Cup of Blood

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Crispin sat in the dark. He barred the door even from Jack, who gave up trying to enter hours ago. Gilbert and Eleanor tried to coax him free of his lodgings. Even Martin Kemp made an effort, but none could budge him.

Today, especially today, he would not leave the haven of his shabby room. Though the day ended, he could not bring himself to light a candle. He did not feel deserving of even that singular illumination while they buried her.

The knock on the door surprised him. He hoped they had all given up by now.

At first he didn’t answer. But the gentle voice on the other side of the oak roused him to his feet. He stood at the door and stared at the bolt. Finally, he threw it back and returned to his chair and sat.

The door slowly creaked open and Father Timothy peered in. He blinked into the darkness. “Do you invite me in, Crispin?”

Crispin did not reply. He only sighed, but Timothy acknowledged it and entered, closing the door behind him. “Surely we can light a candle?”

“It is dark where she is.” His voice cracked. He realized he had not actually spoken in some days.

“We do not know that,” Timothy said and sat on the chest.

“It is dark in the grave.”

“Stephen St Albans sent word after the burial. She is safe at her ancestral estates.”

Crispin absorbed this and nodded. He didn’t know whether the news pleased him or not.

“May we light a candle, then?”

Crispin said nothing. Timothy proceeded to the hearth and lit a straw. Cupping the glowing sprig in his hand, he brought it to the table and lit the tallow candle in its dish on the table.

The priest’s young face immediately sprang into view. He smiled. “There now. A little flame does no harm.”

“What have I done?”

Timothy eyed Crispin with sympathy. “It was an accident. The justices declared it so. It spared her an arrest and a trial, after all. And the punishment. It is justice, when all is said and done.”

“Yes, but whose?”

“She was a murderer, one who killed more than once for vain reasons. It was a mercy this way.”

“Then why is it I feel like a murderer?”

“Not so. In the end, she forgave you.”

He raised his face to the priest, gazing into his sympathetic eyes. They glittered in the candlelight. “Were you there?”

“Yes. I gave her absolution. She lasted two days, as I’m certain you know. And as a faithful Christian, she forgave you for all of it. Without reservation.”

Crispin stared at the candle a long time and finally raised his hand to his face. He wiped his dry features before dropping his hand away. “I am glad.”

“Now then. There is other business I came to you about. It is time for you to arise from this tomb you have made. You have much to do.”

“And what is that?”

“Your life!” Timothy rose and threw open the shutters. The sunset spilled streaks of red and gold across the floor. A fresh breeze washed the stuffy room and puffed a breath across the hearth’s embers, awakening their dormant glow to flames. The room came alive with golden light and even Crispin’s gray features warmed.

Crispin sat back against the chair. “Why?”

“Because many people care about you and would help you.”

“Yes. I suppose.”

“And there is much good you do. It still needs to be done.”

Crispin would have shrugged if he could summon the energy. He chose not to.

“A terrible thing has happened,” Timothy continued. “But you proved your worth in this. In fact, you have nullified your shame of years ago.”

“Oh? Who says so?”

“I do. And others who know and respect you.”

Crispin grunted. These were empty sentiments now. “It does not make all this go away.”

“No. Not today. But someday.”

Crispin took in Timothy’s kind but stern expression and allowed himself a reluctant smile. “Your optimism astounds me.”

“And me at times,” Timothy chuckled.

“But that is not the only reason you came.”

Timothy’s gentle laughter petered out and his dark eyes settled on Crispin’s. His smile changed to a wry one. “No. No, indeed.”

“How did you know?”

“I have my sources.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.”

Timothy smiled and leaned on the table. “Well? Have you decided?”

“Yes. I decided some time ago.” Crispin reached into his coat and carefully removed the object. He laid it reverently on the table but kept his hands upon it, his thumbs rubbing the etchings along the rim. “I toyed with the idea of trying to use it on Rosamunde. I dismissed it just as quickly.”

