Cup of Blood

CHAPTER SIX

Crispin wracked his brain, trying to remember as much about the Templars as he could recall with a sore head and an equally sore chest. Templar history hadn’t been part of his studies as a young man and it certainly wasn’t part of the conversation at court. But he did recall some snippets at various tournaments and battles. How the Templars fought at Mansurah. The Battle of Arsuf under Richard Lionheart. And the last decisive battle in the Holy Land, Hattin. But as with talk of any battle, it was strategy and failure that was studied and discussed, not the wisdom of an order of warrior clerics.

He moved to the chair and stared at the wall. The parchment hung limply from his hand.

Jack cleared his throat and Crispin looked up.

“Pardon, sir,” said Jack, crumpling the hem of his tunic in dirty fingers. “But what is that?” He pointed to the paper in Crispin’s hand.

“This is a cross of the Knights Templar.”

“I see. And what, sir, is a Knight Templar?”

“What’s the matter with you, boy? Born under a rock? Has not all the world heard of the Knights Templar?”

“Maybe all the world, Master Crispin…but not me.”

Crispin looked at him before chuckling. “Well, Master Tucker. Perhaps you are too young. Come here. Sit down.” He offered him the stool. Jack moved closer and gingerly took the stool, drawing it into the light. He slid atop it smoothly. His legs dangled. Crispin leaned on the table toward Jack and Jack leaned forward to match him. “They were an order of warrior monks who guarded travelers in the Holy Land. But then they took to warfare. They chiefly fought in the Holy Land during the Crusades. You have heard of the Crusades, have you not?”

“Oh aye,” he said with a casual sweep of his hand. “So them monks went off fighting, did they?” He took a swing at the air. “I like a good melee m’self.”

“Yes. Well. These Templars were more knight than monk, so it is said. And they were supposed to have a cache of treasure hidden somewhere in France. But that is long past. The order was suppressed by the pope seventy years ago.”

Jack pointed to the paper on the table. “Then what’s that for?”

“The dead man in the tavern was a Knight Templar.”

“God blind me! I thought you just said they was no more.”

“So they were. Or so it was thought. And now this.”

“Oh!” Jack shot to his feet. “Them men what grabbed you! They’re them Templars!”

“I was just thinking that. And yet how can that be? And why torture me? Why this missive?”

Jack slowly sat again. “It seems plain enough to me, sir,” said Jack. He dropped his voice to a soft whisper. “They don’t want you poking around no murders. If I was you, I’d take that counsel.”

“Then it is a very good thing I am not you.” Crispin rose, tied the laces of his chemise, and gingerly buttoned up his cotehardie. Retrieving his belt from a peg, he buckled it around his waist and pressed his hand to the dagger hilt. He headed for the door when Jack scrambled from his seat and yanked on Crispin’s sleeve. He looked down at Jack’s hand clenched about his wrist.

“Master! Are you well enough to go out? Them men. They’re still out there. And besides, you didn’t know the dead man. What’s this man’s murder to you?”

“If you think I’m going to allow these scoundrels to put me to torture without penalty, you are mistaken.” He eyed Jack’s hand on him and Jack quickly released his grip.

“If it’s all the same to you, sir, I will stay here.”

Crispin opened his mouth to tell the boy to be off when he thought better of it. Those men were still out there. They probably were none too happy with Jack either. Might it be safer for the boy if he stayed locked inside?

“If stay you will-and only temporarily, mind-then it is best you lock yourself within.” He grabbed the door handle but Jack leaned against the door.

He dropped his gaze and fidgeted with his tunic hem. “So you’re this Tracker they talk about, eh? Isn’t it the sheriff’s job to catch thieves and murderers?”

“And you’ve seen for yourself the fine job the sheriff’s done of it.”

Jack flicked a grin. “The king appointed him. He’s just an armorer, after all. But you. It isn’t worth getting y’self killed now, is it?”

“What do you care? What is your investment? I told you I cannot pay you. I do not need a servant.”

Jack’s eyes took in the room, the hearth, the table. “It’s shelter, isn’t it? And food.”

“And it’s dangerous. You saw what those men did to me. You could be next.”

Jack crossed his arms tightly over his chest and tucked his chin down. “I’ve seen danger before. Never you fear.”

Jack’s face might have been comical in its sincerity if it had not pressed a nerve somewhere in Crispin’s heart. At thirty, he still had no sons…well, none that he was aware of. He fostered no children, mentored no squires or pages. Looking at Jack, then looking at the empty room caused a hard knot to tighten in the center of his belly. “There’s truly no place for you here, you know. For anyone.” He raised his arms in a gesture of futility and dropped them to his sides. “No matter what tales you have heard, you do not know my situation. You do not know me!” He rubbed his head but it only roused an ache on the bruised lump.

“You were kind…and fair to me, sir. That is all I know. That is all I care about. Isn’t that enough?”

His gaze tracked over the boy’s hopeful expression. He grabbed his cloak. “I do not need a servant.” He pushed Jack away from the door, and left through it.