Serpent in the Thorns

by Jeri Westerson

  Grayce sat on a stool by the hearth, peeling turnips. The peels piled in her apron-covered lap like autumn leaves. She did not seem to be looking at her work, but distantly; looking farther than any sane person could, Crispin reckoned. Ned almost tripped over her as he worked, giving her the evil eye.

  Livith stood at the worktable that took up the bulk of the floor. She bent over it, kneading a large wad of dough, her sleeves rolled up past her elbows. Flour dusted her breasts. He thought about brushing them off for her, but instead he stood quietly watching, sipping wine from his bowl.

  At last she looked up and smiled, a little triumphantly, he thought. “Now what would you be wanting, Master Crispin, that you have to come all this way to the kitchens to get it?”

  He sauntered forward two steps, reaching the other end of the table. The woman servant elbowed Ned in the ribs.

  “Something I can’t get out there in the tavern’s hall.”

  She slapped the dough one last time and planted flour-covered knuckles at her hip. Flour smudged her nose. A wisp of hair dangled from her kerchief and swung before her eyes but it didn’t make her blink. Crispin suspected that not much made her blink. “And what would that be?”

  He smiled at her audacity. Her angular face was more appealing than on first glance.

  “I have a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

  “Questions?” She leaned over and rested her hands on the table, giving Crispin a clear view. “I’d ’a thought you already knew all you needed to know.”

  He made a point to examine her obvious features before raising his gaze to her’s. “You can put those away. I’m not interested.”

  She straightened abruptly and looked as if she would spit.

  Crispin smiled. “I’d like to know where you were during the shooting.”

  “I was in me place at the inn,” she said stiffly.

  “On your back?”

  She picked up a knife lying on the table. Crispin leaned back to dodge it as it hurled past him out the door.

  Grayce popped up, knocking over her stool. “It’s the Tracker, Livith. Look, it’s him.”

  “Aye, Grayce. I see him.” She narrowed her eyes. “I’m talking to him, ain’t I? You go back to your work.”

  “I’m done with the turnips.”

  “Then go stir the pot.”

  A wide smile broke out on Grayce’s face. “As you will, Livith. ’Day to you, Tracker.”

  Crispin gave her a nod and watched her set the stool back on its feet and lean over to stir the pot under Ned’s supervision. He wondered how good an idea it was letting her get close to so big a fire, but he supposed Livith knew her business better than he.

  Livith wiped her hands on her apron. “You’ve got a mouth on you, too, Tracker.” She said the last with oozing sarcasm.

  He watched her wipe her apron over her hands. “Why did Grayce admit to killing that man?”

  Ned looked up, his face an open question.

  Livith shrugged. “She’s a simpleton is why. Who knows why she says what she does?”

  “Has she always been . . . slow?”

  “Aye.” Livith glanced at her sister, dreamily stirring the big cauldron. Livith pulled at her apron one more time and let it drop. “She’s always been that way. Can teach her a few things and she remembers them, but other things she forgets the moment she’s done with it. It’s a curse, that.”

  “Your duties at the King’s Head—”

  “Don’t concern working on me back!”

  Crispin raised an unconvinced brow. “Of course. You’ve been working at the King’s Head—how long did you say?”

  “I didn’t.” Her hand at her hip formed the last word on it. Crispin didn’t press the matter. Livith seemed to soften. Her weight shifted over one hip. “Any news on that man and who killed him? Can we go back to the King’s Head yet?” she added sweetly.

  “No, to both. The sheriff is looking for you two.”

  Her calm manner fled. She crouched forward as if to leap like a spider. “You saw him? You didn’t tell him what Grayce said, did you?”

  “Of course not. But he knows I am the one who hid you two away.”

  “Then what are you doing here? Off with you!” She scrambled around the table and shoved him hard in the chest. It barely tilted him.

  Crispin chuckled. “The sheriff isn’t standing behind me, is he?”

  “Get out before he is!”

  Crispin smirked and allowed her to turn him and push him toward the open doorway. “Out!” she cried and shoved.

  He found himself in the courtyard and chuckled again. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he suspected Livith kept the greater part of the truth from him. Whether it had to do with the murder or something else he was uncertain. Perhaps she is a thief and lured our courier to his doom—but no. If that were the case, who had the bow? And besides, Livith did not appear to be in the room at the time of the murder and nothing was stolen. And Grayce was not capable of such deception . . . He had nothing. But murder was murder and someone had to hang for it.

