Cup of Blood: A Medieval Noir: A Crispin Guest Medieval Noir Prequel Page 10

  “Father Timothy, then. Tell me. What do you know of religious relics?”

  “Well, let me see,” he said, poking the fire with an iron rod. His face both gilded and darkened with the jumping flames. “I have seen many.”

  “But how many of them do you believe in?”

  “Oh, I see.” Timothy nodded and smiled when he set the poker aside. “Yes, there are some for which I have my doubts. Which ones trouble you?”

  “Only one. The Holy Grail.”

  “The Holy Grail? Who has filled your head with such privy waste?”

  Crispin perched on the edge of his stool. “I take it by your reaction that you do not believe in its existence.”

  Father Timothy pressed his lips together and stared into the fire. “I did not say that. I merely have my doubts of anyone who claims to possess such a rare object.”

  “But if someone did? What would be its worth?”

  “You jest. It would be priceless. Kingdoms could be traded for it.”

  “Then it seems the safer course is to have such a thing under lock and key, guarded day and night.”

  Timothy touched his lips with ink-stained fingers. “Not necessarily. I would choose to keep it a moving target, if you will. Keep it guarded, to be sure, but never in the same place.”

  “And create a band of men for the sole purpose of its protection?”

  The priest nodded with a smile. “Yes. Legend has it that the Knights of the Temple had that duty.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “But if such a thing were true, then it would already be lost, would it not? The Templars were a ruthless order of shrewd warriors who were not above treachery to further their agenda. They were rightly destroyed.”

  “’Rightly destroyed’, Father? Strong words from a cleric…about fellow beadsmen.”

  “Beadsmen,” he sneered. “Greed and the gluttony of power overtook them. I shed no tears for the passing of the Templars.”

  Crispin drew his lip between forefinger and thumb. His words muffled under his hand. “In France they were betrayed by their king and put to the torch.”

  “Yes, but in England they were spared and became cloistered monks, not warrior monks. So it is said.”

  He eyed the young priest’s face, smooth and unlined, his dark hair likewise unmarred by white or gray. Still, his manner and words seemed far beyond his age. “You do not believe it.”

  “No,” said the priest. “There are many secrets about the Templars I fear we will never know. Secrets harbor evil. In God there are no secrets, only light.”

  “‘The secret things belong unto the Lord our God,’” Crispin quoted.

  The priest smiled. “Just so.”

  Crispin edged forward and bathed himself in the warmth of the rectory hearth. “Then you do not believe the Templars’ place in the tale of the Holy Grail?”

  “No, I do not. They are said to be the cupbearers, but I fear their treachery. I fear they would use it to ill ends.”

  “Why?”

  “Because domination was their goal and nothing has changed that. If they were to use the power of the grail to that end, what could stop them?”

  Crispin’s frown grew deeper. “Then what of the pope of Avignon? He, too, must be a danger to all that is good and Christian in the world.”

  The priest cocked his head. A smile raised one corner of his mouth. “Your mind worries over many things. It spins from one thing to the other like a whirlwind.” He rubbed his hands close to the fire. “Very well. To answer your question, the anti-pope does pose a danger to the Church. Anything that may force good men to split their conscience is not good for the soul.”

  “Does he not pose a greater danger than the Templars? If they exist.”

  The priest’s expression changed while he concentrated. The hearth light made his face appear as young as Jack Tucker’s. “Difficult to say. The anti-pope has many followers on the continent, but the Templars had compatriots in all lands known to civilized man. And they worked in secret. Who can say who the bigger threat would be?”

  Crispin muttered under his breath.

  “But you must tell me, my son. What is it that you know of the Holy Grail?”

  He stared at the priest. “What is the grail’s power? Do you know?”

  “Other than it touched the lips of Christ and held His precious blood both in the guise of wine and in the blood on the cross? Is that not power enough?”

  “The power of God,” Crispin muttered. “But how can one wield this power to do ill in the world?”

