Crispin’s eyes followed her until she disappeared out the door into the gray sunshine.
Rosamunde! He longed to scream it aloud, but no breath came; only a rushing sound in his ears and the approach of blessed death. Slowly-it seemed so slowly-he laid his face on the table. He made no more choking noises. He simply felt his cheek hit the surface and closed his eyes.
Oh God! Oh blessed Jesu! How could she? How could she kill me after all we were to one another?
There seemed little left to think about but this last betrayal. He wondered why it hurt so much. Why was it taking so long to die?
Through his closed eyelids, a bright light pierced the darkness, and he stared through the vibrant red. A moment passed before he realized the color was his own blood through his lids, but he wondered at the light, and with difficulty, pried open his eyes. The light shone starkly white and filled his view. Strangely, though he expected it to, the light did not hurt or make him squint. He simply looked into it and it seemed to go on a long way, a tunnel of pure light. He speculated about this strange apparition for some time. Shadowy figures moved past him but he did not fear them. He knew, without knowing why he knew, that they were friendly, even loving. He felt it a comforting place and he longed to move forward and join the figures that came into sharper focus. He felt glad to be away from whatever disturbed him, and he vaguely wondered why his memory of those events seemed so foggy.
A figure approached out of the bright light, coming closer. Crispin spoke to him, though he was slightly surprised that he did not need to open his mouth.
What is this place?
The figure looked at him. Crispin could not see his face clearly, but he felt the expression was one of paternal amusement. Don’t you know?
Crispin didn’t answer. The situation had all the earmarks of a dream. Yet it also felt distinctly unlike any dream he had ever had. No. Where am I?
Not yet, Crispin Guest. Not yet. There is more for you to do. Much more.
Before he could question the figure again, before he had time to contemplate the sensations rippling about him, the vision receded. Something wrenched him away from the light and the warm sensation of love.
He awoke and snapped upright with a long gasp. His body spasmed and ached, but even that subsided and he slowly warmed from the nearby hearth. He put his hand to his throat. The passageway opened and he felt only a vague sense of grogginess.
He froze with an awful realization. Was he a ghost? Doomed to haunt this place?
He turned to the man behind him and poked him in the shoulder. His finger did not pass through and the man turned to him with a stern but quizzical look. “What the hell do you want?” he growled at Crispin. But upon receiving no reply, he cursed, and turned back to his ale.
I am not a ghost. He ran his hand over his corporeal chest, trying to believe it. She poisoned him, didn’t she? Where was the death he expected?
He lifted his head and darted his glance about the room. No one seemed to take notice of him. He was just another patron in the Boar’s Tusk, one of many men who spent their evenings forgetting their troubles in the bottom of a wine bowl.
Wine bowl.
Crispin looked down. It sat where he left it, almost directly before him. Only dregs remained of the red wine now, and, he assumed, the deadly poison. A simple wooden bowl, much like the two he owned at home. But as he looked around the room, he saw only clay bowls and horn cups. None but this one was made of wood.
He gingerly grasped its edges with his fingertips and turned it. It was worn, with the faintest of etched designs running along its outer rim, a simple design of static waves, lines zigzagging around the circumference creating a border one inch wide. The bowl seemed more worn than the others. Quite old. Wood, smooth to the touch and well-crafted, made by a very skilled carpenter.
Hands now trembling, Crispin lifted it up and looked closely at it, turning it tenderly in the dim light. Such a simple thing. No one would take note of it. And no one had. Countless men drank from it, this humble cup, this wooden bowl.
“The Holy Grail,” he whispered, unable to fathom the immensity. “It’s impossible.” He dumped the last of the poisoned wine on the table and ran his hand reverently over its outer surface.
Still, his analytical mind reasoned. How did it get here?
He recreated the incident in his mind. He saw Gaston D’Arcy sitting here in the tavern hatching his plots, and with a pang of an unnamed emotion, he saw Rosamunde enter and argue with D’Arcy. Somehow, without his seeing, she administered the deadly potion. He drank it, and she left him to choke to death just like she did to Crispin.
Crispin wiped the sweat from his brow. Unimaginable that she murdered two men and tried to add him to her list. Him!
His knuckle removed the last tear he would shed for Rosamunde, and he resettled his mind again to the puzzle. D’Arcy struggled to breathe just as Crispin had, and no doubt D’Arcy suspected poison. What then did he do?
He had the grail. The scrip. It held the grail. After all, he was the ‘Cup Bearer’. He did the only thing he could do to try to save his life; he tried to get the cup. And he succeeded. He brought it forth, but he was perhaps too ill to pour the wine into it and drink. He believed that it would heal him, but he could not manage to do it. It was on the table. There were several cups there, but it was the only one of wood and it was the only one empty. My God. It’s been here all along and no one knew it.
He stared at the cup and felt its solidity.
But what of me? Did the grail heal me?
He glanced toward an open shutter and noticed the darkness. He had lain unconscious a long time, for hours, allowing the poison to work itself out of his system. Isn’t that what the apothecary said? If he had only consumed a small portion of it, a grain or two, it would have caused a great deal of unpleasantness but he would survive. How much did Rosamunde have left in the vial? Not enough to kill, that much was certain. He couldn’t quite make himself believe that this cup healed him. But others believed it and believed in the other powers they said it possessed. So many men wanted it so badly.
Even if it were just the true cup of Christ, wouldn’t it be worth fighting for?
He examined the cup one last time before he slipped it under his cloak. Rising from the bench, he glanced anxiously about the room, fearing someone saw him and knew what he had. Hastily he left the Boar’s Tusk and hurried down the lane. He made it several yards before he slowed and suddenly stopped. Where should he go? To the sheriff? To his lodgings? He wiped his face with a clammy hand.
A horseman galloped down the lane and forced Crispin against a wall, spattering him with clods of mud. Crispin took no notice and simply leaned there, thinking, his hand pressed to the object beneath his cloak.
“I need guidance,” he whispered. And before he truly knew the direction he traveled, he made for the little chapel of Father Timothy.
The chapel lay in darkness but the altar glowed in a wash of candlelight. The cross’s gold beckoned, and Crispin threw himself forward, clutching the cup at his side. When he knelt, he felt a sense of gratitude and relief. Even if the grail had not healed him, Divine intervention had still saved his life. He had not forgotten the strange vision of the figure.
Behind him he heard steps approach, and he jumped to his feet. Father Timothy strode down the short nave and smiled upon recognizing Crispin. “Welcome again, my friend. It is good to see you.”
“Oh, Father, you do not know how good it is to see you. Can we talk in your rectory?”
“Of course.” The young priest led the way and soon Crispin sat on a stool by the humble hearth. He forced himself to drop his hand away from his cloak, but he satisfied himself with the feel of the cup against his thigh. Silently he gazed into the fire.