A voice, course like the crackle of ancient parchment, hissed in his ear. “You will be silent.”
He took in the blurred impression of a monk’s robe and cowl, and a frieze of white hair that ran the rim of his forehead.
“You will come with me and we will talk. Only talk.”
Not the voice in the torture room, Crispin was certain of it. He heard instead a slight purring accent. Welsh?
More curious than afraid, Crispin slowly rose, allowing the man to withdraw his blade from Crispin’s side. “I warn you against fleeing,” the little man said when they reached the door. “I have compeers all around.”
They walked several feet into a rain that fell hard and harsh, slanting across their path and spattering mud against the stone foundations. They entered an alley and traveled down its long, narrowing path before taking a left turn to what looked like a dead end. The old monk instructed Crispin to push a barrel aside revealing a jagged hole cut in the wattle and daub. Crispin peered into the dark hole but could not see what lay beyond it.
“I will go no further until you tell me who you are and what you want.”
Another monk popped his head out of the mysterious hole. He, too, brandished a blade and gestured for Crispin to enter.
Crispin turned to look over his shoulder. Two silhouettes in robes stood at the alley’s mouth, their unsheathed blades gleaming in the rainy twilight.
He weighed the circumstances and shrugged. “Very well. We will do it your way.”
He bent nearly double to fit into the tight opening and found himself creeping forward in a crouched position through a long wooden passage, much like a flour chute. He followed the man toward a light and felt relief to step out into a room where he could finally stand erect.
Candles in sconces flickered but did little to light the space. Dusty barrels, sacks, and kegs lined the walls. Not the same site of his imprisonment but it might as well have been.
The two monks greeted him, both their daggers drawn.
Crispin spread out his empty hands. “What? No sacks over the head? No bindings? No whip?”
The two exchanged inquiring glances.
“Play no more games with me. Isn’t this enough?” He tore open his coat and bandages, revealing the welts on his chest.
Their faces seemed to light with recognition and as one, they both sheathed their weapons.
“Forgive us, Sir Crispin,” said the older man. “You mistake us for others. That is the work of the henchmen of the false pope of Avignon.”
Crispin dropped his hands. His coat fell closed over his bare chest. “What? Then who the hell are you?”
Both men tossed back their hoods and opened their robes revealing hauberk and white surcote. When they opened their collars, Crispin felt no surprise to see the embroidered Templar cross on the underside of their surcotes.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“I am having a nightmare.”
“No, Sir Crispin. Indeed not. Please. Sit.”
“Do not call me ‘Sir Crispin’! I am a knight no more!”
“Your pardon,” said the younger one, his black hair and white tonsure in sharp contrast in the flickering light. “You still bear the unmistakable nobility of knighthood.”
“Sitting drunk in a tavern? You have an odd perception of knighthood. But then again, you two would.”
“You do not believe our identity?” asked the older.
“There are no more Templars. You must be mad!”
“Please, Sir Cr—Master Guest,” pleaded the older one. “Sit. Listen to what we have to say. If it is to your liking, you may stay. If not, then you are free to go. Is that not fair?”
“Brought here by the point of a dagger? Is that fair?”
“Not fair,” said the older one, “but necessary. Indulge us?”
Crispin frowned and looked back toward the dark passageway. His curiosity encroached on his good judgment. With a petulant thud, he sat on a keg and rested both balled fists on his knees. “Well then?”
The monks exchanged looks and the younger deferred to the older. The white-haired man began. “As you seem to have guessed, we are Knights Templar, Master Guest. Though it was true that His Holiness Pope Clement V seemingly abolished the order over seventy years ago—allowing the savage execution of many of our French ancestors—some did survive…under the secrecy and protection of Rome.”
Crispin rolled his eyes and rose, but the younger one pleaded, urging him back down. With a dramatic sigh, Crispin complied, cocking his head impatiently.
