Jeri Westerson - Cup of Blood

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.

Crispin retraced his steps of that morning and stole back to the alley where they had abducted him. Like a hunting dog, he followed the trail along the edges of the buildings, searching for anything that might yield him clues. But there was nothing.

He stood at the mouth of the dank alley and listened to dripping water and creaking eaves. His gaze glided over the dew-slick rooftops, and he pulled his cloak over his sore chest before striding toward the storeroom where he was imprisoned. Its mews emptied onto a dark and colorless alley. The shutters that first blocked the daylight from the windows now hung wide from the efforts of his rescuers.

When he crossed the threshold and stood in the center of the room, coldness numbed the pit of his belly. With a scowl he surveyed the broken chair, discarded ropes, and spattered droplets of blood. His blood. A candle stub sat on an upright firkin, but there was nothing else.

Crispin looked at the remains of the ropes and shivered. Though the room was empty, he could not help but feel the evil that once inhabited it, charring its plaster and stone walls with unseen malevolence.

He left the room with relief and sought out the owner of the building, a man who owned a number of similar mews along the same lane. He told Crispin that these particular stores were unoccupied for the last six months and that he was unaware of anyone using them. He promised with all solemnity to board them up.

Crispin made his way to the Boar’s Tusk and sat in his usual place close to the fire with his back to the wall, the best place to observe anyone entering or leaving.

At that early hour few patrons occupied the benches and stools under a familiar haze of candle and hearth smoke. He glanced at the table where he had found the dead man. The place was conspicuously unoccupied. Word traveled fast on Gutter Lane.

Crispin settled on the bench and drank. His elbow sat in something wet but he didn’t care to move it. A shadow paused over the table and when he looked up he saw Gilbert’s wife, Eleanor, above him. She brushed off the table with a rag before glancing at the jug of wine. “Crispin,” she said softly. Her friendly but careworn face, lined at her brown eyes, seldom wore a sour expression, though her clientele often gave her cause. Her hair was a dull blonde or possibly gray, but Crispin rarely saw it, for she kept it tucked under a white linen headdress.

“What is it, Nell?” He waited for her usual rebuke; ordering the more expensive wine instead of ale. Wine reminded him of better days and he felt it was the one luxury he could not afford to do without.