bowl.

Wine bowl.

Crispin looked down. It sat where he left it, almost directly before him. Only dregs remained of the red wine now, and, he assumed, the deadly poison. A simple wooden bowl, much like the two he owned at home. But as he looked around the room, he saw only clay bowls and horn cups. None but this one was made of wood.

He gingerly grasped its edges with his fingertips and turned it. It was worn, with the faintest of etched designs running along its outer rim, a simple design of static waves, lines zigzagging around the circumference creating a border one inch wide. The bowl seemed more worn than the others. Quite old. Wood, smooth to the touch and well-crafted, made by a very skilled carpenter.

Hands now trembling, Crispin lifted it up and looked closely at it, turning it tenderly in the dim light. Such a simple thing. No one would take note of it. And no one had. Countless men drank from it, this humble cup, this wooden bowl.

“The Holy Grail,” he whispered, unable to fathom the immensity. “It’s impossible.” He dumped the last of the poisoned wine on the table and ran his hand reverently over its outer surface.

Still, his analytical mind reasoned. How did it get here?

He recreated the incident in his mind. He saw Gaston D’Arcy sitting here in the tavern hatching his plots, and with a pang of an unnamed emotion, he saw Rosamunde enter and argue with D’Arcy. Somehow, without his seeing, she administered the deadly potion. He drank it, and she left him to choke to death just like she did to Crispin.

Crispin wiped the sweat from his brow. Unimaginable that she murdered two men and tried to add him to her list. Him!

His knuckle removed the last tear he would shed for Rosamunde, and he resettled his mind again to the puzzle. D’Arcy struggled to breathe just as Crispin had, and no doubt D’Arcy suspected poison. What then did he do?

He had the grail. The scrip. It held the grail. After all, he was the ‘Cup Bearer’. He did the only thing he could do to try to save his life; he tried to get the cup. And he succeeded. He brought it forth, but he was perhaps too ill to pour the wine into it and drink. He believed that it would heal him, but he could not manage to do it. It was on the table. There were several cups there, but it was the only one of wood and it was the only one empty. My God. It’s been here all along and no one knew it.

He stared at the cup and felt its solidity.

But what of me? Did the grail heal me?

He glanced toward an open shutter and noticed the darkness. He had lain unconscious a long time, for hours, allowing the poison to work itself out of his system. Isn’t that what the apothecary said? If he had only consumed a small portion of it, a grain or two, it would have caused a great deal of unpleasantness but he would survive. How much did Rosamunde have left in the vial? Not enough to kill, that much was certain. He couldn’t quite make himself believe that this cup healed him. But others believed it and believed in the other powers they said it possessed. So many men wanted it so badly.

Even if it were just the true cup of Christ, wouldn’t it be worth fighting for?

He examined the cup one last time before he slipped it under his cloak. Rising from the bench, he glanced anxiously about the room, fearing someone saw him and knew what he had. Hastily he left the Boar’s Tusk and hurried down the lane. He made it several yards before he slowed and suddenly stopped. Where should he go? To the sheriff? To his lodgings? He wiped his face with a clammy hand.

A horseman galloped down the lane and forced Crispin against a wall, spattering him with clods of mud. Crispin took no notice and simply leaned there, thinking, his hand pressed to the object beneath his cloak.

“I need guidance,” he whispered. And before he truly knew the direction he traveled, he made for the little chapel of Father Timothy.

The chapel lay in darkness but the altar glowed in a wash of candlelight. The cross’s gold beckoned, and Crispin threw himself forward, clutching the cup at his side. When he knelt, he felt a sense of gratitude and relief. Even if the grail had not healed him, Divine intervention had still saved his life. He had not forgotten the strange vision of the figure.

Behind him he heard steps approach, and he jumped to his feet. Father Timothy strode down the short nave and smiled upon recognizing Crispin. “Welcome again, my friend. It is good to see you.”

“Oh, Father, you do not know how good it is to see you. Can we talk in your rectory?”

“Of course.” The young priest led the way and soon Crispin sat on a stool by the humble hearth. He forced himself to drop his hand away from his cloak, but he satisfied himself with the feel of the cup against his thigh. Silently he gazed into the fire.