“Yes. Pope Clement V’s own emissaries were sent to Chinon castle to interview the Grand Master Jacques de Molay.” He frowned when he added, “He and his Templar brothers were accused of sodomy and blasphemy. We do not take well these accusations.”
Crispin twisted his lips. “Very well. You do not like being called sodomites. I concede it. Go on.”
“The pope’s emissaries heard as much from the knights themselves,” the older one went on. “They did not believe the lies against the Templars. After the emissaries sent word to Rome, the pope was convinced of their innocence and immediately absolved and pardoned them.”
“That is not how history tells the story.”
“No, Master Guest. These erroneous and sensational rumors about the Templars aroused such passions that the pope did not make this absolution public, fearing a schism.” He shrugged. “A schism happened anyway. At any rate, King Philip had his own agenda. Although it was in his power to do so, the French king did not pardon the knights. He coveted their wealth and put them to the torch instead, some 2,000 of them, before the pope could make his decree public. By then, of course, it was too late.”
“This is all only by your word.”
“I assure you, Master Guest, that it is the truth. Succeeding popes knew of the decree and of the small band of remaining Templars. You see, they understood the necessity of our order.”
“And what is that necessity? It was said the Templars only wanted to seize power, and possessed an enormous cache of hidden wealth to back it up.”
The older man gazed at his boots and took a deep breath. “They never sought the kind of power attributed to them, Master Guest, though it is true that some of our ranks…” He darted a glance at the younger man, who nodded his agreement. “Well, some failed to live up to our high ideals. And as for wealth.” The old knight raised his arms and dropped them to his sides. “If any there was, there is little left now.”
He walked slowly around Crispin, weighing his words. “Master Guest, we are now a humble order, our former status a thing of the past. As knights and as monks, we follow the proscribed path given to us from ancient days. We have our duties.”
“To protect the way for travelers in the Holy Land.”
“Yes. Once. But that is a thing of the past.”
“Then what? What are you dancing around? I’m losing my patience.”
The old monk stepped uncomfortably close to Crispin. “We have been given a singular honor in all the world, Master Crispin. We alone have been entrusted to safeguard an object of immeasurable value.”
“Gold? Then there is a cache.”
“Not gold. A relic.”
“Relic?” Crispin’s collar suddenly felt too tight. He licked his lips. “What relic?”
“Surely you have heard the tales.”
A weak sensation tingled in his bones. He didn’t like the look in the old man’s eyes. “I’ve heard the tales. Everyone has. But…it can’t be true.”
“No?” The old man shrugged and turned away. “Then you are free to go.”
Crispin eased his fists along his thighs. He laughed nervously. “You aren’t going to say…you aren’t going to tell me that…”
“That we are the keepers of the most Holy Grail? The cup of Christ?”
Crispin snapped to his feet. “I am at my wits end! There are no Templars, there is no Holy Grail, and you are fools or madmen…or both! I listened to your tale and I have been wholly am
used. Now I wish to go.”
“You must believe us,” said the younger man, his hands pressed together prayerfully. “The good of the world depends on it.”
“The good of the world?” Crispin grumbled. He marched toward the chute and rested his foot on its edge. “You are mad,” he said over his shoulder. “The murdered man, then? One of your madmen?”
The old monk smiled gravely. “Yes.”
“He’s dead. Nothing more can be done for him.” He measured the old man. “Maybe he’s the lucky one.”
“Yes. Perhaps. But Master Guest. There is a reason we brought you here.”
“And had me followed?”
The old monk looked at the younger monk. “We have not followed you, Master Guest.”
“Robed like the ones you are wearing. And you claim you have not shadowed me?”
The old monk bowed. “You have my solemn oath.”
“And this?” Crispin took the folded parchment from his pouch and shook it open revealing the red cross.
The old monk smiled. “Yes, Master, that was us. We left it thinking you might know what it meant. That we would soon speak with you.”
Crispin snorted and crumpled the parchment, tossing it to the floor. “You didn’t have to be so melodramatic.”