  Timothy twirled the ring on his finger in a thoughtful gesture. He stopped when he noticed Crispin stare at it. “It is said to be a cup of healing. Whoever drinks from it shall not die.”

  “Is that all? Healing?”

  “No, not all. The power is said to be much more than that. More terrible than can be imagined. Man is not prepared to wield such power.”

  Crispin shivered though he sat close to the fire. He glanced once more at the ring before looking away. “Then, are you saying that the Templars may be no better to guard the grail than, perhaps, the anti-pope?”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “Then its safety may be better served by someone like you.”

  “Me?” Timothy laughed and shook his head. “I should be a poor guardian. I would neglect my parish for the sole purpose of keeping watch of the precious relic.” The humor momentarily washed from his face and a wistful flicker curved his lips. “Who would not wish to…to touch such an object? To even adore it.”

  Crispin stared at the light playing against his boots for a long time. At last he rose. “I thank you, Father Timothy for our conversation.”

  “I fear I have told you nothing useful.”

  “On the contrary. Every bit of it was useful. It is just that I am no more enlightened now than I was before.”

  The young cleric smiled sadly. “If someone has told you a tale I beg you, do not pursue it. Leave it to others.”

  “What others would that be, Father?”

  “Yes. You may be right. Go in peace, then.” He blessed him with the sign of the cross.

  Once out in the rain of London’s streets again, Crispin turned to measure the little church up the daubed walls to its tower of wood. A brass cross perched at the very top.

  Who could resist the urge to be closer to God in some tangible sense? To own the cup, to touch it.

  If the cup were real then it could be coveted by anyone. But who should have it? The Templars? Their discourse seemed honest enough, yet this priest had a different tale to tell. Who am I to believe? If he should find it and return it to the Templars would he be doing the right thing or exactly the wrong thing?

  How to make this decision? He would have to confide in someone, someone who often made solemn decisions.

  He looked over his shoulder one last time at the little church disappearing behind the sinewy frames of houses and shops. He snorted. “The one time I could actually use the help of Jack Tucker and he is gone for good.”

  “Who is gone for good?”

  Crispin turned.

  Tucker stood behind him, ringing the hem of his threadbare tunic in dirty fingers. His eyes darted uncertainly until he finally rested his gaze on Crispin’s face.

  Crispin couldn’t repress his laugh. “You, my shadow. I thought I rid myself of you.”

  “No, Master,” said Jack firmly. “I followed you since you went into the chapel.”

  “I told you I did not need a servant.”

  The boy sniffed, ran a hand under his nose. “Thought you might change your mind.”

  Crispin glared. “Oh, did you, now? Just where is it you go when you disappear? You are more mysterious than a sprite.”

  “Oh, here and there.”

  “You aren’t cutting purses are you?”

  Jack frowned. “And what if I were? What it’s to you? You insist I am not in your employ.”

  “But I do follow the law. You do not want to ret
urn to Newgate and lose an ear, do you?”

  Tucker stepped back, alarm on his face. “But you wouldn’t do that, sir. Would you?”

  Crispin sighed and surveyed the street. “You have the better of me now, Master Tucker. I would feel distinctly uncomfortable doing so to you.” The boy visibly relaxed. “But it doesn’t mean I will allow you further to engage in such activity.”

  “No, sir.” He smiled.

  Crispin felt as if he had been baited, the line tossed in, the hook set. “You were most conveniently absent when unknown persons ransacked my lodgings.”

  Jack’s face blossomed into shock. “You don’t think I—”

  “I must admit. Only fleetingly. Where did you go?”

  “You seemed dead set against my being there so I lit out until you’d calmed down. Did I do wrong, sir?”

  “No, of course not. It was, after all, my one order you followed.” He ticked his head looking at Jack. “Why do you vex me, I wonder?”

  “You’re a great lord!” said Jack, not quite correctly interpreting Crispin’s lament. “I never been this close to a great lord like you, sir. And here you are, struck as low as a man can be. But you’re the same as ever you were. And you’re always thinking, thinking. It… contents me, sir.”

