Jeri Westerson - Cup of Blood

“For your murder? I would have found the time.”

“Enough of this. I have been saddled with a fake grail and I wish to have the original. Which I think you still have, no?”

“Do you plan to cut me in two, de Marcherne? You’ll never find it that way.”

“ Au contraire . You see, I perceive it in the outline of your coat. You should at least have given it to your servant to carry.”

Slight miscalculation. Crispin smiled weakly at Jack who stared at him and then ran that gaze down the bulge in Crispin’s cotehardie. De Marcherne’s eyes narrowed. With a sense of danger tingling his neck, Crispin looked around the room, picking out defensive strategy, weapons, shields.

Just as de Marcherne raised his sword, Crispin dove for the poker by the hearth and brought it up to block the blade. Steel clanged against iron. De Marcherne stepped back, momentarily stunned, but he soon recovered, frowned, and chopped down with the blade again. Crispin swung the poker upward and parried the blow, trying to knock the sword out of the man’s hand, but he would not yield it.

Crispin maneuvered his opponent away from the fire, holding the poker two-handed.

He heard a muffled scream and at the corner of his eye, he caught Jack struggling with Vivienne. She grabbed a large candlestick and Jack clutched her hands. Vaguely, Crispin wondered which one of them she intended to threaten with it. They wrestled, the taller Vivienne glaring wild-eyed at the boy. Jack hung desperately on to Vivienne’s wrists, trying to use his weight to pull it from her. When that failed to work, he swung his leg back and kicked her shin. Hard. The candlestick fell from her grasp and Jack stumbled back with a whoosh of air and hit the floor on his backside. Vivienne shrieked and fell on him with her bare hands. Jack let out a yell and scrabbled on the floor in an attempt to gain his feet but Vivienne grabbed an ankle and yanked him back. He kicked to free himself, and Vivienne, now sobbing in frustration released him. He stood unsteadily and pulled his small dagger. “You’ll have to behave yourself, m’lady. I don’t want to use this but I will.”

“You’re a foolish boy,” she sneered. She was inelegant regaining her feet, but once upright her comportment returned. “Can’t you see that evil man is going to hurt your master? I was only trying to stop him!”

“If that were so,” he panted, “then why were you aiming for Master Crispin?”

“Because I want to be the one who kills the bastard!”

De Marcherne laughed. He waved his sword at Vivienne. “You see, Crispin. No love lost. Worry not, Fair Vivienne. As soon as I have dispatched Master Guest, I will see that you suffer no more.” His smiled faded even as the blush drained from Vivienne’s face.

De Marcherne wasted no more time and swung at Crispin’s head. He ducked, slid to the right, and brought up the iron at an awkward angle, but it was still enough to block. Barely.

Not even winded, de Marcherne lowered his sword and grinned. His scar darkened. “One wonders what damage you could have done with a sword, Crispin. I regret I will never get the opportunity to see.”

“This bit of iron can do enough damage, I assure you.”

“Ah, but will you get the chance?”

De Marcherne’s casual poise masked his wariness. Without warning, he swung again. Crispin dodged it, but this time the tip of the blade nicked Crispin’s ear. He felt the sting but didn’t react except to search the floor. No ear. A good sign.

He swung the poker at de Marcherne’s feet and the nimble man leapt straight up out of harm’s way, but this time he was winded and he stepped back from Crispin a few feet to catch his breath.

Crispin wasn’t about to allow that.

He charged, a battle cry exploding from his lips. But de Marcherne was as seasoned as Crispin and he knew each battle trick as well. Perhaps even a few more. He parried the blow with a cry of his own and Crispin’s momentum sent him toward the floor, the one place he knew he did not want to be. Crispin tried to roll and recover, but Vivienne and Jack were in the way. Like kayles pins, they all tumbled against the wall together.

De Marcherne panted and stood over them with the blade levered forward. He smiled. “I could have killed you all with one long stroke. But where is the merriment in that?”

Crispin recovered his feet first and slid against the wall. Another place he did not want to be. He raised the poker again. He was beginning to have his doubts about winning.

De Marcherne never lost his smile. He was able to assess the situation, too. He seemed to sense-as Crispin used to do-the moment a duel was about to end. Crispin adjusted his sweaty hands on the poker. He knew it wasn’t going to end well.

De Marcherne raised his weapon and Crispin cringed, but instead of the slash of steel across his midsection that he expected, de Marcherne threw back his head and howled in pain.

Crispin looked down. Jack’s knife slammed deep into the man’s foot through his boot and pinned him to the floor.

Crispin didn’t hesitate. He swung. The poker shattered de Marcherne’s knee. The man dropped as far as he could with his foot pinned to the floor. Finishing the swing, Crispin heaved the poker upward and connected with de Marcherne’s jaw. A sickening crack, and his head snapped back. His body arched for only a moment before awkwardly slamming to the floor, and lay still.

Crispin tossed the poker aside. Jack pulled his dagger free of the boot and stood up with it, eyes transfixed on the bloody blade. With trembling hands he hastily wiped the knife on his tunic. “Well done, Jack,” Crispin panted. He turned his eyes on the suddenly terrified Lady Stancliff. “Call in the sheriff. Or the palace guards. I care not which. Whatever de Marcherne’s game, it is now over. As is yours. I don’t care why you returned. If it was to kill him he is as good as dead now. If it was for some other pursuit…well.” His lip curled in a sneer. “I’m not interested. I suggest you leave for Chelmsford and stay there. I think King Richard’s court has tired of you. Stay with your husband, Lady Vivienne. If he will still have you. Pray that he does.”

He straightened his coat and flicked his hand for Jack to follow. One more to confront.

It took a quarter hour to reach the White Hart. Stopping before the door of the inn, he turned to Jack. “Go back to our lodgings, Jack. The sheriff may come to call and I would have you explain to him about de Marcherne.”

Jack eyed the inn, eyes scanning the windows. He measured Crispin and stood his ground. “Wouldn’t you rather have me here, sir? With you?”

Crispin felt his muscles tense. “No. Please, Jack.”

Jack bowed, as well as any page at court.

Crispin did not watch him depart, but pushed opened the inn’s doors and climbed the stairs to the gallery. He strode purposely across the plank passageway and stopped before Rosamunde’s apartments, lifted his closed fist, and pounded on the door.

To his surprise, Stephen opened the door and grinned upon seeing him. “Crispin! My God! I am actually glad to see you. Come in. Come in.”

Taking a breath, Crispin entered and glanced about. The door to the inner chamber was closed and no one stood in the parlor but Stephen and small leather bound chests and valises. They were preparing to leave.

“We return to my estates,” said Stephen in reply to Crispin’s appraisal of the room. “There is no more reason to stay now that all is well. I will fetch Rosamunde. She will be surprised to see you.”

Crispin smiled dryly. “Won’t she.”

He waited while Stephen disappeared behind the closed door. At the sound of a shriek, he spun and encountered a wide-eyed Rosamunde. He smiled unpleasantly at her look of horror.