“There must be something I can do for you, friend,” urged Timothy, sitting on a stool across from him. “Else why would you be here? Has it to do with what we discussed before?”

“Father.” Crispin leaned forward, closed fists resting on his thighs. “When we die, what exactly happens to us? What do we see?”

“Our hope is to see the face of God.”

“Yes. But before that, what else?”

“I know not. When a man dies, he cannot return to tell the tale.”

Crispin shook his head and sat back. “I am not so certain. At least…” He managed a chuckle. “Perhaps a man can rise from the dead.”

Timothy’s gaze was steady.

Crispin scowled. “I was vilely betrayed by a woman I once loved. She poisoned me and I…I nearly died.”

“By the blood of Christ, tell me! What happened?”

Crispin lifted his hand and touched the rounded belly of the cup under the cloak, testing its substantiality with his fingertips. “There was not enough poison to kill me. But in so doing I might have discovered the whereabouts of the Holy Grail.”

The priest becrossed himself and rested his trembling fingers on his lips. “Blessed be God,” he whispered through his fingers. “Where is the grail now?”

Crispin hesitated. How could he be sure of anyone? He looked at the priest’s strong-boned hands and his ring. “Safe,” he replied curtly. “If this is the grail, then I see no end of trouble with it. Too many are affected by it.”

“You never truly believed.”

“I do not know whether I believe in it now. But some men do. And those men are dangerous.”

“What are your plans?”

Crispin rose and paced the length of the little room. “I know not. Perhaps I should drop the thing down the nearest well. Or leave it on the highest mountaintop, or throw it into the ocean. Miraculous or no, nowhere is safe enough or far enough from the greed of mankind. I wish God would simply take it back!”

The priest tapped his fingers on his lips for some time. “I can well see your reasoning,” he said at last. “But it can also do great good in the world.”

“But has it?”

“‘I have come not to bring peace’. So spake Jesus. Sometimes spilt blood is necessary. ‘We make war that we may live in peace.’”

Crispin measured him. “You quote Aristotle well for a parish priest.” He smiled. “Our kings would have us believe such about war. Its necessity. Yet kings can betray-”

“Or be betrayed.”

Crispin looked up suddenly at the steely expression in the priest’s eyes, not as young as they once looked. “Yes, I know who you are,” admitted Timothy. “And your history. You are a man of sorrows but capable of so much valor. You must weigh very carefully what you do for the next few hours. What you possess is miraculous.”

“There is no proof of that.”

“How do you know?”

“It did not heal me. My body healed itself.”

The priest smiled, a little sadly. “But you will never know for certain.”

Crispin frowned at his own uncertainty and at Timothy’s smug conviction. “I came to ask your guidance in this.”

“I have no more guidance to give you now than I did before. God chose you to be the bearer of this burden. You must decide.”

“And if I make the wrong choice?”

Timothy smiled faintly and then let it go. “I pray…you do not.”

Crispin returned to his lodgings and sat in the chair. He looked about the shabby room, the rickety shelves and nicked table; the shutters that would not quite close; the chipped jug of water and the empty one of wine. He once believed this was the sum total of what he had become, but the last few days told a different story. There may yet be more to him than he ever imagined, for why else should he be chosen to suffer this burden of the grail when all the world seemed filled with more learned and more deserving men than he?

He sat and stared a long time at his few possessions before he slowly inched his hand within his coat. He took out the cup and stared at it. His fingers ran over the carvings along the rim and he wondered just where Jesus had laid his lips. Was it here? He ran a finger on the spot. Or here? His fingers trailed. He couldn’t even be certain that this was the actual Holy Grail. Oh, he was certain that this was the cup that caused so many to lose their lives, but was it the cup of Christ?

De Marcherne hinted that it wielded power. Maybe it healed Crispin. Maybe it didn’t. Maybe he’d never know, like Father Timothy said.

There was only one way to know.

If he asked it, asked the grail, what would it do? What did he want the most?

He picked it up and stood. He thrust his arms forward and lifted it up, as if offering it as a sacrifice.

