Jeri Westerson - Cup of Blood

They passed under the arch into the building, but de Marcherne stopped and motioned for his men to return to the outer courtyard leaving Crispin and himself alone. Once the men left, he turned to Crispin. “Lead me.”

“Where? Which prisoner?”

De Marcherne smiled with an airless chuckle. “You know which one.”

It was Crispin’s turn to smile. His lips drew up crookedly. “I do not think he is accessible.”

“I was given to understand I was to be denied nothing.”

“What a shame you were misled.”

De Marcherne stepped away from Crispin to glance across the gatehouse. The stone ceiling arched over them. A long wooden staircase clambered up the walls in a meandering pattern. One way led to the sheriff’s chamber. The other way to the prisoners in the tower. “I could go to the sheriffs myself and tell them how you were dismissive of me and insulted the French court.”

“Should I go against custom?”

“Insults to the face of a dignitary, and from a lackey? What would your master say to that?”

Crispin did not need to consider. He tried not to frown but was unsuccessful. “I will only allow it if I am present.”

De Marcherne was about to protest but at the last moment seemed to think better of it. “Very well,” he said, and gestured Crispin forward.

Crispin took his time and toured de Marcherne throughout the narrow passages and distasteful corners of the prison, hoping to try his patience.

De Marcherne did not indicate by look or gesture that his patience had reached its limit, except that his face looked stiff and drawn. He made almost no comment the entire length of the wearying tour. On the rooftop, Crispin gazed down through the embrasure at London on one side, and its fields and marshes on the other.

“This looks nothing like a cell,” said de Marcherne.

Crispin breathed the air and after standing in the wind for a time, he gestured for de Marcherne to precede him down the stairs again through another dark passageway.

“I understand,” said de Marcherne suddenly, “that you were visited again by your Templar friends.”

Crispin said nothing.

“Did you ask about me?”

“Yes. I believe they called you the ‘Devil incarnate’.”

When they approached Stephen’s cell at last Crispin slowed.

“The Devil incarnate. How refreshing. Did they say nothing else?”

Crispin turned to him quizzically. “What else needed to be said?”

They stopped before the cell door and de Marcherne stared steadily at Crispin. “They did not say, for instance, that I used to be a Templar? The Grand Master, in fact?”

Crispin’s lips parted while de Marcherne smiled and looked at the door. “Is this the place?”

Crispin stepped back against the wall and absorbed de Marcherne’s words. The Templars had been so persuasive. He had even considered their offer with some amount of soul-searching. Was this just another deception on de Marcherne’s part? Or the Templars’?

De Marcherne grabbed the grate of the door’s spy hole. “My lord,” he called within. “I would speak with you.”

Crispin looked over de Marcherne’s shoulder and watched Stephen approach the door. He wore a five-day-old beard and his hair fell dirty and mussed about his cheeks. “Who the hell are you?”

“I could be a friend.”

“I know that voice,” Stephen hissed. “You bastard!”

“Alas,” said de Marcherne. “Such a recognizable voice. Unfortunately, my companions haven’t the subtly to question a prisoner properly and I am forced to do it myself. I must look into instructing them.”

“I have nothing to say to you that I haven’t said before.”

“Yes. Such colorful metaphors they were. So many intriguing ways to blaspheme myself.”

“And I meant every one of them!”

“Yes, I know. I only have the one question left.”

Stephen sneered at Crispin. “What’s he got to do with it?”

De Marcherne sent only a perfunctory glance back. “Him? He has nothing to do with it. He is merely the sheriff’s lap dog and insists on accompanying me. Do not bother with him.”

“I will not bother with either of you. Have you not heard? I am under a sentence of death even before my trial. Do you think I care what you have to say to me?” He turned his back, and leaned against the grate.

“Even if it will free you?”

He did not move except to adjust his shoulder. “Lies,” he spat.

“I can have you freed with one word to the king. But I require something from you in return.”

He whirled and grabbed the grate, though it failed to startle de Marcherne. “The damned grail, is that it?”

De Marcherne turned to Crispin. “You told him?”

“Yes,” said Crispin dispassionately. “I wondered if he had it. He doesn’t.”

“No? Are you certain?” Crispin nodded and de Marcherne ticked his head. “You do not have the grail?” he asked Stephen.

“I never saw it. As I said .”

“Alas. It means you have nothing to bargain with. Pity.” He lowered his face for a moment before bringing up a sardonic smile. “Good luck with your trial.”

De Marcherne turned and appraised Crispin. “I thank you for your most interesting tour. I hope we shall meet again.” He leaned closer and said in quieter tones, “My offer to you still stands. Think on it.” He cast a dismissing glance to Stephen before he waved to a gaoler standing some distance down the passage. “Do not bother to escort me, Master Crispin. This fine gaoler will lead me out. Au revoir .”

His footsteps stopped echoing long before his stately figure disappeared into the shrouding shadows.

“Why did you bring that bastard here?” Stephen grimaced. “Never mind. I know. To further torment me. Satisfied?”

“In fact, no. Yet I have some questions of my own.”

“Do you? Well you know what you can do with your questions.”

Crispin toed the dirt at the foot of the door and then peered into the dim cell. A dismal fire sputtered in the hearth. A stool, a table, and a pallet with a straw mattress were the only furniture in the room. He remembered it well from his own incarceration seven years ago.

“I am trying to discover what possible motive my future brother-in-law would have for murder in this deceitful manner.”

Stephen rushed the window again but instead of flinging insults he pealed his lips back and bared his teeth in a smile. “You are bluffing. Rosamunde would never marry you. She’s already betrothed.”

“Liar,” he growled. “She never said-”

“Why should she discuss such a matter with you? I tell you she is betrothed. It is only a matter of months before she is wed again.”

As if struck by an arrow, Crispin staggered back and took a moment to catch his breath. When he looked up again Stephen calmly appraised him.

Crispin shook his head. How tired he was of games. Everyone, it seemed, lied to him. Rosamunde, the Templars, Vivienne, Stephen. He straightened, rolled his shoulders. “Why would Rosamunde tell me you were missing longer than was true?”

Stephen sniffed. “Gone one day? Would you have bothered to search?”

“Why was she suspicious?”

“Because I went to speak with D’Arcy and she did not trust him.”

“Why?”

Stephen pressed his lips together.

“Lady Stancliff was his lover. Did she want the grail?”

“I know nothing of that. I never knew he was a Templar.”

“And what of your affair with Lady Stancliff?”

“Mine? Never.”

“You lie. She said you were together. She remarked how cruel you were to her.”

“She made accusations. And that kind of woman does not get away with insults to me.”