Jeri Westerson - Cup of Blood

Wordlessly, he turned toward the door.

“I will not see you again, will I?” said Crispin.

Without turning back, Timothy said, “No. I should think not.”

“That is as it should be. You are the new Grand Master, are you not?”

Timothy smiled and nodded. He turned. His bearing was completely different from before. No longer the contemplative priest. He stood like a knight. “How did you guess?”

“Your ring. The light was dim in your rectory, but that is no priestly ring.”

The young cleric raised his hand and ran his fingers over the gold band with its shield of a cross potent. “In all these years, you are the only one to have noticed.”

Crispin shrugged. “My mind may have been on Templars and Templar badges.”

“It is a pity you will not join us.”

“You have your cross to bear, and so do I. But I would know something before you go.” He stared at the scrip disappearing into the shadows of the priest’s gown. “I wonder. Is it… does it perform miracles?”

Timothy’s cheeks creased with a smile. “ You would know that better than I.” He offered a final nod, pulled open the door, and was swallowed by the shadows of the landing.

Crispin sat again and stared at the empty table, empty but for the candle, its flame flickering from a draft.

The door opened again. Crispin didn’t move. The candle wavered, sputtered, but remained stubbornly lit. He was not surprised to see the small shadow of a boy stretch across the floor.

He turned and took in the sight of Jack Tucker. A pathetic child of the streets. A wretched thief. His tunic was nearly as threadbare as Crispin’s coat. His shoes had holes and his cloak’s hem hung with loose threads. Probably from the way the boy always worried at it. He was secrets and stolen trinkets and noise when Crispin desired only peace. Trouble was written all over him. “What to do with you, Young Master Tucker,” he sighed after a thoughtful pause.

The shadow lengthened and soon the boy came into the light. His face was wet from tears, making tracks through the dirt, and he wiped his nose absently with his sleeve. “It’s cold outside.”

“Yes,” Crispin agreed. The warmth from the fire was meager but it was warmth, of a sort.

“Master Crispin…I was wondering. I mean…I know you said you never wanted…” He twisted his cloak in his fingers again. “Blessed Saint Anthony,” he muttered. He looked down at his feet, huffed a breath, and started again. Amber eyes soft, his gaze settled on Crispin. “I promise…I won’t be no trouble. I swear to you, sir. I…I can cook. And clean. And do for you, sir. Fetch fuel and water.”

Crispin turned away from the boy to stare at the hearth. “A proper servant keeps his face and hands clean.”

A shuffle close behind him. “They do?”

“And never use their sleeves for snotty noses.”

Jack was now at his elbow. “A proper servant?”

Crispin sighed deeply and even smiled a little. It was cold outside. And getting late. “I’m thirsty, Jack.” He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, feeling the warmth from the hearth on his face. “Go fetch me a bowl of wine. There’s a lad.”