Cup of Blood

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

It took a long time to explain fully, especially since the sheriff wanted Crispin to repeat several parts of the tale again. They took away the injured man to Newgate, and the sheriff’s men dispersed. Wynchecombe sat on the chair leaving Crispin to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Crispin. You promised to make no more mistakes.”

Crispin studied his hands. Grimy creases. Palms smudged with dried blood and dirty sweat. “Jenkyn knew what happened. How could I have guessed? How could I have made the leap?”

Wynchecombe, in a rare show of parity, shook his head. “I know. Such a betrayal.” He raised his face to Crispin. His gaze steadied. “She will hang, you know.”

Crispin felt a cold hand clutch his heart. “I know. The law is the law. And she deserves the punishment.”

“Leave her arrest to me.”

“No. I will do it.”

“Crispin-”

“Simon. Give me this. It’s owed me.”

Wynchecombe breathed a long sigh through his nostrils. Crispin knew the sheriff’s thoughts: that Crispin would find an opportunity to let her go and escape the king’s justice. He couldn’t be certain he did not entertain such thoughts. But in the end, Crispin knew he would bring her in. He knew her. She would not stop with his attempted murder. When she tired of her new husband, what would stop her from eliminating him?

“‘It is not always the same thing to be a good man and a good citizen,’” quoted Crispin wearily.

The sheriff huffed. “That damned Aristotle again.” But Crispin nodded and rose. He looked about the shattered room in the ragged first light of morning; at the blood spattered on the wall and the broken end of the chair. A shelf hung aslant from one hook. Crispin’s razor and soap cake lay on the floor. “It wasn’t much to look at, but your fee may repair what is here.”

“Yes,” Crispin answered mechanically. He did not look up when the sheriff left, nor did he stir when Jack cautiously returned to the room and straightened what he could.

“Would you have me fetch wine, sir? I can run to the Boar’s Tusk with the jug.”

“Yes, Jack. Do that.”

Jack hoisted the jug-miraculously untouched in the melee-and hugged it to his chest. “I’ll go now, shall I?”

Crispin nodded but Jack made no move to leave.

“Master,” said the boy, “it is a sore thing to lose your lady. But in truth, you lost her long ago and not in the way you think. The moment she thought you were less than her, that is when you lost her. A true love would not have felt so. A true love would have moved Heaven and Earth to stay with you.”

Crispin turned a tender smile on Jack. “When did you become such a philosopher?”

Jack blushed. “Well, I’m no such, but I heard a thing or two in me day.” He made for the door and stopped on the threshold. “Don’t be hard on yourself, Master. You solved the murder. You did the best you could for the grail. It was I what lost it.”

“Don’t fret, Jack. I am well. At least I will be.” Stoically, he rose and went to his basin to sponge away the blood from his neck.

Jack made a half-hearted smile. “There’s….there’s always that Lady Vivienne, Master. You said you were fond of her. And she is back at court.”

Crispin nodded. Yes. And he wondered why, though of late he seemed to have no time to wonder. He unbuttoned his coat and yanked off the dirty shirt blotched with dried blood, and replaced it with a cleaner one. He pulled on his coat again, buttoned it, and brushed it with a rag.

“Sometimes,” Jack went on, “my wanderings take me to Westminster.” He ducked his head and blushed. “Er…I’m a man of habits, Master. Best not to ask what I was about.”

Crispin closed his eyes briefly. “Go on.”

“Well, I saw Lady Vivienne-Lady Stancliff-at Westminster Palace.”

“And so I saw her myself. What of it?”

“That is true, Master, but she was with that vile Guillaume de Marcherne. I suppose…we could let it lie.”

Crispin rubbed his fingers into his eyes. “What I wouldn’t give to let it lie.”

Jack perked up. “Will we go? We don’t want that villain coming back to haunt us.”

It took only a moment to decide. “Yes, we’ll go.” Anger propelled Crispin. He’d had quite enough of all of it. To deal first with this was to put off having to see Rosamunde, and that was something his sick belly could delay for a long time. Was there no one to be trusted? No one he could be certain of? Well, he was certain of one thing: he wanted to stop Guillaume de Marcherne. One way or another.

