Season of Blood Page 23

  They soon came to a door. Crispin pushed it open and they entered into the dim church.

  ‘How is it, Crispin,’ asked Kat, ‘that you have been granted this singular honor of free egress throughout the abbey?’

  ‘Years ago, I gained the trust of the former abbot, Nicholas de Litlyngton. He was my longtime friend. I have since befriended the current abbot, William de Colchester. He knows my needs – that I sometimes must be in the church and cloister for my investigating. And he has faith that I will not allow any harm to come to his monks or his church … or anything within it.’

  She pressed a hand to her throat. ‘Never fear, Crispin. I heard that warning as if it were shouted from the rooftops.’

  He said nothing more as he moved easily between the pillars, the many tombs like a village, and found his way to the tomb of King Henry III fixed between two columns.

  The golden effigy of the king sat high atop the tomb under a gabled canopy just over the royal head, with jewels set in his crown, crossed scepters in his hands and the lions of England at his feet. Purbeck marble made up the sides of the tomb, and below it in arched niches were shrines. One held a stepped cabinet of gold topped with a cross. Set within its grille was a crystal vase decorated with gems and gold. The vase inside held what was left of the Holy Blood.

  Jack read the French inscription aloud: ‘Here lies Henry, formerly King of England, Lord of Ireland and Duke of Aquitaine, son of King John, formerly King of England, to whom God grant mercy. Amen.’

  They all crossed themselves.

  Crispin gestured toward the three niches. ‘In this,’ he said quietly, pointing toward the left, ‘is a piece of the cross. And in this on the right is the Virgin’s girdle. And this in the center … is the Holy Blood of Westminster.’

  ‘Relics.’ Kat sighed. ‘There isn’t much to them, is there? I used to make and sell them all the time. But I hear tell that you don’t put much store in them.’

  ‘I don’t. Generally. But some … are special in their way. It is more for what they represent than for what they are, I suppose. At least, Abbot Nicholas used to tell me that.’

  ‘They don’t belong to us,’ said Jack. He stood beside Crispin, almost guarding the little golden shrine. Crispin was certain Jack imagined Kat would grab and make off with it the moment Crispin opened the grille. The boy might be right at that.

  Crispin looked over the grille and its small lock. ‘Ah, but Jack, you are wrong. The relics belong to all. God has gifted them to all of mankind.’

  ‘Then why do only them monasteries get their gold from it?’

  ‘Well, someone must house them.’

  Kat peered in, staring at the crystal vase.

  Crispin watched her. ‘Have you ever seen the Holy Blood of Hailes?’

  ‘Of course. Many a time. And it was strange, I suppose. That blood … rolling from side to side as it did. Gave me chills.’

  He exchanged a quick and surprised glance with Jack. ‘You saw the blood flow?’

  ‘Yes. What else would it be? No wonder the Blood of Hailes was more prized than this old stain. It might as well be paint. It might very well be.’

  Crispin reached and, with the aiglet of the lace at his shirt and the point of his dagger, he unlocked the grille.

  Kat smiled. ‘I see you are accomplished at larceny as well, Crispin.’

  Silently, he reached in …

  ‘What are you doing?’ she said, suddenly alarmed.

  Still he said nothing. He took the vase and moved it aside before reaching further into the shrine behind the vase and pulling out the beryl crystal of the Holy Blood of Hailes.

  ‘Blessed Virgin,’ she breathed.

  He tucked it under his arm, moved the vase to the center once more and closed the grille.

  ‘How did you know it was there?’ Her eyes were shining as she gazed at it. He was gratified that she did not reach for it. He handed it carefully to Jack, who slipped it into his scrip. His fingers tingled unpleasantly.

  ‘Because, as you said, they could not display it, nor could they destroy such a holy thing. Everyone would know from whence it came. The only course was to keep it from Hailes. To make Westminster the prime location for pilgrimages. And what better place to hide it than in Westminster’s Holy Blood shrine?’

  ‘I suppose that’s what Brother Rodney intended. But if not him then who killed Brother James?’

  Crispin locked the grille but kept his hand on it. He supposed he had not wanted to think too carefully about it because it had dawned on him some time ago that he knew of at least one other person who had the same philosophy as Brother Rodney. Yet he did not want it to be true, for then that man would be a murderer.