The monk stepped toward him but stopped when Crispin laid his hand on his dagger. “The reason we brought you here, Master Guest,” he said, “is the grail. The cup Christ drank from at the Last Supper—was stolen from our dead companion.”
Crispin blinked. An uncomfortable feeling started in his gut and traveled up his body to his chest. “He was the ‘Cup Bearer’?”
“Yes.”
Crispin turned and faced them. He listened to his own breathing and watched it cloud in the frigid storeroom, felt his heart pound. “Suppose…what you say is true—I am not saying I believe it. But if so, why? How did such an object get to England?”
“If you will sit, I will explain,” said the older man.
Crispin blew out another long cloud of air before he finally returned to the wooden keg and sat.
“My name is Edwin,” said the older knight.
“And mine Parsifal,” said the younger.
Crispin guffawed. “You jest.”
“No. It is my christened name. A very interesting coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”
Crispin ran his hand over his beard-stubbled face but said nothing.
“And so,” Edwin began. “It happened that our Lord drank from this cup at the Passover and was betrayed that very night. Joseph of Aramathea obtained the cup, and while our Lord suffered on the cross for our transgressions, he lifted the cup and saved some of our Lord’s precious blood within it. He kept the cup safe for many years and was eventually called by the Apostle Philip to evangelize the Britons, our ancestors.
“Joseph sailed along England’s rocky shores and finally came to the place known as Glastonbury Tor. He thrust his staff into the stony hillside and it miraculously stuck and took root. He took this as a sign that his journey had ended. The Angel Gabriel directed him to build a church on the spot and Christ Himself appeared in a vision declaring that the humble church of wattle and daub be dedicated to His mother.
“Joseph, feeling his life nearing its end, buried the grail at the base of the church.”
Crispin put up his hand to interrupt. “And why have we heard nothing of this miraculous church?”
“Alas. It burned to the ground in 1184.”
Crispin leaned back and folded his arms. “Alas.”
Edwin smiled. “Even so, legend followed myth, and myth flowed into history, blending with the old tale of King Arthur and his Camelot knights—including one Sir Parsifal charged with the quest to find the grail.” He smiled at Parsifal who grinned and blushed in reply. “But knights were chosen to guard the cup,” he continued, “yet they did not hale from misty Camelot. They were called from the Holy Land by the hand of God, and were chosen by that same angel who directed Joseph of Aramathea to guard the grail and keep it free of the plunderous hands of man.
“We, the few Templars left, are warrior monks. We live by vows of poverty and chastity. Our single purpose on this earth is to guard the grail. One man is chosen each year to be the single bearer of the holy relic. And as you know, he was foully murdered.”
“Then the cup is gone?”
“Yes. We have failed in our mission.” Edwin’s bravado cracked, and he slumped, shaking his head in disbelief. “We failed. We believe it may be in the hands of the anti-pope’s men. Should it fall to the false pope—the one who is not the true successor of Peter—we fear for the fate of Christendom.”
Crispin’s heart drummed in his ears. Surely he could not believe such a wild tale, but their earnest faces and patrician manner tinted their narrative with credence. After all, how could so many of these noble men be under the same strange delusion?
“So who killed your knight?”
“We do not know. Perhaps the anti-pope’s men.”
“Possibly. But they did not obtain the grail, for the men who captured and tortured me still do not know where it is.”
Parsifal glanced at Edwin. “Then there is no time to waste. We must search for it. Crispin, will you help us? You are the celebrated Tracker. Yes. We know who you are. Will you help us find the greatest of lost articles?”
“I work for a fee,” he said.
“Of course. Name your price.”
“Sixpence a day, plus expenses.”
“Done,” they said.
Crispin immediately regretted agreeing. He’d agreed to too many dances with the Devil this week. “There must be some great power in this relic. What is it?”
“Its power,” said Edwin, “is…indescribable.”