Was it his imagination? Did his arms tingle from the grail’s power, or was it the stiffness in which he held them? Suddenly, he felt the crawling sensation of fear. Not of death, for he’d faced that too many times to count. Not of dishonor, for he’d lost it all already. But of something else, something he was loath to identify.

Power. He feared the power, the terrible and awesome power that did not come from taking a castle with an army or standing above a defeated opponent. This was different. Was this the power of God?

A lump in his gut sat heavily like a stone within him. If he dared ask the grail, might his fondest desire be granted?

He opened his fingers and the cup hit the table with a pop, and spun, finally landing on its rim. Crispin stared at the grail for a long time. He listened to his breath fill and escape his lungs; he listened to the wooden ceiling beams creak and to a puff of a draft whine past his shutter. “Superstition,” he whispered. He touched the cup with his fingertips and laughed nervously. No tingle. No strange visions. Only a cup. Perhaps an old one, but only a cup nonetheless.

He scooped it up, dropped it through the buttons of his coat, and reached for a cup from his shelf. He sat with it in his lap and drew his dagger.

Jack entered with a cursory knock and moved directly to where Crispin sat. “The sheriff is still searching for Jenkyn.”

“He’d best give it up,” Crispin said distractedly, working diligently. “He’s not the killer.”

Jack sat hard on the chest. “’Slud, Master! If he isn’t the killer then who the hell is?”

“A woman.”

“Ah ha! It’s that Lady Vivienne! I knew it. She’s-”

“No,” he said looking up from his work. “I almost wish it were. And yet, for that lady I have much sympathy.”

“Then who?”

He put his knife aside and sighed. To say it aloud meant it was real, that it happened, but this he could not deny. Could he swallow his feelings and fulfill the king’s justice?

Quietly he said, “Rosamunde. Lady Rothwell.”

Jack peered carefully at Crispin’s lowered face. “Eh? What’s that you say? I thought for a moment you said it was Lady Rothwell what killed him.”

“Yes, Jack. That is what I said. She confessed to me…before she attempted to poison me.”

“No!” Jack slid to Crispin’s feet and gazed up at him. He laid his hands on Crispin’s knees. “Master, is it true?”

Crispin smiled fondly. “Yes, Jack. There never was a more pitiful end to a sadder tale.”

“Aye, that’s the truth. Save the brother only to hang the sister.” But as soon as he said it he slapped his hand over his mouth. “Oh, Master! Forgive me.”

“Well and why not?” Crispin snapped to his feet and strode to the window. “The bitch tried to kill me with no more consideration given it than a mud stain on her gown. She killed two men-the apothecary, remember? — and would have happily killed me. She thought she did.”

Jack sat back on his feet. He let his hands drop to his thighs. “What happened, Master? Will you tell me?”

Crispin pushed open the shutter and leaned against the window frame. Martin Kemp’s furnace had quieted for the evening and no smoke marred the air he inhaled. The rooftops of slate, tile, and lead marched away from his view, undulating like an angry sea, their hearth smoke like charred masts standing straight and stiff. “She poisoned me, Jack. The same she used on Gaston D’Arcy. And it would have killed me, too, if…if I had not drunk it from the Holy Grail.”

“Christ!” He becrossed himself. “You don’t mean it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe there was not enough poison to kill. Maybe it was a dream. See for yourself, Jack.” He went to the table and took up the bowl, showing Jack its simple design and etchings.

Jack drew back, shaking his head. “I’m not worthy to come nigh it, sir. I’m only a thief.”

Crispin gazed at it fondly and put it up on the shelf. “And yet a thief joined our Lord in Heaven the day he died on the cross.” He glanced at Jack, but the boy’s fear was clear on his face. Crispin sighed. “The thing is, Jack, I don’t know what to do with it.”

“May I make a suggestion?”

Both Jack and Crispin wheeled toward the voice coming from the open window. Crispin frowned and drew his dagger upon recognizing Guillaume de Marcherne climbing in. But de Marcherne ticked his finger. Three men entered behind him.