  ‘Jack, Kat, you must remain here for a while. Or perhaps … it’s best you go home. There is someone I must talk to.’

  ‘Master Crispin?’

  He let his eyes rest on Jack’s. ‘Guard the relic,’ was all he said. He hoped that his gaze had conveyed all he needed to say.

  Sluggishly, he moved within the cloister, his heart aching with the revelation suddenly upon him. This was the last thing he wanted to do, the last person he had wanted to accuse, and yet it made sense, if anything did. Except he wasn’t sure where to find him.

  The cloister was dead quiet. The wet stone smelled of mausoleums in a churchyard. The monks must all be at their beds, their prayers all done for the day until they rose at midnight to continue their Divine Office. They slept in their innocence and their ignorance of what was to come.

  Shadows stretched long across the flagged-stone walkway of the cloister. Each carrel was a black hole of gloom, not the sheltered study cell in which the monks read their scriptures in the holy light of day. Their arches facing the garth cast irregular shapes over his steps. All was still and silent.

  Until one shadow moved.

  The voice echoed over the lonely stones. ‘I suppose … you are looking for me.’

  Crispin could turn around. He could leave. The sheriffs would never figure this out as he had. He might be able to forget it with enough cups of wine.

  ‘I am.’ Crispin had known a while ago, or thought he had. But now his soul wrenched with the certainty. He was aware of his dagger and prayed he would not need it.

  The man sighed. Crispin could see his puff of breath in the cold. ‘I knew you would be. It would be impossible to hide from you.’

  ‘And yet you killed Brother James anyway.’

  A slight gasp. ‘I didn’t mean to. I struck him too hard. God forgive me.’

  ‘Why, Brother Eric? Why did you do it at all?’

  Eric stepped onto the walkway. The moonlight touched the edges of his silhouette and softened it with silver. Tears gleamed on his face.

  ‘Perhaps it is difficult for someone like you to understand. You are such a worldly man, Crispin, full of worldly thoughts. But this is my world.’ He raised his hand to the cloister, the spired arches of the church, the dim walkway. ‘I am limited by these walls, you see. And they have come to mean everything to me. They are the sunrise of my day, the sunset of my night. The very stones are permeated with my all my prayers, my heart, my hope … my eternity. Can you understand that?’

  Crispin bit his lip and nodded. He tried to look away but Eric’s ruined face compelled him. There was more emotion on his face now than Crispin had ever seen in a decade of knowing the man.

  ‘So when I overheard Brother Rodney speaking to the woman,’ Eric went on, ‘I knew he had plotted with her to steal the Hailes relic. At first I was appalled. I even moved toward the abbot’s lodgings to tell him, to report it. But suddenly I stopped. And then … I began to consider. Few come to Westminster to venerate our relics. Few pilgrims come to this greatest of churches. We have the tombs of the world’s most feared monarchs under our roof. And still they don’t come.’

  ‘How can one force what is in the heart, brother?’

  ‘Force? Perhaps not. Redirect their course, maybe.’

  ‘I don’t und
erstand. Westminster is still Westminster. As you say, monarchs are buried here. They are crowned here. What more fame does it need?’

  ‘Pilgrims, Crispin. Those seeking solace. Those who wish to touch the hand of God. This is a temple of our Lord. We need the faithful to sustain the walls.’

  ‘Oh, Eric. What have you done?’

  The monk blinked away his tears, swathed his face with his sleeve. ‘Yes. I know. I never meant to kill. It was an accident.’

  Crispin stilled. He watched the emotion ripple over Eric’s face.

  ‘Maybe you don’t believe me.’

  ‘I have no choice but to believe you, for I have known you too long not to.’

  A new pain seared across the monk’s face. ‘God have mercy,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve betrayed everything, haven’t I? I only meant to help the abbey but sin breeds sin.’ He touched his forehead with a trembling hand. ‘Where has my judgment gone? I used to be valued for my judgment. But of course, Abbot William has his own chaplains. I was Abbot Nicholas’…’ He looked down at his hands, rubbing one over the other. ‘I’m not sure what to do. Should I … should I take my own life, do you think? A life for a life, an eye for an eye? Would that be less scandalous? Or is it the coward’s way? Crispin, I tell you, I’d rather go with you to the sheriffs now than face Abbot William. It will break his heart.’