Crispin sneered a smile. “Try.”
Edwin turned to Parsifal. “It has the power to change men,” he said. Parsifal nodded. “To redirect their course. To transform.”
“Transform? What do you mean? This is all very vague, gentlemen…”
“The power of God, sir,” said Edwin. “The power of God.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Crispin walked the muddy streets of London, little minding the driving rain that raised the foul odors of the gutter. Enclosed by his hood, Crispin mulled his fractured thoughts. “The power of God,” he muttered. In his head he called it absurd. But it had sent a chill down his spine he could not explain. Even now, the pit of his belly tightened like a hard core. They explained how possession of the cup could change the tide of events, win battles, confuse one’s enemies. It still seemed very vague to Crispin but he felt a sense of impending disaster when the Templars described the possibilities.
He also knew the Templars had stolen back the body of their comrade. Crispin hadn’t asked but hadn’t needed to. Why had they? Probably to keep their secret. No body, no evidence. No more talk of a secret society.
He tightened the hood about his face and inhaled the tang of wet leather. Who killed the man, then? The anti-pope’s men were first on his list. It was obvious that they believed in these wild tales. Enough to torture innocent men for it. Could murder be far behind?
But how did Stephen fit in? Crispin shook his head, trying to picture Stephen with the Templar. Did he steal the grail for himself hoping to sell it? That did not seem like the character of the man he knew all those years ago. He had to admit that Stephen was an honorable man, even if that honor was sometimes misplaced.
But Crispin also knew that time could change anyone, and circumstances could force good men to perform ill deeds.
Still. These henchmen of the anti-pope. These men seemed capable of killing the Templar. But if so, why then do they not possess the grail? Who had it? The woman?
“The grail,” he whispered. Could such a thing truly exist? During his travels throughout the Christian world, Crispin saw many such relics boldly displayed, often for a fee. He did not believe easily. He knew the tricks of the craft. The blood of martyrs that miraculously changed
from dried powder to liquid. Made of red ochre powder, the “blood” was encased in a monstrance with paraffin and oil. Once handled and warmed, the paraffin and oil would loosen and melt, mix with the dry powder, and look to all the world like liquid blood. Hen’s bones served for saint’s remains; ordinary oak splinters for a piece of the cross; dried pig’s skin for a saint’s flesh.
How could something as precious and as holy as the cup of the blood of Christ be hidden for so long?
Crispin stopped and looked upward. He found himself staring at the oaken doors of a humble church. The moment seemed to call to him and he pushed at the yielding door and slowly trudged inside.
The nave was only a few yards long. A crucifix hung above the altar rails behind a rood screen in the candlelit darkness. Seeing no one about, Crispin walked up to the altar rail, becrossed himself, and knelt.
He looked up at the shadowed crucifix. “You know I do not come to You as often as I should. But today…today, well. You heard them. Do I believe it? How do I approach such a task? Dare I even try?”
He heard a shuffled step. Instinctively he grabbed his dagger and spun.
The white-faced young priest raised his palms in defense.
Crispin sheathed the blade and shrugged. “I beg your pardon, Father. It is an old habit.”
The priest’s weak smile reassured. He lowered his hands. “Such habits! Should they not be curtailed in the house of God?”
“A reflex. But…” He scanned the small chapel and detected no one else amongst the shadowy arches and apse. “If you have the time, I should like to talk to you.”
“Do you wish to be shriven?”
“Me? No, Father. No. Not today. It is information I seek.”
The priest shrugged and gestured toward the rectory door. “There is a warm fire there,” he said walking toward it. “Come. We will be more comfortable.”
Crispin followed the young cleric through a low doorway into a small, warm room. Vestments with gold embroidery lay folded in an open coffer.
“Father—”
“Father Timothy,” the priest interjected and settled opposite him beside the hearth.
Cup of Blood: A Medieval Noir: A Crispin Guest Medieval Noir Prequel Page 9
