Jeri Westerson - Cup of Blood

Crispin stared at the floor. He wanted to ask them, he wanted to say something, but before he could think of a reply, de Marcherne suddenly grabbed him and pulled him back against his chest, holding a blade to his throat.

The Templars advanced but de Marcherne pressed the blade deeper, reopening the scab the sheriff made earlier. Crispin felt hot blood trickle down his neck.

De Marcherne’s breath puffed harshly in Crispin’s ear. “It is time to stop playing the hero. I want the grail. Where is it?”

“This is a very poor show, de Marcherne,” rasped Crispin. “Where is that famous French courtesy?”

“Gone, as is my patience. Though I would regret it, you know I do not have an aversion to killing you.”

“That seems to be a popular theme this evening,” Crispin muttered. “What makes you think I care?”

He released a reptilian chuckle. “I have learned, through years of experience, that even when a man is tortured, he always holds dear his life. Though it were easier and less painful for him to lose it, he cradles it as precious. And so you will excuse me if I take your scorn with little enthusiasm.”

“Do not tell him, Master Crispin!” Anselm lurched forward. De Marcherne’s men crept closer in a countermove. “‘He that loveth his life shall lose it; and he that hateth his life in this world shall keep it unto life eternal.’”

Crispin glared at the Templars. The blade felt cold against his hot neck. All very well for you!

“Must I resort to counting to three?” asked de Marcherne in a bored voice. “Very well, then. One…two…”

“Wait!” Jack leapt from his hiding place and stood between de Marcherne and the Templars. “Release my master and I will tell you!”

“Jack! For the love of Christ, be still!”

To quiet Crispin, de Marcherne dug the edge of the blade deeper into his flesh. Crispin felt the cold steel slice. More sticky blood trickled, soaking the collar of his shirt. He stiffened against de Marcherne.

“You are a good servant, Jack,” placated de Marcherne. “I am certain you want your master unharmed. Now then, tell me where it is.”

“If I get it for you, you’ll release Master Crispin?”

“Of course. On my word as a knight.”

“Don’t believe him, boy,” said Parsifal. “His words are Satan’s!”

De Marcherne grinned and raised his elbow, slicing another thin line of red across Crispin’s neck. Crispin gurgled stiffly. “Time is passing, boy,” said de Marcherne. “I’m waiting.”

Jack licked his pale lips and swept his glance over the helpless Templars. He wiped his hands down his dirty shirt and nodded. “Right, sir. I’ll get it.” He went to the shelf and took down the wooden bowl, carefully cradling it in his hands. “May Jesus forgive me.”

“Ah!” De Marcherne’s face brightened. He motioned for Jack to set it on the table. “Hiding in plain sight. You are a clever man, friend Crispin. I regret that we shall not serve together as knights.”

“You said you’d let him go!” Jack’s eyes filled with frustrated tears.

De Marcherne looked down at Crispin before he shrugged and shoved him into Jack’s arms. Jack and Crispin tumbled to the floor.

De Marcherne snatched the cup and sprinted toward the window flanked by his men, but the Templars pursued, until a shout behind them stopped them. In the doorway, more of de Marcherne’s men stood with swords drawn.

The Templars spun on their heels and engaged the two knights at the door, while Edwin continued his pursuit of de Marcherne.

The Frenchman crouched in the window. The men who entered with him guarded his escape and postured in front of Edwin.

De Marcherne grinned and threw a kiss to the Templars. “ Au revoir , Edwin! Farewell, Crispin. I do not think we shall meet again. At least, it would be unhealthy for you to do so.”

He dropped out the window, the cup in his hand. His men fought in earnest. Edwin slashed one man across the chest and he dropped with a groan. Without thinking, Crispin snatched up the discarded blade and stood beside the old Templar. With a feral smile, Crispin raised the blade with remembered skill. The sharp sound of steel on steel rang out in the little room. An abrupt appetite for blood swelled in Crispin and he gathered all his aggression.

He chopped unmercifully and countered each blow before he backed his opponent against the window. Just when Crispin raised the sword for the final strike, the man slipped backwards over the sill, sliding along the broken roof tiles in a whirlwind of crashing slate.

The other two engaged by the Templars turned tail and fled down the stairs, leaving their wounded comrade behind.

Edwin stopped only to wipe his forehead and to grab Crispin’s arm with his sword hand. “You fought well, Crispin. I am only sorry your servant did not have your strength of courage.”

Crispin stopped to catch his breath and only then did he raise his hand to his bloody neck. “He followed his conscience and his loyalty. I cannot fault the boy for protecting me.”

“Yes. But what is lost today! We must follow him.” Edwin nodded to Crispin and directed his fellows out the door. They darted down the stairs in pursuit.

Crispin stood panting, sword still in hand. He looked at the empty window, then the doorway, and finally toward Jack cowering in a corner.

“You won’t beat me, will you, Master? I only did what I thought best. I don’t know naught about no grail but I do know you’ve been right good to me. I didn’t want that harm should befall you.”

Crispin lowered the sword and tossed it aside. He pressed his bloodied hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Peace, Jack. I am not angry with you. I am gratified that you feel such affection for me, as indeed…I feel for you.” He patted Jack a moment before he felt his legs give out and he fell into the chair. “This has not been an easy day,” he admitted. He glanced at the injured man groaning on the floor. “I will keep him at bay while you fetch the sheriff, eh, Jack?”

It took a long time to explain fully, especially since the sheriff wanted Crispin to repeat several parts of the tale again. They took away the injured man to Newgate, and the sheriff’s men dispersed. Wynchecombe sat on the chair leaving Crispin to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Crispin. You promised to make no more mistakes.”

Crispin studied his hands. Grimy creases. Palms smudged with dried blood and dirty sweat. “Jenkyn knew what happened. How could I have guessed? How could I have made the leap?”

Wynchecombe, in a rare show of parity, shook his head. “I know. Such a betrayal.” He raised his face to Crispin. His gaze steadied. “She will hang, you know.”

Crispin felt a cold hand clutch his heart. “I know. The law is the law. And she deserves the punishment.”

“Leave her arrest to me.”

“No. I will do it.”

“Crispin-”

“Simon. Give me this. It’s owed me.”

Wynchecombe breathed a long sigh through his nostrils. Crispin knew the sheriff’s thoughts: that Crispin would find an opportunity to let her go and escape the king’s justice. He couldn’t be certain he did not entertain such thoughts. But in the end, Crispin knew he would bring her in. He knew her. She would not stop with his attempted murder. When she tired of her new husband, what would stop her from eliminating him?

“‘It is not always the same thing to be a good man and a good citizen,’” quoted Crispin wearily.

The sheriff huffed. “That damned Aristotle again.” But Crispin nodded and rose. He looked about the shattered room in the ragged first light of morning; at the blood spattered on the wall and the broken end of the chair. A shelf hung aslant from one hook. Crispin’s razor and soap cake lay on the floor. “It wasn’t much to look at, but your fee may repair what is here.”