  Swallowing kept his own tears at bay. How long had he known this man, trusted him? His throat hurt, his stomach soured. ‘Very well. I will take you if that is your choice.’

  ‘You found the relic, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He chuckled. ‘I knew you would.’

  Crispin’s voice was gravel. ‘Will you come with me now?’

  Eric glanced around the cloister, eyes looking one last time at the stone walls, the columns, the carrels. ‘Yes. I will come with you.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Hours later in the dead of night, Crispin returned to his lodgings and slumped into a chair. Jack and Kat had left Westminster just as long ago and had been waiting for him.

  Jack silently moved about the hall, stoking the fire and placing warmed wine in front of Crispin. Crispin took up the goblet, put it to his lips and drank gratefully of the spices and warmth.

  Kat gazed at him kindly. She seemed soft and vulnerable in the golden light. ‘It was a friend, wasn’t it?’

  Crispin nodded. When he lowered his goblet, Jack was there, filling it again. ‘That was the most miserable thing I have ever had to do.’

  Jack stood beside him, cradling the jug to his chest. ‘Wh-who was it, sir?’

  Closing his eyes, Crispin said, ‘Brother Eric.’

  ‘No!’

  Crispin drank down the wine again. He stared into the fire till his eyes blurred. ‘He had not meant to kill …’

  ‘He went with you willingly to the sheriffs?’

  Crispin nodded.

  ‘God have mercy.’ He crossed himself.

  ‘And now there is only one final thing to finish.’ Crispin turned weary, bloodshot eyes toward Kat. ‘You killed Brother Edwin, did you not?’

  Kat gazed at him, breathing deeply, nostrils flaring. Out of the corner of his eye, Crispin saw Jack stare from one to the other.

  Finally, Kat settled back in her chair. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘It is the only logical answer. Simon didn’t do it. Fulk didn’t do it. Who was left?’

  She slowly nodded. ‘But it isn’t what you think,’ she said softly.

  He silenced the angry screaming in his head. ‘What is it I think?’ he said carefully.

  ‘That I murdered him. I didn’t. I was defending myself. Yes, he was another whom I had bewitched. He was like a lap dog, wanting to help me, wanting to do for me. And yet he would not steal for me. And he, too, was jealous of Simon. He did not know about Brother Fulk. If he had … well, I don’t know. It seems that the lap dog was becoming rabid. He struck out at me. Threatened me. That if I did not leave Simon he would make sure I was with no one. I could no longer control him. And on that day, he had a dagger. He held my arm and would not let me go. I feared for my life, Crispin – that is the truth of it. And I pulled my own dagger and struck. When he fell with all that blood …’ She shook her head and swallowed. ‘I did not know what to do. Should I tell someone, the abbot? Ultimately, I was a coward and I fled. That is the truth. But I will not go to the sheriffs to tell them.’ She stood, clutching the skirts of her cote-hardie. ‘This will be the last you see of me. I will be gone and out of your life, whether you believe me or not. But for God’s sake … please. Believe me.’

  He kept his eyes on the fire. ‘Why should I? Why is it important that I do?’

  ‘Usually it isn’t. But you … I want you to believe me.’

  ‘I don’t know that I can.’

  ‘I understand. Still, I will not surrender myself. What possible chance would a woman like me have?’

  ‘You will have justice.’

  She laughed – a cold, brittle sound. ‘Do you truly believe that?’

  The goblet felt numb in his hand. He realized he was still wearing his cloak, but he was cold and did not wish to remove it. ‘I don’t know,’ he whispered.

  She walked to the door and took her cloak down from its peg. ‘I’m leaving. Leaving London.’

  ‘Will you return to Hailes?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. Most likely I will have to start again.’

  ‘With yet a different name?’

  ‘Who knows? You will let me leave?’

  ‘We had a bargain.’

  ‘And you are a man of your word.’

  ‘If I have not that, I have nothing.’

  She clutched her cloak to her and nodded. ‘Farewell, Master Tucker. Take care of your master.’

  ‘I will. God keep you, demoiselle.’