Crispin and Jack made the journey to Westminster, avoiding the front gate altogether. Throughout the long walk, Crispin tried to decide what it was that was going on between Vivienne and de Marcherne. She lied, that was plain enough. Her “other business,” no doubt. But what hold did de Marcherne have over her if she had her ring? Was there something more?

They entered the palace by the tradesmen’s entrance, skirting as many wide eyes as they could. “What I need to discover,” said Crispin, “is where Lady Stancliff is lodged. And I am uncertain exactly how to do that.”

“Oh, that’s easy!”

Surprised at Jack’s flippant observance, he allowed the boy to do his will. Jack moved toward a gaggle of serving maids gathering cots and hay-stuffed mattresses from the alcoves in which they were hidden. Crispin watched him talk to them, a swagger in the young boy’s bearing. The maids-girls, really-responded with giggles and coy expressions, swaying their ragged skirts and fanning their fingers before missing teeth. Jack bowed to them and they curtseyed back, and then he trotted to rejoin Crispin.

“South wing,” said Jack and led the way.

Crispin grabbed hold of Jack’s shoulder. When the boy looked up, Crispin’s words dried up on his tongue. He shook his head instead and let the boy lead him, vowing to keep a sharp eye on Young Jack Tucker.

They came to the south corridor and Jack counted the doors. “I was told this one, Master.” Crispin recognized the place where minor nobility were housed. Certainly Lady Stancliff qualified. Crispin strode up to the door and lifted his fist to knock when Jack jumped up and grabbed his hand.

“What you think you’re doing? He could be in there!”

Crispin made an altogether unpleasant grin. “I’m counting on it.”

He rapped on the door and a servant answered, one who had encountered Crispin before and who also tried-unsuccessfully-to block Crispin’s entrance. Crispin shook his head at him while stiff-arming the door. “I wouldn’t,” he said.

He pushed the door open and strode in, Jack behind him. Vivienne stood in the middle of the room, her expression neutral, except for sparkling eyes.

“Again, Crispin. A most unexpected visit.”

“Is it? Somehow, sweet Vivienne, I do not think so. I think you enjoy this game. You said so yourself: you prefer the company of men. You fancy playing it innocent, as if you were the victim. First of your husband, then of D’Arcy, and then of St Albans. And finally, of course, of de Marcherne. It amuses me to wonder to whom you will play the victim from me.”

Her eyes didn’t sparkle as much, and her lip curled in a sneer. “So you think you know me, do you? Men have such pride. And it is so futile. What good is your pride, Crispin? Did it win you back your knighthood? Are your coin purses filled with gold?”

“My honor is my pride and I wear it freely under the sun. I need not hide it in secret rooms…or behind the curtains.”

Jack startled when the hangings were pushed aside by a sword blade and then de Marcherne stepped through. The boy moved in front of Crispin protectively, but Crispin gently pulled him back and stashed him behind him.

De Marcherne’s blade was aimed toward the floor as he stepped closer to Crispin. “My dear Vivienne,” he said, looking at Crispin instead of Lady Stancliff. “I do not think you are an adequate judge of a man’s pride or his honor. Best to keep to what you do know.” His eyes flicked toward her. “And that you do so well.”

Crispin backed toward the hearth. “What is your business with Lady Stancliff, de Marcherne? Aren’t you done in London?”

“A funny thing about my business, Crispin. That grail you gave me. A fake. One has to wonder where such fakery originated. With D’Arcy? No, he was much too stupid for such a trick. Edwin?” He slid his foot closer, inching his way forward. The sword slowly rose toward Crispin’s chest. “Again, no. He is not deceitful in this manner. He only wished he was. That, of course, leaves either you,” he said gesturing with the sword toward Vivienne, “or you.” The sword tip again aimed toward Crispin. “Now my dear Vivienne might conjure such an idea to stay in the game, for you are correct in your assessment of her. She is obsessed with danger. Aren’t you, love?”