“He’s like a spider, he is,” sneered Jack, “climbing up the side of a building like that.”

“A ladder is a most convenient tool, n’est pas? Now, my dear Crispin.” He centered himself and straightened his brilliantly scarlet houppelande. “I am ready to take possession of the grail. That is, to take it off your hands.”

The door suddenly flung open and Edwin, Parsifal, and Anselm burst through, their swords drawn. Jack dived under the table and Crispin wished he’d thought of it first.

“Go back to Hell, de Marcherne!” cried Parsifal.

De Marcherne drew his sword and squared on the Templar. “Your purpose is forfeit. I claim the grail.”

“It cannot be ‘claimed’ by anyone, Guillaume,” said Edwin, his sword bobbing between de Marcherne and the men at the window. “In all this time, you failed to learn that.”

“Oh, I have learned much more since the time I left your noble order. Much more than you could imagine.”

“I am certain it is nothing a Christian should know.”

“Dear me. The same self-righteous Edwin. I thought you would have grown by now. Instead, you stagnated with the same pathetic platitudes. Tell me again how I am a disgrace to the name of Templar.”

Edwin bared his teeth and raised his blade.

“Gentlemen!” Crispin cried. They all turned to him. “Can you take this elsewhere? I would rather not bloody my floor.”

Parsifal gestured with his blade toward de Marcherne’s men but Crispin felt the underlying threat to himself. “Surrender the grail, Master Crispin. You have been a good caretaker, but now the duty falls to us.”

De Marcherne laughed. “Do not be a fool, Crispin. I shall give you all I promised…and more. Give it to me and regain your manhood.”

“I have no reason to believe I am not a man now, de Marcherne. In fact, only a man of character would refuse you.”

De Marcherne stared. His severe expression gave way to an admiring guffaw. His scar reddened. He sheathed his sword brusquely but the Templars kept theirs at the ready. Their sword tips followed his approach toward Crispin. “You asked why I left the Templars. Shall I now tell you?” He glanced at the knights. Their blades bobbed uneasily. He chuckled. “Because they refused to use this power that was given to them. They betrayed and deceived to keep the grail safe when they could have done so much more. I do not talk of wealth or power. I am talking of the good they could have done.”

“Do not listen to him, Crispin,” cried Edwin.

Crispin glanced quizzically at the Templars.

“It is true,” said de Marcherne. “They would only play the one game. A foolish game. I do not even think they believed in it anymore. It was all by rote, like some poor school boy under the rod. There are worse kinds of corruption than that of greed, my dear Crispin. Complacency is a great sin. See your catechism. It is there.”

Crispin glanced again at the Templars and their unreadable expressions. Why didn’t they deny de Marcherne’s words? Maybe they didn’t think they needed to. Maybe he spoke lies. Or maybe the truth cut deeper than they cared to admit.

Crispin stared at the floor. He wanted to ask them, he wanted to say something, but before he could think of a reply, de Marcherne suddenly grabbed him and pulled him back against his chest, holding a blade to his throat.

The Templars advanced but de Marcherne pressed the blade deeper, reopening the scab the sheriff made earlier. Crispin felt hot blood trickle down his neck.

De Marcherne’s breath puffed harshly in Crispin’s ear. “It is time to stop playing the hero. I want the grail. Where is it?”

“This is a very poor show, de Marcherne,” rasped Crispin. “Where is that famous French courtesy?”

“Gone, as is my patience. Though I would regret it, you know I do not have an aversion to killing you.”

“That seems to be a popular theme this evening,” Crispin muttered. “What makes you think I care?”

He released a reptilian chuckle. “I have learned, through years of experience, that even when a man is tortured, he always holds dear his life. Though it were easier and less painful for him to lose it, he cradles it as precious. And so you will excuse me if I take your scorn with little enthusiasm.”

“Do not tell him, Master Crispin!” Anselm lurched forward. De Marcherne’s men crept closer in a countermove. “‘He that loveth his life shall lose it; and he that hateth his life in this world shall keep it unto life eternal.’”

Crispin glared at the Templars. The blade felt cold against his hot neck. All very well for you!

