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.
“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.”