Jeri Westerson - Cup of Blood

Crispin paused. He considered casting the cup away in a defiant gesture; laughing outright and returning the cup to the table untouched, leveling a steely gaze at Wynchecombe; cursing the king and taking a long quaff.

In the end, he did none of it. He lifted the goblet politely in salute and murmured, “To the king,” before downing the wine. He felt it worth a little swallowed pride to get the taste of all of last night from his mouth.

Wynchecombe chuckled, refilled Crispin’s cup, and slid the tray of meats toward him.

“I shall continue to reserve my doubts about you,” said Wynchecombe after another quaff. He ran his finger under his wet mustache. “But I shall never doubt your cunning.”

“I do not believe my cunning was ever in doubt,” said Crispin, tearing a leg from the capon and taking a bite. He muffled his groan of pleasure.

Wynchecombe shook his head. “There you stand. Are you a mockery to the court or a defiant martyr? I have never been able to distinguish which, and the longer I know you the less I can reckon it.”

“Do you truly know me?” he said quietly between mouthfuls.

Wynchecombe laughed. He narrowed his eyes at Crispin over the rim of his cup. “No. I suppose I don’t.”

Crispin continued to chew.

Wynchecombe leaned forward. His large hand surrounded the cup of wine. “I’d like to get to know you, if for no better reason than to cut your legs out from under you from time to time.”

Crispin raised his brows but said nothing while he ate.

“Still,” said Wynchecombe, sitting back while Crispin stood. “You must admit, your circumstances forced you to learn new skills.”

“Starving?” he said, mouth full. “Yes, it is a new skill. One I would rather not have learned.” He swallowed the meat in his mouth, set the stripped bone aside, and wiped his hand on the tablecloth. “Though in France one was often required to go without the comforts of roasted flesh or wine. Ah…but, of course, since you never did battle in the king’s army, you would not understand such sacrifice. My lord.”

Wynchecombe’s face flushed and darkened. He threw down the slice of pork. It slipped off the plate and hit the floor with a slap. He grabbed the tablecloth and jabbed at his beard and mustache. “I did not summon you here to eat,” said Wynchecombe, “but to show you our prisoner.”

“I am curious, my lord, who you apprehended. There were so few clues.”

“Don’t be coy, Crispin. It doesn’t suit.”

Taking one more hasty bite of food and one last gulp of wine, Crispin followed the sheriff out.

They descended the stairs into a dim passageway that smelled of a blend of musty damp, old smoke, and urine. The stench caused a chill of remembrance to ripple down Crispin’s spine.

The passageway opened into a slightly wider chamber with a smoky fire blazing from a center hearth ring. Four guards hovered near the fire, ghostly gray shapes that snapped to attention when they noticed the sheriff. “Bring out that prisoner,” he told them, and one man with a large ring of keys on his belt ran to comply.

In a few moments the sound of dragging chains caught Crispin’s attention. When the prisoner reached the yellow nimbus of hearth light, Crispin snorted in disgust.

Paler, even sickly-looking, the boy’s shackled feet lost all their youthful spring, but there was no mistaking the cutpurse Jack Tucker.

“What have you gone and done, Wynchecombe?” The words left Crispin’s mouth before he could stop himself, but the sheriff, in his triumph, took no notice.

“No one escapes from me, Guest. Especially murdering cutpurses.”

Recognizing Crispin, Jack’s face lighted. “My lord!” He threw himself at Crispin’s feet. “Tell the Lord Sheriff it is all a mistake. I didn’t murder nobody! I swear on the Holy Mother’s veil. I never killed nobody!”

Wynchecombe leaned toward Crispin. “He told us he’d been to an apothecary. He said he was looking for a cure. For poison.”

Crispin nearly laughed, but he turned his sharp nose toward Wynchecombe instead. “My Lord Sheriff, I can easily explain this otherwise guilty behavior of our young friend besides the actions of a murderer.”

Amused, Wynchecombe cocked his head. “Can you? By Christ, Guest, you astound me. Protecting the likes of cutpurses now? How low will you stoop?”

“Never have I said he is innocent. Of thievery, he is abundantly guilty.”

“Aye, sir,” said Jack, bobbing his head. “I am that. Christ help me for the sinner I am.”

“But of murder?” continued Crispin. “No.”

“Then explain to me why such an innocent boy should seek an antidote to a poison to which he had no knowledge and no familiarity.”

Crispin smiled. “He drank some. Or at least he thought he did.”

The sheriff’s smug expression fell. “What? What is this nonsense? Why should he drink it himself? He knew how lethal it was.”

“Precisely. Had he known our knight was dead from poison he never would have touched that wine. But I saw with my own eyes what he did: He cut the man’s purse, took a few baubles, and took a sip of wine before he left. Like me, he thought the man asleep, never suspecting the truth. He did not drink from the dead man’s wine, but another of the many on the table. Else he would certainly be dead himself.”

Wynchecombe could deny it all. Crispin braced for it, studied his changing expression, and wondered just what he would do: Save face and hang Jack Tucker anyway, or be a good Christian and admit his faults?

“Damn you!” Wynchecombe spewed at Jack. “Why didn’t you say?”

“I did, m’lord! I tried to tell you, but I’m only a thief, not a great lord like this gentleman.”

“And damn you, Guest. You could have saved me the trouble.”

“You believe me, then?” Crispin denied himself the pleasure of reminding Wynchecombe that Crispin specifically told him to forget about Tucker.

“Yes, I suppose I do.” The sheriff made a reluctant wave of his hand, and the guard took this as a command to release Jack from his shackles.

Jack rubbed his bloody wrists and fell to his knees before the sheriff. “Thank you, m’lord! God’s blessing on you, m’lord.”

“There is still this crime of thievery,” said Wynchecombe.

“My Lord Sheriff,” said Crispin wearily, “he has made good. And he promised me not to thieve again. Didn’t you, Jack?”

“On me mother’s heart, Lord Sheriff. I have learnt the error of me ways. I’m a new man.”

Wynchecombe breathed through clenched teeth. “Just get him out of my sight.”

Two guards shoved Jack in the direction of the arch.

Wynchecombe tapped his foot and opened and closed his sword hand. “Look what you have done to me,” he growled. “You have made me magnanimous!”

“Lord Sheriff…”

“Oh, hold your tongue, Guest.” The sheriff turned and stomped back through the passageway to his warm hall.

Crispin followed slowly and lingered in the doorway, studying the floorboards at his feet.

Back in his tower chamber, Wynchecombe sat in his chair and brooded. He stared at the food getting cold.

“Did you discover who the dead man was?” asked Crispin.

“No. We found no clue to his identity.”

Crispin pushed away from the wall and reached into his coat. “Perhaps this may help.” He held the pouch forward and pulled out the gold chain with the bejeweled cross.

Wynchecombe sat up and snatched the cross. He turned it over in his hand and ran a thick finger over the inscription. “Where did you get this?”

“Tucker may be no murderer, but he is an accomplished cutpurse. He took my money pouch before stealing the dead man’s. I gave chase and captured the boy along with his spoils.”