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 return 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.