“Must I resort to counting to three?” asked de Marcherne in a bored voice. “Very well, then. One…two…”

“Wait!” Jack leapt from his hiding place and stood between de Marcherne and the Templars. “Release my master and I will tell you!”

“Jack! For the love of Christ, be still!”

To quiet Crispin, de Marcherne dug the edge of the blade deeper into his flesh. Crispin felt the cold steel slice. More sticky blood trickled, soaking the collar of his shirt. He stiffened against de Marcherne.

“You are a good servant, Jack,” placated de Marcherne. “I am certain you want your master unharmed. Now then, tell me where it is.”

“If I get it for you, you’ll release Master Crispin?”

“Of course. On my word as a knight.”

“Don’t believe him, boy,” said Parsifal. “His words are Satan’s!”

De Marcherne grinned and raised his elbow, slicing another thin line of red across Crispin’s neck. Crispin gurgled stiffly. “Time is passing, boy,” said de Marcherne. “I’m waiting.”

Jack licked his pale lips and swept his glance over the helpless Templars. He wiped his hands down his dirty shirt and nodded. “Right, sir. I’ll get it.” He went to the shelf and took down the wooden bowl, carefully cradling it in his hands. “May Jesus forgive me.”

“Ah!” De Marcherne’s face brightened. He motioned for Jack to set it on the table. “Hiding in plain sight. You are a clever man, friend Crispin. I regret that we shall not serve together as knights.”

“You said you’d let him go!” Jack’s eyes filled with frustrated tears.

De Marcherne looked down at Crispin before he shrugged and shoved him into Jack’s arms. Jack and Crispin tumbled to the floor.

De Marcherne snatched the cup and sprinted toward the window flanked by his men, but the Templars pursued, until a shout behind them stopped them. In the doorway, more of de Marcherne’s men stood with swords drawn.

The Templars spun on their heels and engaged the two knights at the door, while Edwin continued his pursuit of de Marcherne.

The Frenchman crouched in the window. The men who entered with him guarded his escape and postured in front of Edwin.

De Marcherne grinned and threw a kiss to the Templars. “Au revoir, Edwin! Farewell, Crispin. I do not think we shall meet again. At least, it would be unhealthy for you to do so.”

He dropped out the window, the cup in his hand. His men fought in earnest. Edwin slashed one man across the chest and he dropped with a groan. Without thinking, Crispin snatched up the discarded blade and stood beside the old Templar. With a feral smile, Crispin raised the blade with remembered skill. The sharp sound of steel on steel rang out in the little room. An abrupt appetite for blood swelled in Crispin and he gathered all his aggression.

He chopped unmercifully and countered each blow before he backed his opponent against the window. Just when Crispin raised the sword for the final strike, the man slipped backwards over the sill, sliding along the broken roof tiles in a whirlwind of crashing slate.

The other two engaged by the Templars turned tail and fled down the stairs, leaving their wounded comrade behind.

Edwin stopped only to wipe his forehead and to grab Crispin’s arm with his sword hand. “You fought well, Crispin. I am only sorry your servant did not have your strength of courage.”

Crispin stopped to catch his breath and only then did he raise his hand to his bloody neck. “He followed his conscience and his loyalty. I cannot fault the boy for protecting me.”

“Yes. But what is lost today! We must follow him.” Edwin nodded to Crispin and directed his fellows out the door. They darted down the stairs in pursuit.

Crispin stood panting, sword still in hand. He looked at the empty window, then the doorway, and finally toward Jack cowering in a corner.

“You won’t beat me, will you, Master? I only did what I thought best. I don’t know naught about no grail but I do know you’ve been right good to me. I didn’t want that harm should befall you.”

Crispin lowered the sword and tossed it aside. He pressed his bloodied hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Peace, Jack. I am not angry with you. I am gratified that you feel such affection for me, as indeed…I feel for you.” He patted Jack a moment before he felt his legs give out and he fell into the chair. “This has not been an easy day,” he admitted. He glanced at the injured man groaning on the floor. “I will keep him at bay while you fetch the sheriff, eh, Jack?”