Jeri Westerson - Cup of Blood

But it would not solve all Crispin’s problems no matter how satisfying it might be. It would not return his knighthood. It would not entirely erase the past.

“You are a thorn in my side, Stephen St Albans,” he muttered, “living or dead.”

Crispin felt the sharp prick in his flank, thinking of thorns and sides. He chided himself for never noticing the man beside him on the bench and allowing him the opportunity to press the knife blade to his ribs.

A voice, course like the crackle of ancient parchment, hissed in his ear. “You will be silent.”

He took in the blurred impression of a monk’s robe and cowl, and a frieze of white hair that ran the rim of his forehead.

“You will come with me and we will talk. Only talk.”

Not the voice in the torture room, Crispin was certain of it. He heard instead a slight purring accent. Welsh?

More curious than afraid, Crispin slowly rose, allowing the man to withdraw his blade from Crispin’s side. “I warn you against fleeing,” the little man said when they reached the door. “I have compeers all around.”

They walked several feet into a rain that fell hard and harsh, slanting across their path and spattering mud against the stone foundations. They entered an alley and traveled down its long, narrowing path before taking a left turn to what looked like a dead end. The old monk instructed Crispin to push a barrel aside revealing a jagged hole cut in the wattle and daub. Crispin peered into the dark hole but could not see what lay beyond it.

“I will go no further until you tell me who you are and what you want.”

Another monk popped his head out of the mysterious hole. He, too, brandished a blade and gestured for Crispin to enter.

Crispin turned to look over his shoulder. Two silhouettes in robes stood at the alley’s mouth, their unsheathed blades gleaming in the rainy twilight.

He weighed the circumstances and shrugged. “Very well. We will do it your way.”

He bent nearly double to fit into the tight opening and found himself creeping forward in a crouched position through a long wooden passage, much like a flour chute. He followed the man toward a light and felt relief to step out into a room where he could finally stand erect.

Candles in sconces flickered but did little to light the space. Dusty barrels, sacks, and kegs lined the walls. Not the same site of his imprisonment but it might as well have been.

The two monks greeted him, both their daggers drawn.

Crispin spread out his empty hands. “What? No sacks over the head? No bindings? No whip?”

The two exchanged inquiring glances.

“Play no more games with me. Isn’t this enough?” He tore open his coat and bandages, revealing the welts on his chest.

Their faces seemed to light with recognition and as one, they both sheathed their weapons.

“Forgive us, Sir Crispin,” said the older man. “You mistake us for others. That is the work of the henchmen of the false pope of Avignon.”

Crispin dropped his hands. His coat fell closed over his bare chest. “ What ? Then who the hell are you?”

Both men tossed back their hoods and opened their robes revealing hauberk and white surcote. When they opened their collars, Crispin felt no surprise to see the embroidered Templar cross on the underside of their surcotes.

“I am having a nightmare.”

“No, Sir Crispin. Indeed not. Please. Sit.”

“Do not call me ‘Sir Crispin’! I am a knight no more!”

“Your pardon,” said the younger one, his black hair and white tonsure in sharp contrast in the flickering light. “You still bear the unmistakable nobility of knighthood.”

“Sitting drunk in a tavern? You have an odd perception of knighthood. But then again, you two would.”

“You do not believe our identity?” asked the older.

“There are no more Templars. You must be mad!”

“Please, Sir Cr- Master Guest,” pleaded the older one. “Sit. Listen to what we have to say. If it is to your liking, you may stay. If not, then you are free to go. Is that not fair?”

“Brought here by the point of a dagger? Is that fair?”

“Not fair,” said the older one, “but necessary. Indulge us?”

Crispin frowned and looked back toward the dark passageway. His curiosity encroached on his good judgment. With a petulant thud, he sat on a keg and rested both balled fists on his knees. “Well then?”

The monks exchanged looks and the younger deferred to the older. The white-haired man began. “As you seem to have guessed, we are Knights Templar, Master Guest. Though it was true that His Holiness Pope Clement V seemingly abolished the order over seventy years ago-allowing the savage execution of many of our French ancestors-some did survive…under the secrecy and protection of Rome.”

Crispin rolled his eyes and rose, but the younger one pleaded, urging him back down. With a dramatic sigh, Crispin complied, cocking his head impatiently.

“Yes. Pope Clement V’s own emissaries were sent to Chinon castle to interview the Grand Master Jacques de Molay.” He frowned when he added, “He and his Templar brothers were accused of sodomy and blasphemy. We do not take well these accusations.”

Crispin twisted his lips. “Very well. You do not like being called sodomites. I concede it. Go on.”

“The pope’s emissaries heard as much from the knights themselves,” the older one went on. “They did not believe the lies against the Templars. After the emissaries sent word to Rome, the pope was convinced of their innocence and immediately absolved and pardoned them.”

“That is not how history tells the story.”

“No, Master Guest. These erroneous and sensational rumors about the Templars aroused such passions that the pope did not make this absolution public, fearing a schism.” He shrugged. “A schism happened anyway. At any rate, King Philip had his own agenda. Although it was in his power to do so, the French king did not pardon the knights. He coveted their wealth and put them to the torch instead, some 2,000 of them, before the pope could make his decree public. By then, of course, it was too late.”

“This is all only by your word.”

“I assure you, Master Guest, that it is the truth. Succeeding popes knew of the decree and of the small band of remaining Templars. You see, they understood the necessity of our order.”

“And what is that necessity? It was said the Templars only wanted to seize power, and possessed an enormous cache of hidden wealth to back it up.”

The older man gazed at his boots and took a deep breath. “They never sought the kind of power attributed to them, Master Guest, though it is true that some of our ranks…” He darted a glance at the younger man, who nodded his agreement. “Well, some failed to live up to our high ideals. And as for wealth.” The old knight raised his arms and dropped them to his sides. “If any there was, there is little left now.”

He walked slowly around Crispin, weighing his words. “Master Guest, we are now a humble order, our former status a thing of the past. As knights and as monks, we follow the proscribed path given to us from ancient days. We have our duties.”

“To protect the way for travelers in the Holy Land.”

“Yes. Once. But that is a thing of the past.”

“Then what? What are you dancing around? I’m losing my patience.”

The old monk stepped uncomfortably close to Crispin. “We have been given a singular honor in all the world, Master Crispin. We alone have been entrusted to safeguard an object of immeasurable value.”

“Gold? Then there is a cache.”

“Not gold. A relic.”

“Relic?” Crispin’s collar suddenly felt too tight. He licked his lips. “What relic?”