She spat at de Marcherne. He only smiled in reply. “Did she treat you thus? Or is it only me who elicits such behavior?” He ticked his head. “I fear it may be me.”

Crispin stumbled over the hearth. The flames licked at his back.

“She left me once,” said de Marcherne. “But then she returned. She sought revenge of me. I knew the object she sought but I wanted her help in finding the one I was looking for. Now that she has her ring, she thinks she can be rid of me. But I am not easily cast aside. You just missed a very amusing scene in which she tried to stab me to death. I simply disarmed her. Imagine. Returning all this way to Westminster only to commit murder. Would you have arrested her then, Crispin? Or is the death of a Frenchmen not worth the Tracker’s time.”

“For your murder? I would have found the time.”

“Enough of this. I have been saddled with a fake grail and I wish to have the original. Which I think you still have, no?”

“Do you plan to cut me in two, de Marcherne? You’ll never find it that way.”

“Au contraire. You see, I perceive it in the outline of your coat. You should at least have given it to your servant to carry.”

Slight miscalculation. Crispin smiled weakly at Jack who stared at him and then ran that gaze down the bulge in Crispin’s cotehardie. De Marcherne’s eyes narrowed. With a sense of danger tingling his neck, Crispin looked around the room, picking out defensive strategy, weapons, shields.

Just as de Marcherne raised his sword, Crispin dove for the poker by the hearth and brought it up to block the blade. Steel clanged against iron. De Marcherne stepped back, momentarily stunned, but he soon recovered, frowned, and chopped down with the blade again. Crispin swung the poker upward and parried the blow, trying to knock the sword out of the man’s hand, but he would not yield it.

Crispin maneuvered his opponent away from the fire, holding the poker two-handed.

He heard a muffled scream and at the corner of his eye, he caught Jack struggling with Vivienne. She grabbed a large candlestick and Jack clutched her hands. Vaguely, Crispin wondered which one of them she intended to threaten with it. They wrestled, the taller Vivienne glaring wild-eyed at the boy. Jack hung desperately on to Vivienne’s wrists, trying to use his weight to pull it from her. When that failed to work, he swung his leg back and kicked her shin. Hard. The candlestick fell from her grasp and Jack stumbled back with a whoosh of air and hit the floor on his backside. Vivienne shrieked and fell on him with her bare hands. Jack let out a yell and scrabbled on the floor in an attempt to gain his feet but Vivienne grabbed an ankle and yanked him back. He kicked to free himself, and Vivienne, now sobbing in frustration released him. He stood unsteadily and pulled his small dagger. “You’ll have to behave yourself, m’lady. I don’t want to use this but I will.”

“You’re a foolish boy,” she sneered. She was inelegant regaining her feet, but once upright her comportment returned. “Can’t you see that evil man is going to hurt your master? I was only trying to stop him!”

“If that were so,” he panted, “then why were you aiming for Master Crispin?”

“Because I want to be the one who kills the bastard!”

De Marcherne laughed. He waved his sword at Vivienne. “You see, Crispin. No love lost. Worry not, Fair Vivienne. As soon as I have dispatched Master Guest, I will see that you suffer no more.” His smiled faded even as the blush drained from Vivienne’s face.

De Marcherne wasted no more time and swung at Crispin’s head. He ducked, slid to the right, and brought up the iron at an awkward angle, but it was still enough to block. Barely.

Not even winded, de Marcherne lowered his sword and grinned. His scar darkened. “One wonders what damage you could have done with a sword, Crispin. I regret I will never get the opportunity to see.”

“This bit of iron can do enough damage, I assure you.”

“Ah, but will you get the chance?”

De Marcherne’s casual poise masked his wariness. Without warning, he swung again. Crispin dodged it, but this time the tip of the blade nicked Crispin’s ear. He felt the sting but didn’t react except to search the floor. No ear. A good sign.

He swung the poker at de Marcherne’s feet and the nimble man leapt straight up out of harm’s way, but this time he was winded and he stepped back from Crispin a few feet to catch his breath.

Crispin wasn’t about to allow that.