“Yes. You understand, then.”

“If indeed it is miraculous, it must not be used in that way.”

“But others would.”

Crispin nodded. “Like Guillaume de Marcherne. I recognized his character.”

“His mistake was in not recognizing yours. But as I understand it, he will be making no more bargains. I believe I heard that he is dead.”

“Good.”

“I know he promised you much.”

“I never took those promises seriously.”

“But Edwin also made promises to you.”

“And I do not hold you to them.”

“On the contrary.” Timothy watched Crispin stroke the cup but did not reach for it. “I make the same offer.”

Crispin smiled and shook his head. “And I make the same answer. The ‘face of woman’ is too much on my mind. Especially today.”

Timothy sighed. “Very well.” Timothy rose and held out his hand. It wasn’t to bid Crispin farewell.

Crispin, too, rose. Now he noticed the sword hanging from Timothy’s belt hidden beneath the cleric’s mantle. It didn’t surprise him in the least. He picked up the cup and placed it into the priest’s open palm. Timothy held it for a moment. He turned it to examine the markings and to run his finger over them. He smiled at Crispin before he consigned it to his scrip.

Wordlessly, he turned toward the door.

“I will not see you again, will I?” said Crispin.

Without turning back, Timothy said, “No. I should think not.”

“That is as it should be. You are the new Grand Master, are you not?”

Timothy smiled and nodded. He turned. His bearing was completely different from before. No longer the contemplative priest. He stood like a knight. “How did you guess?”

“Your ring. The light was dim in your rectory, but that is no priestly ring.”

The young cleric raised his hand and ran his fingers over the gold band with its shield of a cross potent. “In all these years, you are the only one to have noticed.”

Crispin shrugged. “My mind may have been on Templars and Templar badges.”

“It is a pity you will not join us.”

“You have your cross to bear, and so do I. But I would know something before you go.” He stared at the scrip disappearing into the shadows of the priest’s gown. “I wonder. Is it…does it perform miracles?”

Timothy’s cheeks creased with a smile. “You would know that better than I.” He offered a final nod, pulled open the door, and was swallowed by the shadows of the landing.

Crispin sat again and stared at the empty table, empty but for the candle, its flame flickering from a draft.

The door opened again. Crispin didn’t move. The candle wavered, sputtered, but remained stubbornly lit. He was not surprised to see the small shadow of a boy stretch across the floor.

He turned and took in the sight of Jack Tucker. A pathetic child of the streets. A wretched thief. His tunic was nearly as threadbare as Crispin’s coat. His shoes had holes and his cloak’s hem hung with loose threads. Probably from the way the boy always worried at it. He was secrets and stolen trinkets and noise when Crispin desired only peace. Trouble was written all over him. “What to do with you, Young Master Tucker,” he sighed after a thoughtful pause.

The shadow lengthened and soon the boy came into the light. His face was wet from tears, making tracks through the dirt, and he wiped his nose absently with his sleeve. “It’s cold outside.”

“Yes,” Crispin agreed. The warmth from the fire was meager but it was warmth, of a sort.

“Master Crispin…I was wondering. I mean…I know you said you never wanted…” He twisted his cloak in his fingers again. “Blessed Saint Anthony,” he muttered. He looked down at his feet, huffed a breath, and started again. Amber eyes soft, his gaze settled on Crispin. “I promise…I won’t be no trouble. I swear to you, sir. I…I can cook. And clean. And do for you, sir. Fetch fuel and water.”

Crispin turned away from the boy to stare at the hearth. “A proper servant keeps his face and hands clean.”

A shuffle close behind him. “They do?”

“And never use their sleeves for snotty noses.”

Jack was now at his elbow. “A proper servant?”

Crispin sighed deeply and even smiled a little. It was cold outside. And getting late. “I’m thirsty, Jack.” He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, feeling the warmth from the hearth on his face. “Go fetch me a bowl of wine. There’s a lad.”