Jeri Westerson - Cup of Blood

“Beloved,” he said between clenched teeth.

She put her hand to her throat.

“No words?” he said, circling her. “You were so full of words before at the Boar’s Tusk. You had much to say. Surely there is more.”

Stephen frowned and stepped forward. “What is this, Crispin? What transpires between you? Rosamunde? Why do you look so pale? What does he say to you?”

“Yes, Rosamunde. Why don’t you tell your brother your story? Why don’t you tell him how you were willing to let him hang? Why won’t you say how you were willing to let poor Jenkyn take the noose in your stead?”

Stephen grabbed Crispin’s shoulder and squeezed painfully. “What lies are these? I thought you had become our friend again.”

Crispin shook him loose and strode toward Rosamunde. She recoiled. “Tell him, Rosamunde. Tell him how you killed Gaston D’Arcy. Tell him how you slew that despicable apothecary. Tell him how you poisoned me.”

Breathing hard, Stephen stared at Crispin. “Why do you say this?”

Crispin twisted towards Stephen. “Because it is true. This precious creature tried to kill me to save you, but she would have easily let you die for her crime. You or Jenkyn. She cared not which.”

“No!”

Crispin turned. Jenkyn emerged from the inner room.

“No. That cannot be true,” he said, imploring his mistress. “She tried to prove my innocence.”

“And if she failed,” said Crispin matter-of-factly, “she would have let you hang. Or poisoned you before you could implicate her.”

“No.” But this time his avowal was not nearly as robust.

Stephen went to his sister and took her shoulders. “Rosamunde. Tell him what a liar he is.”

Rosamunde closed her eyes and breathed. She wore her green gown again, the one he favored. And the jewels she so hastily gave to Crispin graced her neck. Now he wished he hadn’t returned them. His gut churned. He realized those jewels would be the last thing she would wear around her neck. Almost the last thing.

Slowly she opened her eyes. Calm descended within them and her look of horror fled. “How did you do it, Crispin? That is twice you cheated certain death.”

“Rosamunde!” Stephen shook her, but she only gazed up at him with a curious smile.

“You do not know what I have endured,” she said. “Gaston promised so much. And yet he took so much.”

Her words were muffled when Stephen gathered her hard against his chest. “Rosamunde,” he whimpered, lips trembling. “For God’s sake, say no more.”

“It’s too late for that,” said Crispin.

“So now your revenge extends to my sister,” he cried over his shoulder. “I thought you were done with this.”

“So did I. But a man has a change of heart when his former love tries to murder him. How many more would have died, Rosamunde, to satisfy you? Rupert of Kent was another, but you did not poison him. No. For him, you used a blade and stabbed him in cold blood. How many more? Stephen? Jenkyn? Your betrothed when he ceased to entertain you? How many?”

Crispin’s words changed the expression on Stephen’s face. He glanced at Jenkyn’s puzzlement before turning to Crispin. “Rupert of Kent?” he asked softly.

“The apothecary who sold her the poison. I was there when he was killed. I saw the back of the killer’s hooded head and no more. I did not even know it was a woman, but there was still something familiar about it that struck me, though I never would have connected it had she not confessed it to me while I lay dying at the Boar’s Tusk.”

Stephen released Rosamunde and stepped back to stare at her. “Tell him he lies. Why will you not tell him he lies?”

She shook her head and Stephen turned a desperate face to Crispin. “We will go away then,” he said. “Will that satisfy you? Does our history together mean nothing?”

“History,” Crispin sneered. “It is a matter of responsibility. You were willing to die for love of her,” he said to Stephen, “as I might have done at one time. But she was not willing to do the same for you.”

“A woman hasn’t the courage of a man.”

“It has less to do with courage and more with self-interest.”

Stephen stared at Crispin. At last, the knight turned to Rosamunde. His face paled with bewilderment. “You would have let me hang for a murder you committed?”

Rosamunde seemed to awaken and she moved imploringly toward him. He recoiled. She stopped halfway and pressed her hands together prayerfully. “I tried to prove you innocent.”

He frowned, his dark lips now gray. “And if you failed?”

“With Crispin out of the way no one would have implicated you.”

“And do you think this is justice?”

“What do you fear?” Her chin rose arrogantly. “You are a knight. You have faced worse.”

“No. I have never faced worse than this. You do not know…you cannot begin to know…”

She shrugged. “It does not matter. Crispin is alive and Gaston is dead with good reason. Leave it at that.”

“I am very much afraid,” said Crispin, “that we cannot.”

She laughed. “Do not be a fool. What are your plans? To arrest me? Who will believe you? Look at you. A rusted knight; a shabby banner of days past. You are no one. You are less than no one. You told me you were once a gong farmer. What is lower than that? No one will ever believe you.”

Stephen slumped his shoulders. “I do.”

Rosamunde’s gaze snap toward him. “Stephen!”

“I once thought the world of you. How innocent you were. Now look at you. I was silent when you became Gaston’s lover. If I were a better brother…” He shivered. “Instead, I said nothing and fled to France to secure your marriage, hoping you would come to your senses and end it. But this. This is no game of courtly love. This is murder . For the love of Christ, Rosamunde! You killed two men!”

Crispin grasped her arm. She looked down at his chapped fingers curled tight over her sleeve.

No anger, no pity. Nothing lay in the hollow of his chest. He knew it would not last but he savored the numbness so he could do his duty. “It is time to pay, my dear. Perhaps there will be mercy. Perhaps the law will judge you kindly. But do not doubt that I will convey you myself to Newgate.”

Her eyes were quizzical and subtly changed the longer she appraised him. She turned toward him and placed her free hand on his chest. “Crispin. You cannot mean what you say. Consider it. Consider us .”

He leaned forward and kissed her gravely on the lips. She raised her hand to cup his face, and they held that pose for several moments before he drew away.

“I do have my regrets over killing you, my dear,” said Crispin. “For you were dear to me once. Surely your reward will be greater in Heaven.”

Her face paled in the recognition of her own words and she suddenly struck out at him, beating him on the chest with her clenched hands.

He drew back his fist and punched her jaw. Her head snapped back and she slumped. He caught her before she hit the floor.

“I am taking her to Newgate. Do you interfere with me?” he asked Stephen.

Stephen’s gaze met Crispin’s. “She is my blood.” He slowly withdrew his sword.

Crispin laid her on the bed. “I expected no less.” He looked at Stephen’s blade and scowled. “I do not have a sword.”

Stephen nodded and sheathed his weapon. He pulled his dagger instead and Crispin did likewise.

The room fell silent except for their labored breathing. Neither wanted to lift his blade first until a pall of resignation bleached Stephen’s features. With a roar through grit teeth, he fell toward Crispin. Crispin raised his arm in defense.

Stephen made no half-hearted feints. He stabbed toward Crispin, and Crispin deftly dodged each attempt. They both fought in earnest, maneuvering their way around the room, casting furniture aside.