He charged, a battle cry exploding from his lips. But de Marcherne was as seasoned as Crispin and he knew each battle trick as well. Perhaps even a few more. He parried the blow with a cry of his own and Crispin’s momentum sent him toward the floor, the one place he knew he did not want to be. Crispin tried to roll and recover, but Vivienne and Jack were in the way. Like kayles pins, they all tumbled against the wall together.

De Marcherne panted and stood over them with the blade levered forward. He smiled. “I could have killed you all with one long stroke. But where is the merriment in that?”

Crispin recovered his feet first and slid against the wall. Another place he did not want to be. He raised the poker again. He was beginning to have his doubts about winning.

De Marcherne never lost his smile. He was able to assess the situation, too. He seemed to sense-as Crispin used to do-the moment a duel was about to end. Crispin adjusted his sweaty hands on the poker. He knew it wasn’t going to end well.

De Marcherne raised his weapon and Crispin cringed, but instead of the slash of steel across his midsection that he expected, de Marcherne threw back his head and howled in pain.

Crispin looked down. Jack’s knife slammed deep into the man’s foot through his boot and pinned him to the floor.

Crispin didn’t hesitate. He swung. The poker shattered de Marcherne’s knee. The man dropped as far as he could with his foot pinned to the floor. Finishing the swing, Crispin heaved the poker upward and connected with de Marcherne’s jaw. A sickening crack, and his head snapped back. His body arched for only a moment before awkwardly slamming to the floor, and lay still.

Crispin tossed the poker aside. Jack pulled his dagger free of the boot and stood up with it, eyes transfixed on the bloody blade. With trembling hands he hastily wiped the knife on his tunic. “Well done, Jack,” Crispin panted. He turned his eyes on the suddenly terrified Lady Stancliff. “Call in the sheriff. Or the palace guards. I care not which. Whatever de Marcherne’s game, it is now over. As is yours. I don’t care why you returned. If it was to kill him he is as good as dead now. If it was for some other pursuit…well.” His lip curled in a sneer. “I’m not interested. I suggest you leave for Chelmsford and stay there. I think King Richard’s court has tired of you. Stay with your husband, Lady Vivienne. If he will still have you. Pray that he does.”

He straightened his coat and flicked his hand for Jack to follow. One more to confront.

It took a quarter hour to reach the White Hart. Stopping before the door of the inn, he turned to Jack. “Go back to our lodgings, Jack. The sheriff may come to call and I would have you explain to him about de Marcherne.”

Jack eyed the inn, eyes scanning the windows. He measured Crispin and stood his ground. “Wouldn’t you rather have me here, sir? With you?”

Crispin felt his muscles tense. “No. Please, Jack.”

Jack bowed, as well as any page at court.

Crispin did not watch him depart, but pushed opened the inn’s doors and climbed the stairs to the gallery. He strode purposely across the plank passageway and stopped before Rosamunde’s apartments, lifted his closed fist, and pounded on the door.

To his surprise, Stephen opened the door and grinned upon seeing him. “Crispin! My God! I am actually glad to see you. Come in. Come in.”

Taking a breath, Crispin entered and glanced about. The door to the inner chamber was closed and no one stood in the parlor but Stephen and small leather bound chests and valises. They were preparing to leave.

“We return to my estates,” said Stephen in reply to Crispin’s appraisal of the room. “There is no more reason to stay now that all is well. I will fetch Rosamunde. She will be surprised to see you.”

Crispin smiled dryly. “Won’t she.”

He waited while Stephen disappeared behind the closed door. At the sound of a shriek, he spun and encountered a wide-eyed Rosamunde. He smiled unpleasantly at her look of horror.

“Beloved,” he said between clenched teeth.

She put her hand to her throat.

“No words?” he said, circling her. “You were so full of words before at the Boar’s Tusk. You had much to say. Surely there is more.”

Stephen frowned and stepped forward. “What is this, Crispin? What transpires between you? Rosamunde? Why do you look so pale? What does he say to you?”

“Yes, Rosamunde. Why don’t you tell your brother your story? Why don’t you tell him how you were willing to let him hang? Why won’t you say how you were willing to let poor Jenkyn take the noose in your stead?”