  His mind lit on the object that waited for him at his lodgings. “The Crown,” he muttered. They didn’t get the Crown, if that’s what they were after. The courier was murdered and Grayce came to get Crispin. That took half an hour at the most. Another delay while Crispin tried to wrestle the information from Grayce and to return to the King’s Head—another half hour and more. That allowed at least an hour for the killer to take what he wished, yet when Crispin examined the dead man, he still possessed his purse, his scrip, and the Crown.

  The Crown. He tapped his finger on his lips. He’d better hide it before Wynchecombe decided to pay him a visit.

  He entered the Boar’s Tusk once more, waved to a frowning Gilbert, and left by the front door. Gutter Lane teemed with people. Not only were men still returning from the butts, but the corn had been newly threshed in the outlying fields and men with scythes or bundles of straw were lumbering down the narrow corridor, laughing and jesting with one another in easy camaraderie. The harvest was nearly done. Crispin had seen its plenty in the stalls of fruit sellers and those merchants selling herbs and vegetables. Soon the plenty would give way to the sparseness of winter and there would be less on his table than there was now.

  His lodgings on the Shambles was only a short walk from the Boar’s Tusk. He side stepped a man dragging his goat down the lane, avoiding the beast as the goat whipped its head, pulling on the lead wrapped tight around its horns. But he slowed when he noticed Martin Kemp nervously pacing outside the shop—with Alice beside him.

  “God’s blood.” Crispin moved forward slowly, fingering Martin Kemp’s bow and arrows. His apology to Alice Kemp had to be done and in quick order. It wouldn’t do to have a raging Alice hovering near his door every moment. He tugged at his wrinkled coat and stiffly approached them. But before he could open his mouth, Alice swooped upon him like a hawk.

  “How dare you speak to Matilda in that manner! And you threatened her! You should be locked up, Crispin Guest! You are not safe to be hard by.”

  “Mistress Kemp, I offer my sincerest apologies for my lapse in behavior. I was out of sorts and did not know my right mind.”

  “Out of sorts! So much transpires in that room. I tell you, husband, it is not safe.”

  “Now dear. He is apologizing.”

  “Never pays the rent on time—and too little of it there is, I dare say. Strange people coming and going at all hours. And then he threatens the very fruit of your loins.”

  “He apologized to me, dear. Quite humbly.”

  “Humble? Him? He hasn’t a humble bone in his body.”

  Crispin rocked on his heels. Impatient to get away, he knew he could not leave until Alice was mollified.

  “Ma-til-da!” she screeched.

  Crispin held his breath. Out of the shadows, the wide specter of Matilda Kemp blocked the light. She posed shyly behind her mother, peered around her, and glared venomously at Crispin.


  “You will apologize to my daughter. And further, we will require a service of you to make up for your threats to her.”

  “A service?” He kept his voice steady, though the effort was supreme.

  “Yes. I will decide at a later date what that shall be.”

  Crispin’s glance darted from one woman to the other. Martin Kemp looked worried, but the two women were nothing if not triumphant.

  Crispin wished he could use the bow. He swallowed the sour taste in his mouth and inclined his head to Matilda. “Damosel, forgive me for yesterday’s outburst. I do apologize for my rudeness and for any distress I might have caused you.”

  Matilda glanced sideways at her mother and finally curtseyed in return. “I do accept your apology, Master Crispin.”

  Crispin frowned. I hope they don’t expect me to kiss her hand. I’ve already kissed her arse.

  The Kemps seemed satisfied. Martin took the weapon and arrows from Crispin and ushered his wife and daughter away. He looked back at Crispin apologetically.

  What “service” could Alice want? Perhaps he should offer to look over Martin’s books again before Alice could think of something else. Crispin shuddered at the possibilities.

  He trotted up the stairs in his relief to get away, pushed opened the door, and felt an immediate prickling on the back of his neck.

  The Crown of Thorns sat on the bed out of its casket, and Jack was nowhere to be found.

  7

  CRISPIN CLOSED THE DOOR and walked toward the bed. He lightly touched the Crown and then went to the rear window. He looked out to the back courtyard, across the many roofs, but saw nothing but doves delicately stepping over the tiles. Slowly he closed the shutters and barred them. He looked at the Crown again. An anxious feeling crept over him.

  The door suddenly flung wide behind Crispin. He spun and Jack staggered into the shadowed opening.

  “Jack? Where’ve you been? Did you touch that?” Crispin pointed to the Crown and Jack stared with bulging eyes.

  “I fell out the window,” he said.

  Crispin grabbed Jack by the shoulders, hastily checking for fractured bones. “Are you drunk?”

  “I ain’t. I fell out the window. After tinkering with that!” His hand shot forward, accusing the Crown.

  He pushed Jack back to look at him. “But there isn’t a scratch on you.”

