Jeri Westerson - Cup of Blood

De Marcherne hinted that it wielded power. Maybe it healed Crispin. Maybe it didn’t. Maybe he’d never know, like Father Timothy said.

There was only one way to know.

If he asked it, asked the grail, what would it do? What did he want the most?

He picked it up and stood. He thrust his arms forward and lifted it up, as if offering it as a sacrifice.

Was it his imagination? Did his arms tingle from the grail’s power, or was it the stiffness in which he held them? Suddenly, he felt the crawling sensation of fear. Not of death, for he’d faced that too many times to count. Not of dishonor, for he’d lost it all already. But of something else, something he was loath to identify.

Power. He feared the power, the terrible and awesome power that did not come from taking a castle with an army or standing above a defeated opponent. This was different. Was this the power of God?

A lump in his gut sat heavily like a stone within him. If he dared ask the grail, might his fondest desire be granted?

He opened his fingers and the cup hit the table with a pop, and spun, finally landing on its rim. Crispin stared at the grail for a long time. He listened to his breath fill and escape his lungs; he listened to the wooden ceiling beams creak and to a puff of a draft whine past his shutter. “Superstition,” he whispered. He touched the cup with his fingertips and laughed nervously. No tingle. No strange visions. Only a cup. Perhaps an old one, but only a cup nonetheless.

He scooped it up, dropped it through the buttons of his coat, and reached for a cup from his shelf. He sat with it in his lap and drew his dagger.

Jack entered with a cursory knock and moved directly to where Crispin sat. “The sheriff is still searching for Jenkyn.”

“He’d best give it up,” Crispin said distractedly, working diligently. “He’s not the killer.”

Jack sat hard on the chest. “’Slud, Master! If he isn’t the killer then who the hell is?”

“A woman.”

“Ah ha! It’s that Lady Vivienne! I knew it. She’s-”

“No,” he said looking up from his work. “I almost wish it were. And yet, for that lady I have much sympathy.”

“Then who?”

He put his knife aside and sighed. To say it aloud meant it was real, that it happened, but this he could not deny. Could he swallow his feelings and fulfill the king’s justice?

Quietly he said, “Rosamunde. Lady Rothwell.”

Jack peered carefully at Crispin’s lowered face. “Eh? What’s that you say? I thought for a moment you said it was Lady Rothwell what killed him.”

“Yes, Jack. That is what I said. She confessed to me…before she attempted to poison me.”

“No!” Jack slid to Crispin’s feet and gazed up at him. He laid his hands on Crispin’s knees. “Master, is it true?”

Crispin smiled fondly. “Yes, Jack. There never was a more pitiful end to a sadder tale.”

“Aye, that’s the truth. Save the brother only to hang the sister.” But as soon as he said it he slapped his hand over his mouth. “Oh, Master! Forgive me.”

“Well and why not?” Crispin snapped to his feet and strode to the window. “The bitch tried to kill me with no more consideration given it than a mud stain on her gown. She killed two men-the apothecary, remember? — and would have happily killed me. She thought she did.”

Jack sat back on his feet. He let his hands drop to his thighs. “What happened, Master? Will you tell me?”

Crispin pushed open the shutter and leaned against the window frame. Martin Kemp’s furnace had quieted for the evening and no smoke marred the air he inhaled. The rooftops of slate, tile, and lead marched away from his view, undulating like an angry sea, their hearth smoke like charred masts standing straight and stiff. “She poisoned me, Jack. The same she used on Gaston D’Arcy. And it would have killed me, too, if…if I had not drunk it from the Holy Grail.”

“Christ!” He becrossed himself. “You don’t mean it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe there was not enough poison to kill. Maybe it was a dream. See for yourself, Jack.” He went to the table and took up the bowl, showing Jack its simple design and etchings.

Jack drew back, shaking his head. “I’m not worthy to come nigh it, sir. I’m only a thief.”

Crispin gazed at it fondly and put it up on the shelf. “And yet a thief joined our Lord in Heaven the day he died on the cross.” He glanced at Jack, but the boy’s fear was clear on his face. Crispin sighed. “The thing is, Jack, I don’t know what to do with it.”

“May I make a suggestion?”

Both Jack and Crispin wheeled toward the voice coming from the open window. Crispin frowned and drew his dagger upon recognizing Guillaume de Marcherne climbing in. But de Marcherne ticked his finger. Three men entered behind him.

“He’s like a spider, he is,” sneered Jack, “climbing up the side of a building like that.”

“A ladder is a most convenient tool, n’est pas ? Now, my dear Crispin.” He centered himself and straightened his brilliantly scarlet houppelande. “I am ready to take possession of the grail. That is, to take it off your hands.”

The door suddenly flung open and Edwin, Parsifal, and Anselm burst through, their swords drawn. Jack dived under the table and Crispin wished he’d thought of it first.

“Go back to Hell, de Marcherne!” cried Parsifal.

De Marcherne drew his sword and squared on the Templar. “Your purpose is forfeit. I claim the grail.”

“It cannot be ‘claimed’ by anyone, Guillaume,” said Edwin, his sword bobbing between de Marcherne and the men at the window. “In all this time, you failed to learn that.”

“Oh, I have learned much more since the time I left your noble order. Much more than you could imagine.”

“I am certain it is nothing a Christian should know.”

“Dear me. The same self-righteous Edwin. I thought you would have grown by now. Instead, you stagnated with the same pathetic platitudes. Tell me again how I am a disgrace to the name of Templar.”

Edwin bared his teeth and raised his blade.

“Gentlemen!” Crispin cried. They all turned to him. “Can you take this elsewhere? I would rather not bloody my floor.”

Parsifal gestured with his blade toward de Marcherne’s men but Crispin felt the underlying threat to himself. “Surrender the grail, Master Crispin. You have been a good caretaker, but now the duty falls to us.”

De Marcherne laughed. “Do not be a fool, Crispin. I shall give you all I promised…and more. Give it to me and regain your manhood.”

“I have no reason to believe I am not a man now, de Marcherne. In fact, only a man of character would refuse you.”

De Marcherne stared. His severe expression gave way to an admiring guffaw. His scar reddened. He sheathed his sword brusquely but the Templars kept theirs at the ready. Their sword tips followed his approach toward Crispin. “You asked why I left the Templars. Shall I now tell you?” He glanced at the knights. Their blades bobbed uneasily. He chuckled. “Because they refused to use this power that was given to them. They betrayed and deceived to keep the grail safe when they could have done so much more. I do not talk of wealth or power. I am talking of the good they could have done.”

“Do not listen to him, Crispin,” cried Edwin.

Crispin glanced quizzically at the Templars.

“It is true,” said de Marcherne. “They would only play the one game. A foolish game. I do not even think they believed in it anymore. It was all by rote, like some poor school boy under the rod. There are worse kinds of corruption than that of greed, my dear Crispin. Complacency is a great sin. See your catechism. It is there.”

Crispin glanced again at the Templars and their unreadable expressions. Why didn’t they deny de Marcherne’s words? Maybe they didn’t think they needed to. Maybe he spoke lies. Or maybe the truth cut deeper than they cared to admit.