Jeri Westerson - Cup of Blood

“Yes, yes. That is so!” He raised his wet face. His trembling hands opened and closed until he finally grasped them together and dropped them into his lap. “She has been good to me. So good. When I discovered what that knave intended…”

“There’s no need to speak of that,” Crispin interrupted. He looked behind at the curious faces and suddenly thought better of a public encounter. “Come now. We will discuss this with the sheriff.”

Jenkyn’s face drained of its ruddiness and became flat and white like a plaster wall. “The sheriff? Gaol? Oh, Sir Crispin! You don’t mean to turn me in, do you? Was I not equally loyal to you, good sir?”

So swiftly Crispin changed from a troublesome nobody to “Sir Crispin” again. He had no time to enjoy the irony. “Though that is true, there has been a crime, Jenkyn. As a knight…well, even though a knight no more, I still have sworn to uphold the king’s laws, and I must.”

The servant’s speed caught Crispin off guard. Jenkyn sprinted from the table and zigzagged through the benches and chairs. Crispin snapped from his seat to pursue, but the man was always an arm’s length out of reach. Just as Crispin almost caught up, he got tangled in a crowd of men playing dice, and tried vainly to shove them aside.

Jenkyn slipped out the door, knocking down Jack Tucker. Crispin called out, “Get him, Jack!” but Jenkyn disappeared far from sight by then, having ducked down a nearby alley.

When Crispin reached the door he scowled at Jack. “Did I not tell you to be on your guard?”

Jack picked himself up and wiped the mud from his sagging stockings. “I’m sorry, Master. Forgive me.”

Crispin glared down the bleak avenue, with its few passersby, and thrust his fists in his hips. “No, Jack, I was at fault. I am the one who was not on guard. But there is nowhere for him to run. We will wrest him yet.”

“Is he the murderer?”

“Yes, Jack. Right under our very noses all along.”

“Why’d he do it? Did he know the gentleman?”

“He knew him. He did it for his mistress’ honor,” he said, looking up at the threatening sky. He remembered he left his chaperon hood back at his room. “But he will tell all when we apprehend him. We must go to Newgate and inform the sheriff.”

“He won’t like this. Will he believe you, I wonder? Enough to release Sir Stephen?”

“I don’t know. Pray he does. Then this whole matter will be over with.”

“Except for one thing.” Jack glanced behind him as if expecting doom to descend upon him with his utterance. “The Holy Grail.”

“Let me sum this up,” said Wynchecombe. He left his houppelande unbuttoned down to the waist revealing the white shirt beneath. His wide sleeves were rolled up past a hairy length of wrist. He wore no hat and his black hair lay in mussed waves. “You want me to release our prisoner because you do not believe him guilty. Instead, you wish to implicate a servant who escaped from your easy grasp. Is that the gist of it?”

Crispin gritted his teeth. His hand rested on his dagger hilt. “Close enough.”

“You must be mad!”

“Only slightly.”

“I don’t understand you, Crispin.” Wynchecombe rose to walk around the table. He planted himself firmly beside Crispin and cast a shadow, blocking the oil lamp’s flame. “Your chance at revenge. Fame for such a coup. You would give it up-”

“For the truth, my lord.”

“But as Pilate said, ‘What is truth?’ Anything can be made to be the truth.”

“Not anything. Sir Stephen is not guilty, and though nothing would please me more than to see him die, I would not have it so through a lie. In truth…” He shook his head. “I do not even know if I feel the same about my vengeance any longer.”

“Crispin! God’s teeth! A change of heart? Truly a miracle has come to pass.”

Crispin thought he knew Stephen, thought he understood his own misery, but none of it seemed to matter of late. “I know not. All I know is that I believe him when he protests his innocence. And this servant was there sitting beside Gaston D’Arcy with the means and the motive to kill him.”

“Oh? What motive was that?”

He wondered how much to divulge. Perhaps Wynchecombe could keep his tongue. “He was defending the honor of his mistress.”

“Lady Rothwell? How so?”

“My lord, discretion is tantamount. The lady is betrothed.”

“Indeed? You show an unusual amount of restraint for a man who was once betrothed to her yourself.”

Scowling, Crispin turned away. Not given permission to sit, Crispin stood at the window and gazed into Newgate’s courtyard. The rain began again, and the courtyard was bathed in gray light and misty lines of drizzle. Stagnant puddles came alive with jumping dots of raindrops, and the few wooly horses tethered there stomped impatiently for dryer paddocks. “That was a long time ago, my Lord Sheriff. I have put the matter aside.”

“Then what is this secret that must be so hushed?”

“The lady,” Crispin began in a subdued tone, “was having a love affair with D’Arcy.”

Wynchecombe’s laugh infuriated but Crispin did not turn from the window. He clutched the shutter, grasping so tightly he felt the wood crack.

Wynchecombe composed himself and merrily poured more wine in his silver cup. “Such a motive could be equally applied to Sir Stephen. Or you, for that matter.”

“Not with poison. Stephen would have slit the man’s throat. I know I would have.”

Wynchecombe chuckled and nodded. “And so would I.”

“My witness claims Jenkyn did not drink, and sat beside D’Arcy for at least a quarter of an hour.”

“Your witness? Who?”

“Jack Tucker.”

“Who is Jack Tucker?”

Crispin licked his lips. “The cutpurse.”

The cup flew across the room nearly hitting Crispin in the head. Red wine splattered on Crispin’s coat and face. He wiped his cheek.

“You whoreson! What are you playing at? Do you toy with me?” Wynchecombe pulled his dagger and advanced on Crispin. Not knowing what else to do, Crispin allowed the sheriff to back him against the shutter and hold the blade to his throat.

“How about I slit your throat, eh?” The sheriff’s wine breath puffed on Crispin’s cheek. “Wouldn’t that be the end of all my troubles? Including yours?”

“Don’t you want the truth, my Lord Sheriff? Or are half-lies better than disagreeable facts?”

Crispin felt the cold steel press to the flesh under his jaw. The sharp edge sliced him by his mere breathing. He waited interminably for the sheriff to pull away, and when he did not, Crispin wondered if he ever would.

Then be done with it! Let me leave this world while I have tried to do justice in it. Then maybe God, if not my fellow man, will forgive me.

Wynchecombe breathed raggedly and began to loosen his grip. With reluctance in his eyes, he lowered the dagger.

Crispin reached up to his throat and wiped away the blood.

“You are a damnable man!” the sheriff bellowed. He threw his knife into the table where it stuck. “What am I supposed to do now? I trusted your judgment. I arrested Sir Stephen on your word. I will have the king down on my head because of you.” Wynchecombe faced him. “You’ve betrayed me!”

“Not so, my lord. I have done good work for you in the past. Our history together must surely-”

“History means nothing!”

Crispin surprised himself with the vehemence of his reaction. It bubbled up out of nowhere, yet always it lay just below the crust of emotions. “Nothing?” he cried. “History is everything!”

Wynchecombe drew back, startled, but Crispin didn’t bother with civility any longer.