He rubbed the back of his neck as night fell, realizing with some dejection that he had been at it all day with little to show for it.
Clouds covered the oncoming stars but a cresset burned nearby and cast irregular shadows along the empty road. The wood in the cresset’s iron cage crackled and snapped, flinging a bright ember into the air. For a moment, it illuminated a dark doorway. He saw a tall, slim shape of a man with a cloak and a sword.
Crispin studied the figure before the ember died and slipped the doorway back into thick shadow. He strained to see into the portico, but only velvety darkness engulfed the avenue and swallowed all but the faintest of details.
“It is well after compline, man.”
Crispin spun.
The Watch, a man in hauberk and conical helm behind him, gestured with the torch. “The curfew is in force,” he said.
“Yes,” said Crispin. “I forgot the time.”
The Watch studied him, stood stiffly, clutching the staff with its burning cage of coals dropping embers into the mud, and watched steadily as Crispin trudged away.
Crispin turned as he passed the doorway but the man had vanished. He blew a disappointed cloud of breath into the damp air and rested his hand on the butt of his dagger.
The anti-pope’s man? The thought made him consider France and Stephen. “Now what, pray, were you doing in France, Sir Stephen?” he muttered. “Was your business in Avignon, perhaps?”
Hurrying back to his lodgings, Crispin became aware of another figure ahead of him in the misty night. A woman. He hung back, not wishing to alarm her, since by her cloak she appeared to be a highborn lady. He thought of waiting for her to pass completely since she happened to be going in the same direction, but the air was damp and he longed for his own hearth. He followed her for some time until she stopped at a tavern door. Crispin fell back into the shadows and watched as the door opened, throwing light onto her face.
Vivienne! Why was she abroad at this hour?
He moved forward to ask just as the door closed behind her. He reached for the door but thought better of it. Instead, he crept to the shuttered window and peered through the slats. He saw her sit at a table opposite a tall, hooded man with his back to Crispin. He could not hear their words but she was speaking to him in a forceful manner. The man merely shook his head. She insisted, slamming her hand to the table but the man leaned back, his shoulders moving as if he were laughing. She sneered, grabbed his beaker of ale, and tossed it into his face. The man shot to his feet and grasped her wrist. The few men in the tavern turned to them, but they were rougher men and knew they could not interfere with those of higher rank.
Crispin had almost decided to go in when the man released her. She rubbed her wrist but instead of the indignant anger he expected of any woman in such a situation, Vivienne’s face softened. Her lips drew into a pout and an expression of coquetry washed over her features.
“God’s blood,” he whispered. “An accomplished wanton indeed.” He left the tavern’s window and trudged his way back to his lodgings.
He was strangely relieved to find Jack there, especially since the boy had gotten a warm fire glowing in the hearth.
“Are you still here?” he asked, removing his cloak and hood and hanging them on a peg by the door.
Jack jabbed the poker at the peat and then stood uneasily before it. He looked to Crispin as if he wanted to speak. At last, he took a breath and said, “I am no varlet, sir, as well you know. Maybe I’m not good for much. Maybe I’m only good for thieving. But I can fetch things for you and open doors and do your bidding. I’m a smart lad, I am.” He twisted his tunic in his fingers before realizing he was doing it and dropped the ragged cloth.
Crispin sat in the chair before the fire and studied the lad. Young, half-starved, dirty. Pale cheeks overrun with freckles and wild ginger hair atop his head. He looked more like a creature from the forest than a boy. Crispin leaned back. “Where do you come from, boy? Who is your master?”
“I have no master,” he said, chin raised defiantly. “Leastways, not no more. And I come from London.”
“What do you mean you no longer have a master?”
“He was me mother’s master. She served him down on Old Fish Street. And when she died he took me on…for a bit. But he didn’t want me. And I didn’t want him. So I left.”
There was a smudge on that obstinate nose, which only made him look more rebellious. Crispin’s gaze traversed his face and his earnest expression. His voice softened when he asked, “And when was that?”
“When me mother died?” He becrossed himself. “Four winters it is now.”
“And how old are you, boy?”
Jack licked his lips and stared up into the rafters. “I reckon…’bout eleven or so.”
Crispin let out a breath. The boy was orphaned and on his own at eight years old? How had he managed? How was it possible? He had learned the fine art of thieving, that was certain. Enough to keep himself alive, at any rate. Crispin well knew that men, under dire circumstances, could make themselves survive on will alone. He had done it. And Jack had, too, apparently.
He smiled, hoping it might ease the boy’s tight fists. “Well…you have been very helpful, Jack.” He rose. “Are you thirsty? I have wine.”
Jack jumped up. “Master, it is for me to serve you!”
Crispin waved him away and poured two bowls, offering one to the boy. Jack stared but did not reach for it.
“Take it, lad. Today, we are not master and servant. Lady Vivienne’s visit of last night put me in a congenial mood.” But his humor darkened upon thinking about the inn. “Although that mood is…fleeting.”
Jack muttered and took the bowl. He slurped the wine. “Isn’t she a married lady?”
Crispin raised the bowl and turned it, eyeing the color at rim height. He scowled at the sudden reminder of that which he conveniently put aside. “Yes. What of it?”
“It seems that a man ought not to worry over his property when it goes about town.”
“You have a strange morality for a thief.”
“It isn’t my morality I’m worried over.”
Crispin’s scowl deepened. “We will not discuss my personal business, Tucker. Nor my morality.”
Jack shrugged. “Very well. Beg pardon.”
Crispin sat in the chair and drank. “Lady Vivienne asked me to follow a man. It seems he possesses an object of great value that she says belongs to her. Yet she would not divulge the man’s name nor the object. I do not know why. But at any rate, I have been chasing wild geese, for she now says it was not this man that so interested her, but another who now has this mysterious object.”
Jack took a slurping gulp of wine and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “And what is the object?”
“She would not tell me.”
“By the saints!”
Crispin nodded and drew the dead man’s pouch from his coat. “I don’t know what to make of it all-these dissimilar cases-but Stephen St Albans is in the thick of all of them. This dead Templar had an object Stephen wanted as well as this Stancliff woman.” He showed Jack the embroidery and pulled out the pinky ring and the necklace with the cross, and showed him the words inscribed on the reverse.
“What does that mean, ‘Cup Bearer’?”
“It means he was the keeper of the Holy Grail.”
Jack’s jaw hung and he becrossed himself. “Christ Jesus! Can it be true?”
Crispin snaked the long chain back into the pouch and again tucked it inside his coat. “I see you have heard of the grail, at least. But whether it is the true grail, I am not certain. These Templars certainly believe it and they want it back.”
“It’s gone then? Stolen?”
“Yes.”
“Aren’t they the men what abducted you?” He gestured toward Crispin’s wounded chest.
Crispin gulped his wine and shook his head. He stared detachedly into the flames coming to life with more peat (and where had that come from?). He glanced at Jack. The fire warmed and foiled the shadows. But Crispin realized it wasn’t just the fire that gave the room its amiable quality.