Jeri Westerson - Cup of Blood

“We are men who seek answers.”

“‘We’?”

“We will ask the questions. Understand?”

Before Crispin could reply, a whip lashed across his chest. The stinging pain rolled up and down his body. The back of his knees tingled and weakened.

“It is a simple question,” said the voice. “We want to know where it is.” Through his pain, Crispin detected the faint pinching of words, of a man cultivating very carefully how he spoke with the under layer of a French accent.

“Where ‘what’ is?”

The whip lashed out again and Crispin stiffened against the taut ropes. He blinked away the pain.

“Wrong answer.”

“How can I tell you if I don’t know what you seek?”

The whip slashed again, raising a wash of hot pain across the warming skin.

“You know very well what it is. We want it back, and if it means removing your flesh one strip at a time, then so be it.”

Crispin’s belly tightened. His head throbbed, and now his chest flamed with deep red welts. Soon he would lose the tenuous consciousness he fought to keep.

“It’s not too far,” he gasped. “I’ll get it for you.”

The voice came closer, speaking into his ear. “Where?”

“You’d never find it. I will have to show you.”

“Liar.” The whip slashed twice, catching him once across the throat. He choked on a gurgling breath before the candle’s brightness dimmed to a bronze haze.

“You must understand,” said the voice. “We have no desire to cause you harm.” He gave a low chuckle. “It is only a bonus.”

“What would you have me say?” Crispin gasped.

“Say anything at all,” said the cultivated voice. “But finally speak the truth, for it is the only thing that will keep you alive.”

“This thing you want. I am certain once I produce it, my life will be terminated. So what is the point?”

“You may be correct. Well then. It will not prolong your life. Surely that will be a mercy.”

Crispin huffed. “A small one. You will have to untie me in order for me to show you.”

“As I said. I do not think I trust you.”

“That trust goes both ways. First, tell me who you are.”

“That is not for you to know. And trust need not necessarily go both ways. Only our way.” To prove the point, he slashed the whip across Crispin’s chest again.

Tears of pain squeezed from his eyes and he held his breath while the sting subsided. “As I said,” said Crispin between breaths, “there seems little point in this. It will not help you if I die. Or faint.”

“I cannot help the dying, but of fainting…We can revive you.”

Crispin’s vision blurred. The shadowy figure before him wavered. He knew he was blacking out and he welcomed the respite, though he knew it would be brief. But before the room darkened completely, he heard something behind him crash. A chair? Men grunted in a wordless struggle. More crashing and scuffling. Empty barrels toppled and rolled across the wood floor. Someone shouted, calling for help. Light flooded the chamber and more voices added to the melee. Footsteps shuffled and finally lit out.

Men’s voices conversed above him and something sawed the bindings at Crispin’s hands. He tensed his jaw, wondering what new torture awaited.

“I’ve almost got you free.” A new voice. “It’s me, Master. Jack Tucker. Them bastards may come back, so you must help me once you’re free.”

“Help you?” There were far too many questions for the state of his mind. His hands were suddenly freed and he stared at them, opening and closing the fingers. Then his feet were free, but he had no urge to rise.

“Come now, Master. You must get up.”

“No, no,” he said, lowering to the ground. His head hurt, his chest flamed, and when he reached up to his face, he felt the sticky wetness of blood.

“Master Guest, arise!”

Crispin lay on his side, wondering what all the chatter was about. In his clouded mind, he imagined a host of white-garbed Templars encircling him. They urged him to do something, trying to show him an object that he couldn’t quite see. One reached down and shook his shoulder. “Master Guest!” the voice urged, his face masked by silver mail under a bascinet helm. The voice changed from that of a cultured knight to a young boy’s of a lower class. Surely not a squire. Crispin opened his eyes and focused them on the lad. “Who are you?”

“Jack Tucker, Master. Remember? From the Boar’s Tusk? Arise. You there! Help me.”

Crispin’s mind arrived back to the present and he grunted in pain. Gingerly, he rose. “Jack. Yes.”

Jack slung Crispin’s arm over his shoulder while another man helped Crispin to his feet. Jack told Crispin to lean on him while he quickly ushered him to the door and thanked the men who helped with the rescue. A few men offered to assist Jack, but the boy kindly refused them.

Silhouettes of men crowded the open doorway and eyed Crispin curiously. In a haze, Crispin felt himself dragged past them and through London’s streets, his shirt and coat flapping. He flinched when they reached the sunlight.

After many turns and twists Crispin mustered his voice. “Where are you taking me?”

“Home, Master. To your lodgings.”

“And how, by the Virgin, do you know where I live?”

“Everyone knows that, Master.”

They reached the shop below his lodgings and Martin Kemp, the tinker, met them at the door. “By the Mass, Crispin! What’s happened to you?”

“Help me get him to his room, good Master,” Jack pleaded.

Kemp quickly complied. With Jack above and Kemp behind, they managed to wrestle him up the narrow stairway. The tinker unlocked the door and they laid him on the bed.

Kemp hovered and stared at the blood on Crispin’s chest while Jack stoked the meager fire. Thin and wiry, Kemp was almost as tall as Crispin. His brown hair, cut carelessly, was kept tucked under a plain, leather cap. A leather apron covered him from his jaundiced chest to his knobby knees.

“Have you wood or peat, good Master?” Jack said over his shoulder. “This room’s as cold as a brothel’s back door.”

“Wood? Aye, I do. I’ll fetch some, shall I?” He turned but stopped in the doorway. “You are a most blessed Good Samaritan, my boy. Praise God for your timely arrival.”

“There wasn’t no timely arrivals. I’m his servant, is all. Jack Tucker.”

“Oh? Indeed?”

“The wood , Master.”

“Oh aye. The wood.” He hurried away with heavy steps down the stairwell.

Jack raised Crispin and settled his pillow more comfortably behind him. Gingerly he made certain Crispin’s coat and shirt were open and pushed away from his wounds. He ticked his head. “Bastards,” he muttered and brought over the basin and water jug. He found a rag and dipped it into the water. “This will smart a bit, Master. Have you wine?”

Crispin gritted his teeth and shook his head.

“Then water will have to do until that fellow comes back.” He pressed the soggy rag to the bleeding wounds and Crispin jerked back, pain renewed.

“Sorry, sir. Can’t be helped. Don’t want them to fester. We’ll have to put warm water to that, too.”

Kemp returned and placed the sticks on the fire. “Whatever has happened to you, Crispin?”

Crispin smiled weakly. “I do not rightly know, Martin. It seems I met some men who mistakenly believe I am in possession of something they own. Or something they want.”

Kemp put tin-grayed fingers to his lips. “Should you not call the sheriff…”

“Master Kemp,” said Jack quickly from his place beside Crispin. “Have you wine for these wounds? They’re right foul.”

“Wine? Oh yes.”

Jack watched the tinker leave again. “I think it best to keep the sheriff out of it, don’t you, good Master?”