Jeri Westerson - Cup of Blood

The murderer? That was quick. Especially for Wynchecombe. Crispin looked back up the lane. Shopkeepers and passersby paid him no heed. “Commands, does he?” He ran his hand over his chin again and finally shrugged. “Then I suppose a shave will have to wait.”

Panting, with tears blurring his eyes, Jack Tucker ran for all he was worth. “Jesus mercy,” he muttered desperately, over and over, frantic gaze searching the streets and the frosty signs swaying from a morning breeze. No one yet stirred on the deserted lanes but he didn’t care. That man, that Tracker had said that those wine bowls were poisoned and he had drunk them! Drunk every last one of them and knew he was doomed.

Finally, his eyes caught the sight he was looking for, a sign of an apothecary, and he dove for the front door. Finding it locked, he pounded on it. “Master! Master, for God’s mercy, please open your door, I beg of you!”

The thud of steps approached and the bar scraped back across the door. It opened slowly and only a crack revealed an eye staring beadily at Jack. “What’s all this?”

“Please, good Master. I need your help!”

The eye darted back and forth. “My help? It can wait an hour, can’t it? It is not yet time to open my doors.”

“Please, good sir. I’ve been poisoned! I haven’t long.”

The door flew open and a man in an open robe revealing his long linen gown beneath, stood on the threshold. “By the Virgin, young man! Did you say poisoned?”

“Aye, Master. A cruel thing it is. Please. Can you help me? Oh! I feel faint.” A wave of dizziness overcame him and Jack sank to the stone threshold. The man caught him but just barely and hoisted him upward.

“Now lad. By the saints! Can you walk? Come inside.” Half dragging him, the apothecary pulled Jack inside where the immediate warmth of the small shop revived him. The man sat Jack on a stool before the hearth and jammed a poker into the small fire, urging the flames to rise.

Blearily, Jack watched the fire, a play of light and shadows that he could barely discern. His belly roiled and he clutched the stool to keep upright.

The man bent toward him. “Tell me, boy. Do you know what manner of poison you ingested?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know, Master. I drank it in the wine. But another died of it. All foamy at the mouth, struggling to breathe.”

“Hmm.” The man nodded, placing a finger to his lips in thought. He suddenly took Jack by the shoulders and studied his face. He pulled opened Jack’s jaw and sniffed his breath and then he laid his head against Jack’s chest.

“Here! What you doing?” Jack demanded.

Withdrawing, the apothecary narrowed his eyes. “Are you certain you were poisoned?”

“I swear by my Lady, Master. I saw the dead man, and I drank the same wine.”

“Then it is likely it was merely a small dose and already purged from your system. Did you sick up, boy?”

“Aye. I did. Right before I found you.”

“You see. You are fine.”

Jack grabbed the man’s robes in his clammy fists. “No! I must have a cure. Please, sir!”

The apothecary threw his hands up and sighed. “Very well, but I am certain you do not need it.”

Jack shot from the stool to follow the man into his shop, behind a ragged curtain. He crumpled his tunic hem in nervous fingers, all the while watching as the man pulled down canisters and bottles, and mixed the strange ingredients into a mortar. He then mixed them about and poured some ale into a beaker, carefully measuring in the now powdered ingredients. He stirred it with a metal wand and finally handed it to Jack. “There. Drink it.”

Jack stared into the beaker and to the greasy rings floating on the top of the ale. “This will cure me?”

The man shook his head. “As I said, you do not need a cure, but this will help you amend your belly.”

Jack nodded and put the beaker to his lips. Holding his nose, he downed it and nearly lost the rest of what was in his belly from the sour taste. The beaker dropped from his hands and he covered his mouth.

The apothecary stood over him. “Better?”

Jack grimaced and licked his lips. It took a moment, but the taste and the sick feeling subsided. “Aye,” he said unsteadily. “I do feel better.”

“Of course you do,” the man muttered. “That will be a ha’penny.”

Sheepishly, Jack stared at his feet. “I have a confession to make to you, good Master.”

The apothecary rocked on his heels. At any other time, it would have been an amusing sight to Jack: the man in his sleeping gown and fussy robe, and hair in disarray. But Jack’s emotions had been wrung dry in the span of a few hours. He had nothing left inside of him. He felt as hollow as a bell.

“I confess, good Master, that I haven’t a coin to my name.” He raised his chin and met the man’s gaze. “But I swear to you on me mother’s grave, that I will repay you. I…I can work for you. Sweep your floors and fetch wood. I can do that.”

The apothecary rolled his eyes and laid his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “I thought as much. Fear not. You have no need to repay me. I have done you a Christian deed and there is only reward in Heaven for that.”

Jack fell to the ground on his knees and grabbed the man’s hands. “Oh sir! I am grateful for your kindness and charity. I’ll say a prayer for you, sir. Many!”

“Thieves and beggars’ prayers!” chortled the man. “I must be mad. Off with you, then. And keep away from poisons!”

“Good Master, I will indeed. And thank you again. The Lord’s blessings upon you and yours.” He pushed through the doors and looked back. The man waved and turned away, back to his curtained alcove and maybe to bed.

Jack stood on the lane. The air was fresher, brighter. The sun’s light stretched down the muddy road making the shop fronts golden with its rays. The damp signs and trees glistened with droplets like gems. Jack inhaled deeply and sighed. Life! It was a precious thing to behold.

He turned his face toward the sunshine and its feeble warmth and sighed again. Empty, he was. Of silver and of belly. He had wanted to bring Will a meal but now that was out of the question. He sniffed, catching the scent of baked bread. Or was it?

He trotted down the lane, letting his nose lead him. It wasn’t a baker but just an ordinary shop. He stopped before it and put his eye to the shutter. A plump woman, her head covered in a kerchief, was just setting browned loaves on the table. Jack pushed his wayward fringe away from his face, stepped back, and knocked gently on the wooden shutter.

Hesitantly, the shutter opened. The woman, rosy nose and cheeks, stuck her head out. “Eh?” she said upon spying Jack. “Are you knocking on my window?”

Jack lowered his face and curled his tunic hem in his fingers. “Good damosel, I smelt your bread from the street and God’s angels and saints urged me to ask. For to ask ye shall receive. So I knocked and you answered. I come asking if you could spare only a small portion of them loaves you just baked.”

Eyes downcast, he knew he looked humble and yet sympathetic. It was still an advantage his being so young with a voice high and light. God help him when his bollocks dropped.

Silence greeted him and he slowly looked up through his ginger fringe. She stared at him with her hands at her hips. But she hadn’t slammed the window shut, so that was a good sign. He becrossed himself, for piety was highly prized by those to whom charity was given, and he even formed his hands in an attitude of prayer. It never hurt to go that extra mile.

He could see in her features that she was relenting and she left the window momentarily and returned with half a loaf. “You’re a scoundrel,” she said, handing it to Jack’s eager hands. “But you are a charming one. Off with you, lad.”