  ‘I think He has.’ She stood in front of Crispin until he looked up at her. ‘God keep you, Crispin.’

  He said nothing. He merely gazed at her, watched her walk back to the door and then pass through it.

  Crispin snapped awake. He was still sitting before the fire in the hall. Jack was sitting on the hearth, the iron in his hand, but he was fast asleep with his head resting on his chest.

  The fire had burned nearly down to ash. Crispin rose, shivered and stacked the peat within the fireplace, casting sticks upon it to catch the flames. Soon, they all burned.

  He gently nudged Jack’s boot. The lad snuffled awake, looking around with a squinted expression. ‘Oh, it’s morn.’

  ‘Yes.’ Crispin stretched. His muscles ached from sitting up all night, but he was grateful to his apprentice for letting him sleep. ‘Why don’t you fetch the water to heat?’

  ‘Aye, sir.’ Jack unfolded himself and grabbed a pot, taking it to the bucket and filling it. He hung the pot over the fire and rubbed his backside before the flames. ‘Should I get us a loaf from the baker, sir?’

  ‘And perhaps a sausage or two. We have the funds. The sheriffs paid me.’

  He suddenly stopped and slapped his forehead. ‘Oh, Lord! I forgot. The relic. I still have it in me scrip! At least …’ He ran to where it hung by the door and checked it, sighing in relief. ‘Thank God. I thought for a moment that Kat might have—’

  Crispin didn’t have to acknowledge Jack’s words. He didn’t have to acknowledge that he had suddenly thought the same thing.

  ‘We’ll deliver it later to St Mary Graces and let them deal with it.’

  ‘That’s a good idea, sir. Then I’ll … I’ll take your scrip instead.’

  He waved the boy off and settled before the fire. The door slammed closed and, seemingly out of nowhere, the cat emerged from the shadows. He hopped up on Crispin’s lap and settled in. Crispin stroked the beast absently. ‘Is this your way of offering comfort? Well, I thank you for it.’

  The cat purred and Crispin relaxed in the soft sound. But soon the water boiled in the pot and he brushed the cat off him to rise and go to the hearth. With
a wadded rag, he took the pot and lifted it off the fire, setting it on the stone hearth. He went about the mechanical task of getting his basin, filling it with the hot water and taking it up the stairs to his shaving things when a knock sounded on the door. He stopped halfway up the stairs and looked back. Gyb the cat stared at him enquiringly. ‘I don’t suppose you’d answer it.’

  The cat yowled and trotted up the stairs.

  ‘I didn’t think so.’ He turned and descended the stairs, leaving the basin on the table. He went to the door and opened it.

  Simon Wynchecombe stood on his threshold. He was groomed again and garbed in proper attire, nothing that was torn or muddy. He looked the man Crispin had known.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘That’s not a very polite greeting, Crispin.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’ He bowed. ‘My apologies.’

  ‘May I come in?’

  Crispin swept out of his way and let him enter before he closed the chill out.

  Simon stood in the hall, looking about. ‘You’ve made a decent home for yourself.’

  Crispin raised his brows. ‘Er … yes.’

  Simon blew an exasperated breath. ‘Dammit, Crispin. I’m here to thank you.’

  Pressing his hands to his back, Crispin faced the taller man. ‘I see.’

  ‘Yes, well. What I mean to say is … thank you. You saved my life. That is … your knave of an apprentice did. But you offered me sanctuary. For a fee, mind.’ He waggled a finger in his face. ‘And … I have yet to pay it.’ He thrust his hand into his scrip and pulled out a small pouch. He set it on the table. ‘I gave you some but there was more that needed paying. You can give some to that landlord of yours. That villain who attacked me might have ruined some of his parchments in his lodgings.’ He stood with his hands dangling uncomfortably. ‘When you are an alderman – or a lord, I suppose,’ he began softly, ‘men don’t want your friendship. They want favors. Not many men have been kind to me purely out of charity. I don’t know how to be truly grateful but I suppose that’s a start.’

  Crispin nodded, remembering. ‘I see your point. Life is different down here among the rushes rather than on the crest of the hill. Perhaps that is why our Lord admonished us to be with the humble and lowly. I have always found far more charity among those who could ill afford it than with any grand prince or duke.’