Stephen grabbed Crispin’s shoulder and squeezed painfully. “What lies are these? I thought you had become our friend again.”

Crispin shook him loose and strode toward Rosamunde. She recoiled. “Tell him, Rosamunde. Tell him how you killed Gaston D’Arcy. Tell him how you slew that despicable apothecary. Tell him how you poisoned me.”

Breathing hard, Stephen stared at Crispin. “Why do you say this?”

Crispin twisted towards Stephen. “Because it is true. This precious creature tried to kill me to save you, but she would have easily let you die for her crime. You or Jenkyn. She cared not which.”

“No!”

Crispin turned. Jenkyn emerged from the inner room.

“No. That cannot be true,” he said, imploring his mistress. “She tried to prove my innocence.”

“And if she failed,” said Crispin matter-of-factly, “she would have let you hang. Or poisoned you before you could implicate her.”

“No.” But this time his avowal was not nearly as robust.

Stephen went to his sister and took her shoulders. “Rosamunde. Tell him what a liar he is.”

Rosamunde closed her eyes and breathed. She wore her green gown again, the one he favored. And the jewels she so hastily gave to Crispin graced her neck. Now he wished he hadn’t returned them. His gut churned. He realized those jewels would be the last thing she would wear around her neck. Almost the last thing.

Slowly she opened her eyes. Calm descended within them and her look of horror fled. “How did you do it, Crispin? That is twice you cheated certain death.”

“Rosamunde!” Stephen shook her, but she only gazed up at him with a curious smile.

“You do not know what I have endured,” she said. “Gaston promised so much. And yet he took so much.”

Her words were muffled when Stephen gathered her hard against his chest. “Rosamunde,” he whimpered, lips trembling. “For God’s sake, say no more.”

“It’s too late for that,” said Crispin.

“So now your revenge extends to my sister,” he cried over his shoulder. “I thought you were done with this.”

“So did I. But a man has a change of heart when his former love tries to murder him. How many more would have died, Rosamunde, to satisfy you? Rupert of Kent was another, but you did not poison him. No. For him, you used a blade and stabbed him in cold blood. How many more? Stephen? Jenkyn? Your betrothed when he ceased to entertain you? How many?”

Crispin’s words changed the expression on Stephen’s face. He glanced at Jenkyn’s puzzlement before turning to Crispin. “Rupert of Kent?” he asked softly.

“The apothecary who sold her the poison. I was there when he was killed. I saw the back of the killer’s hooded head and no more. I did not even know it was a woman, but there was still something familiar about it that struck me, though I never would have connected it had she not confessed it to me while I lay dying at the Boar’s Tusk.”

Stephen released Rosamunde and stepped back to stare at her. “Tell him he lies. Why will you not tell him he lies?”

She shook her head and Stephen turned a desperate face to Crispin. “We will go away then,” he said. “Will that satisfy you? Does our history together mean nothing?”

“History,” Crispin sneered. “It is a matter of responsibility. You were willing to die for love of her,” he said to Stephen, “as I might have done at one time. But she was not willing to do the same for you.”

“A woman hasn’t the courage of a man.”

“It has less to do with courage and more with self-interest.”

Stephen stared at Crispin. At last, the knight turned to Rosamunde. His face paled with bewilderment. “You would have let me hang for a murder you committed?”

Rosamunde seemed to awaken and she moved imploringly toward him. He recoiled. She stopped halfway and pressed her hands together prayerfully. “I tried to prove you innocent.”

He frowned, his dark lips now gray. “And if you failed?”

“With Crispin out of the way no one would have implicated you.”

“And do you think this is justice?”

“What do you fear?” Her chin rose arrogantly. “You are a knight. You have faced worse.”

“No. I have never faced worse than this. You do not know…you cannot begin to know…”

She shrugged. “It does not matter. Crispin is alive and Gaston is dead with good reason. Leave it at that.”

“I am very much afraid,” said Crispin, “that we cannot.”

She laughed. “Do not be a fool. What are your plans? To arrest me? Who will believe you? Look at you. A rusted knight; a shabby banner of days past. You are no one. You are less than no one. You told me you were once a gong farmer. What is lower than that? No one will ever believe you.”