  “Thinking is hard work sometimes.” The boy rocked on his heels. His tunic was a disgrace. His face was dirty. He looked like any number of strays on London’s streets, begging, stealing. Of course that was exactly what he was. It made Crispin wonder why he should care about the boy at all. But then his mind drew in all his most recent memories, of Templars and murdered men…and poisons.

  “Tell me, Jack, which apothecary did you go to for your cure?”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Crispin and Jack slipped into the apothecary’s doorway. Sour aromas issued from a pot hanging over a brazier. A board spanned two trestles and stood guard before a wall of shelves filled with glass jars and clay pots, all with wooden or ceramic lids. Crispin eyed some of them warily, thinking of sorcerers with their fanciful ingredients like frog’s toes and lizard tails. Nothing looked remotely like those things, though some dried leaves in a glass jar could easily be mistaken for something more alarming.

  “Now Jack,” he said quietly, “keep silent while I talk, eh? Pay no mind to what I say.”

  A curious Jack prodded a bag full of God-knows-what and then looked up at Crispin. Pale-faced, he nodded silently.

  “Good Master,” said the man, startling Crispin with his abrupt arrival. The tapestry covering the doorway to the back of the shop swayed and settled. “What is your pleasure?”

  The large man’s fleshy cheeks rested on a furred collar and his bright eyes studied Jack and Crispin under thin, black brows.

  Crispin removed a coin from his pouch and laid it on the board. With index and middle fingers, he slid it toward the apothecary. “I seek something unusual.”

  The man stared at the coin. “Something unusual for you, good Master? Of course. Tell me, then.”

  “I have a kinsman with whom I have a special arrangement. Of necessity I must break this arrangement. Can you think of a convenient way in which this can be done?”

  The man lifted his head with rounded eyes. “I do not understand your meaning, sir,” he whispered.

  Crispin leaned forward, hands resting on the board. “I think you understand my meaning well. I need something quick, something easy. What say you, Master Apothecary?” He hefted his coin pouch. The few coins within sounded like many. “I can pay your price.”

  “There is no price you can pay me, sir,” he answered breathlessly, “for surrendering my soul. I beg you. Leave my shop at once.”

  “You are opposed to this, then?”

  “Most assuredly. Now pray you, sir. Leave at once. I…I will say nothing of this to anyone…”

  Crispin laughed and scooped the coin off the counter. “I am heartily glad to hear it, Master Apothecary.”

  The man froze.

  “Come, come, good fellow. I only jest with you. Two nights ago you helped this boy here who accidentally poisoned himself. Do you recall it?” He took Jack’s shoulders and pulled him forward. Jack stumbled and looked up at the apothecary from under an unruly fringe.

  Warily, the man nodded toward Jack. “Of course. How fare you, lad?”

  “God please you, I am well and happy your art saved me.”

  “I did nothing. Had you swallowed such a dose there would be nothing I could do, save call in a priest. I suspect it was digitalis purpurea,” he said to Crispin, “based on the lad’s description. Even if the boy had taken only a few grains of such a dose he might have felt strange and ill, perhaps even swooned. But a lad in good health would quickly recover. The sheriff was most rude when he came to inquire about it.”

  “Naturally. Did he ask if you sold such a poison?”

  “Yes. It is not a poison when properly applied. It is for the heart, you see.” He tapped his chest. “It stimulates the heart’s humors. In an old man, it can revive those near death. But in high doses to a healthy individual, it makes the heart race to the point of bursting. I only sell it to physicians I know well. And I told the sheriff as much. I value my soul very highly indeed.”

  “And you keep it well.”

  Jack shook his head. “’Slud! That’s right nasty, isn’t it?” He looked from Crispin to the apothecary and back again. “You’d have to be a devil to use it on a man. I don’t like it at all.”

  Crispin rested his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Thank you, Jack. I surmised your opinion.”

  “What man would have cause to use—”

  “Tucker! You’re interrupting me.” He tightened his grip and maneuvered Jack aside. “But surely, Master Apothecary, there are others in your guild that are not so mindful of the afterlife.”

