Jeri Westerson - Cup of Blood

Stephen’s blade struck upward and the tip caught Crispin on the cheek. He felt the sharp sting only momentarily, but it was enough to spur him on. He tossed the blade into his left hand and landed several blows with his fist into Stephen face with his right. Stephen wobbled and Crispin maneuvered him into a corner. He pinned Stephen’s dagger arm to the wall and pressed his own blade to Stephen’s throat.

Stephen looked up miserably at Crispin. “Do it,” he rasped. “Take me out of this world. Oh Jesu ! I should have let you hang me!”

Crispin clamped his lips together and breathed furiously through his nose. All at once, he lowered the blade. “For Jesus’ sake, let us make an end to this.”

“How can I let you arrest her? She cannot bear it.”

“Two men have died. Are they to suffer no retribution?” He looked past Stephen at Jenkyn’s stark face. The servant had pressed himself against the wall trying to avoid the fighting. “What say you, Jenkyn? She almost made a murderer of you and then would have let you hang. You have a say.”

“I was loyal all my life to this house. Why would she do that to me?”

Crispin gestured with the knife. “She is a selfish creature, Jenkyn. Best concern yourself-”

Jenkyn’s eyes widened. “Look out, Master Crispin!”

Instinct moved his hand before he turned. His dagger sunk deep with that familiar sensation of slicing flesh and oozing blood. When his head swiveled enough to spy the edge of her disarrayed hair he let go of the blade with a horrified gasp. With a silent rend of his own heart he knew it was too late.

Rosamunde pulled the dagger from her belly at once but it only served to blot her gown in a growing irregular stain. The dagger clattered to the floor.

Rosamunde looked up at Crispin and smiled. Blood tinged her lips. She let her own jeweled dagger fall from her hand. “Justice?” she whispered before crumpling to his feet.

Crispin sat in the dark. He barred the door even from Jack, who gave up trying to enter hours ago. Gilbert and Eleanor tried to coax him free of his lodgings. Even Martin Kemp made an effort, but none could budge him.

Today, especially today, he would not leave the haven of his shabby room. Though the day ended, he could not bring himself to light a candle. He did not feel deserving of even that singular illumination while they buried her.

The knock on the door surprised him. He hoped they had all given up by now.

At first he didn’t answer. But the gentle voice on the other side of the oak roused him to his feet. He stood at the door and stared at the bolt. Finally, he threw it back and returned to his chair and sat.

The door slowly creaked open and Father Timothy peered in. He blinked into the darkness. “Do you invite me in, Crispin?”

Crispin did not reply. He only sighed, but Timothy acknowledged it and entered, closing the door behind him. “Surely we can light a candle?”

“It is dark where she is.” His voice cracked. He realized he had not actually spoken in some days.

“We do not know that,” Timothy said and sat on the chest.

“It is dark in the grave.”

“Stephen St Albans sent word after the burial. She is safe at her ancestral estates.”

Crispin absorbed this and nodded. He didn’t know whether the news pleased him or not.

“May we light a candle, then?”

Crispin said nothing. Timothy proceeded to the hearth and lit a straw. Cupping the glowing sprig in his hand, he brought it to the table and lit the tallow candle in its dish on the table.

The priest’s young face immediately sprang into view. He smiled. “There now. A little flame does no harm.”

“What have I done?”

Timothy eyed Crispin with sympathy. “It was an accident. The justices declared it so. It spared her an arrest and a trial, after all. And the punishment. It is justice, when all is said and done.”

“Yes, but whose?”

“She was a murderer, one who killed more than once for vain reasons. It was a mercy this way.”

“Then why is it I feel like a murderer?”

“Not so. In the end, she forgave you.”

He raised his face to the priest, gazing into his sympathetic eyes. They glittered in the candlelight. “Were you there?”

“Yes. I gave her absolution. She lasted two days, as I’m certain you know. And as a faithful Christian, she forgave you for all of it. Without reservation.”

Crispin stared at the candle a long time and finally raised his hand to his face. He wiped his dry features before dropping his hand away. “I am glad.”

“Now then. There is other business I came to you about. It is time for you to arise from this tomb you have made. You have much to do.”

“And what is that?”

“Your life!” Timothy rose and threw open the shutters. The sunset spilled streaks of red and gold across the floor. A fresh breeze washed the stuffy room and puffed a breath across the hearth’s embers, awakening their dormant glow to flames. The room came alive with golden light and even Crispin’s gray features warmed.

Crispin sat back against the chair. “Why?”

“Because many people care about you and would help you.”

“Yes. I suppose.”

“And there is much good you do. It still needs to be done.”

Crispin would have shrugged if he could summon the energy. He chose not to.

“A terrible thing has happened,” Timothy continued. “But you proved your worth in this. In fact, you have nullified your shame of years ago.”

“Oh? Who says so?”

“I do. And others who know and respect you.”

Crispin grunted. These were empty sentiments now. “It does not make all this go away.”

“No. Not today. But someday.”

Crispin took in Timothy’s kind but stern expression and allowed himself a reluctant smile. “Your optimism astounds me.”

“And me at times,” Timothy chuckled.

“But that is not the only reason you came.”

Timothy’s gentle laughter petered out and his dark eyes settled on Crispin’s. His smile changed to a wry one. “No. No, indeed.”

“How did you know?”

“I have my sources.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.”

Timothy smiled and leaned on the table. “Well? Have you decided?”

“Yes. I decided some time ago.” Crispin reached into his coat and carefully removed the object. He laid it reverently on the table but kept his hands upon it, his thumbs rubbing the etchings along the rim. “I toyed with the idea of trying to use it on Rosamunde. I dismissed it just as quickly.”

“Yes. You understand, then.”

“If indeed it is miraculous, it must not be used in that way.”

“But others would.”

Crispin nodded. “Like Guillaume de Marcherne. I recognized his character.”

“His mistake was in not recognizing yours. But as I understand it, he will be making no more bargains. I believe I heard that he is dead.”

“Good.”

“I know he promised you much.”

“I never took those promises seriously.”

“But Edwin also made promises to you.”

“And I do not hold you to them.”

“On the contrary.” Timothy watched Crispin stroke the cup but did not reach for it. “I make the same offer.”

Crispin smiled and shook his head. “And I make the same answer. The ‘face of woman’ is too much on my mind. Especially today.”

Timothy sighed. “Very well.” Timothy rose and held out his hand. It wasn’t to bid Crispin farewell.

Crispin, too, rose. Now he noticed the sword hanging from Timothy’s belt hidden beneath the cleric’s mantle. It didn’t surprise him in the least. He picked up the cup and placed it into the priest’s open palm. Timothy held it for a moment. He turned it to examine the markings and to run his finger over them. He smiled at Crispin before he consigned it to his scrip.