Stephen slumped his shoulders. “I do.”

Rosamunde’s gaze snap toward him. “Stephen!”

“I once thought the world of you. How innocent you were. Now look at you. I was silent when you became Gaston’s lover. If I were a better brother…” He shivered. “Instead, I said nothing and fled to France to secure your marriage, hoping you would come to your senses and end it. But this. This is no game of courtly love. This is murder. For the love of Christ, Rosamunde! You killed two men!”

Crispin grasped her arm. She looked down at his chapped fingers curled tight over her sleeve.

No anger, no pity. Nothing lay in the hollow of his chest. He knew it would not last but he savored the numbness so he could do his duty. “It is time to pay, my dear. Perhaps there will be mercy. Perhaps the law will judge you kindly. But do not doubt that I will convey you myself to Newgate.”

Her eyes were quizzical and subtly changed the longer she appraised him. She turned toward him and placed her free hand on his chest. “Crispin. You cannot mean what you say. Consider it. Consider us.”

He leaned forward and kissed her gravely on the lips. She raised her hand to cup his face, and they held that pose for several moments before he drew away.

“I do have my regrets over killing you, my dear,” said Crispin. “For you were dear to me once. Surely your reward will be greater in Heaven.”

Her face paled in the recognition of her own words and she suddenly struck out at him, beating him on the chest with her clenched hands.

He drew back his fist and punched her jaw. Her head snapped back and she slumped. He caught her before she hit the floor.

“I am taking her to Newgate. Do you interfere with me?” he asked Stephen.

Stephen’s gaze met Crispin’s. “She is my blood.” He slowly withdrew his sword.

Crispin laid her on the bed. “I expected no less.” He looked at Stephen’s blade and scowled. “I do not have a sword.”

Stephen nodded and sheathed his weapon. He pulled his dagger instead and Crispin did likewise.

The room fell silent except for their labored breathing. Neither wanted to lift his blade first until a pall of resignation bleached Stephen’s features. With a roar through grit teeth, he fell toward Crispin. Crispin raised his arm in defense.

Stephen made no half-hearted feints. He stabbed toward Crispin, and Crispin deftly dodged each attempt. They both fought in earnest, maneuvering their way around the room, casting furniture aside.

Stephen’s blade struck upward and the tip caught Crispin on the cheek. He felt the sharp sting only momentarily, but it was enough to spur him on. He tossed the blade into his left hand and landed several blows with his fist into Stephen face with his right. Stephen wobbled and Crispin maneuvered him into a corner. He pinned Stephen’s dagger arm to the wall and pressed his own blade to Stephen’s throat.

Stephen looked up miserably at Crispin. “Do it,” he rasped. “Take me out of this world. Oh Jesu! I should have let you hang me!”

Crispin clamped his lips together and breathed furiously through his nose. All at once, he lowered the blade. “For Jesus’ sake, let us make an end to this.”

“How can I let you arrest her? She cannot bear it.”

“Two men have died. Are they to suffer no retribution?” He looked past Stephen at Jenkyn’s stark face. The servant had pressed himself against the wall trying to avoid the fighting. “What say you, Jenkyn? She almost made a murderer of you and then would have let you hang. You have a say.”

“I was loyal all my life to this house. Why would she do that to me?”

Crispin gestured with the knife. “She is a selfish creature, Jenkyn. Best concern yourself-”

Jenkyn’s eyes widened. “Look out, Master Crispin!”

Instinct moved his hand before he turned. His dagger sunk deep with that familiar sensation of slicing flesh and oozing blood. When his head swiveled enough to spy the edge of her disarrayed hair he let go of the blade with a horrified gasp. With a silent rend of his own heart he knew it was too late.

Rosamunde pulled the dagger from her belly at once but it only served to blot her gown in a growing irregular stain. The dagger clattered to the floor.

Rosamunde looked up at Crispin and smiled. Blood tinged her lips. She let her own jeweled dagger fall from her hand. “Justice?” she whispered before crumpling to his feet.