  The man nodded. “Perhaps. But I know of no one.”

  Crispin leaned closer and in a harsh undertone said, “I need to know who sold this poison and to whom he sold it. A man has already died. I do not know how many more are at risk.”

  The apothecary considered, forehead wrinkled. “The sheriff also asked me, but I assured him I could not say.”

  “Did he offer coin for your memory?” asked Crispin, thumbing the silver piece.

  The man pressed his lips tightly. “No, Master. It is just that…the sheriff. It is best to deal with him as little as possible.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “If I may be so bold as to ask: who are you, good sir, if not the sheriff’s man?”

  Jack edged forward, almost pushing Crispin aside. “This here is Crispin Guest. He’s the Tracker.”

  “You are Crispin Guest?” The apothecary chortled and wiped his big hands down his stained apron. “A very great pleasure to meet you.”

  Crispin bowed.

  “I’ve heard up and down this ward how you’ve helped men find stolen goods and saved an innocent man or two from the gallows. And here you are in my shop.” The apothecary chuckled before his expression sobered. He lowered his voice. “Are you on the trail of this murderer?”

  Crispin leaned in and with the same tone said, “Yes. It is my hope to find this villain before the sheriff does. As a matter of honor.”

  “Oh! To be sure. Well then. There is a shop owned by a man named Rupert of Kent on Fenchurch Street. Be careful of him, good Master. He is an evil man. I am certain this is where the poison came from.”

  “I shall be careful. And I thank you.” Crispin left the coin on the board and bowed before he departed.

  It wasn’t long until they reached Fenchurch Street. Rupert’s shop was not as clean as the other. Crispin told Jack to wait outside, but Jack protested. “I want to come in and watch you talk to this knave! That story will be worth a farthing’s worth of ale in any tavern, I’ll warrant.”

  “I did not bring you along to entertain you nor to fill you with drink. I am here for a purpose. Now wait outside.”

  Jack kicked at the dirt and threw
himself against the wall, digging his heel into the hard daub. His petulance almost made Crispin laugh but he didn’t want to encourage the boy. Instead, he schooled his features and laid his hand on his dagger when he entered, measuring the frail man at a writing desk. The apothecary looked up with tiny rodent eyes.

  “You are Rupert of Kent?”

  The man kept his seat. “Who wants to know?”

  “Who I am does not matter. What matters are your wares. I think you are a seller of death.”

  Crispin expected at least some look of astonishment but the man only smiled. He slid off his stool and postured against the heavy drapery that separated the shop from his private rooms. “Seller of death, am I? And who are you? An avenging angel? Bah! Off with you. I have work to do.”

  “You sold a most lethal poison. No man of conscience would do so.”

  “There is no blood on my hands. I only supply what is asked for. Whatever the use it is put to is strictly up to the buyer.”

  “‘Things that cause sin will inevitably occur, but woe to the person through whom they occur.’”

  The man’s smile faded. He made a dismissing gesture and turned away, but Crispin lunged and dragged him in, almost nose to nose. He flailed against the curtain until Crispin’s dagger pressed to his throat. “Who did you sell it to? I have a strong need to know. Almost as strong as the need to push this blade to the back of your throat.”

  The dagger tip dimpled the flesh so deeply it produced a pearl of blood. Rupert’s lips worked but no sound issued forth.

  Crispin pressed harder. “After all, it is not I that killed you, but this blade. There will be no blood on my hands. Is that not correct?”

  “I sell such all the time!”

  “Digitalis purpurea?”

  The man’s eyes widened. “I sold only a dram!” he squealed.

  “To whom?”

  “I do not know the name—”

  The apothecary screwed up his face, arching away from the pressure of the knife. But when Rupert stretched to reach behind, Crispin spied the dagger imbedded in his back. The apothecary gurgled and lurched forward, falling with his full weight into Crispin’s arms. Crispin pushed the man away and the apothecary crumpled to the floor.