  “I ain’t lying, Master. I put it on me head. And the strangest thing. I felt like—” He looked up at the cobwebbed beams. “I felt like I could do anything. I took it off me head, I stood on yonder sill, and then I fell out. I don’t remember falling. I was just . . . on the ground. It’s bewitched, that’s what it is.”

  “Nonsense.” The word soured in Crispin’s mouth. He, too, remembered feeling an unnatural elation when he wore the Crown, an elation that almost made him pick a fight. Yes, he, too, could well see—in that state—he might have imagined he could fly out the window. He stared at the Crown. Just coincidence, surely. “Now Jack,” he began, soothing himself with his easy words, “you could have imagined it. With a little wine—”

  “I tell you true, Master Crispin. I ain’t had no wine!”

  Crispin turned from Jack to pick up the Crown, running his thumb over the smooth side of a thorn. “There is something about this—” The Crown felt substantial in his hands. Not particularly heavy, but thick with the woven rushes and the prickly thorns that did not stab him as he thought they should have done. He glanced at Jack and then carefully placed the Crown within its jeweled casket. He rested his hand on the closed lid and shook his head. “No, I do not believe that God’s power can inhabit worldly things. It makes no sense.”

  “But God was Himself a worldly thing. As Jesus, eh?”

  “So now you are a theologian?”

  “I don’t know what that is, but I know what happened to me. I fell out the sarding window and I didn’t feel nought.”

  Crispin set the jeweled casket within the wooden box and cast about for a place to hide it. His lodgings were particularly bad for hiding large objects—no alcoves, no other rooms. It wouldn’t fit in his coffer. The only place was the pile of straw in the corner that Jack used as a bed. He took the box to the straw and dug deep to nestle it there.

  “In my bed?” cried Jack. “I ain’t sleeping with it. God knows what mischief I’d be up to next. Flying off the roof, maybe.”

  “I’ve no other place to hide it.”

  “Why don’t you give it over to court if you’re so keen to have the king forgive you?”

  Crispin pulled the last strands of yellow straw over the box and stepped back to look at the pile. The straw conjured images of the bed he slept on in one of Newgate’s cells, little better than this pile of straw, and the cell had been much colder than this room. All had been silent and mostly dark, until they allowed him a candle. Alone had been best, for he knew that when the cell door opened, the questioning and the torture would begin anew. He came to dread the sound of whining hinges and rattling keys. Each time the door yawned he hoped the guards would take him to the executioner. But such relief was not to be. Only the last time. The last time at court.

  He thought of Miles. How comfortable life must have been for him the last seven years. All Crispin’s comrades executed, and all too brave to name Miles Aleyn. Even Crispin had said nothing. But now Crispin would say. Nothing would stop his tongue. But he must be careful. He must do so with enough evidence. There was still one more unknown conspirator. Someone powerful enough to hire Miles and want either Lancaster or Richard dead. Who at court would dare such a feat? He’d wait to bring the Crown of Thorns so that he could pillory Miles and this other man at the same time. That would be a prize.

  He looked at Jack. “Not yet,” Crispin said. The sneer did not leave his lips. “I have more work to do before I can.”

  “I would be rid of such a thing. What do you know of it? I mean—” Jack stared at the pile of straw that hid the box. He crushed his arms over his chest. “Is it truly the Crown of Thorns placed on our Lord’s head?”

  “That is what they say. But for all the answers, I do know someone better to ask. Get your cloak.”

  THEY SET OFF TOWARD the west end of London. Crispin was grateful Jack didn’t ask about Miles. Too much anger bubbled in his gut. It was impossible to discuss the man. But Crispin was puzzled as to why he had not killed Miles outright. Of course, if he had, he’d be in a cell right now truly awaiting the executioner. No axes for him this time, but the strangulation death of the gallows.

  He didn’t much care for the idea.

  “Where are we going, Master?” Jack asked after they passed Charing Cross.

  “There.” Crispin pointed to the large church. Its rounded apse faced the Thames, as did the long walls of its cloister snuggled next to the church under the crook of the south transept, like a kitten cuddling its mother. The big square tower with the rosette window faced north and jutted upward above the cloister’s walls and rooftops. Westminster Abbey.

  Over Crispin’s shoulder and farther to the east stood Westminster Hall. Court. But he wouldn’t go there today. No. He was not yet welcomed at court. The few times he attempted entrance went not well at all. The next time he entered court he intended not a triumphal entrance, perhaps, but a more salutary one.

  “Why there?” asked Jack, pulling at his collar.

  “I’ve an old friend at the abbey. He’ll be able to tell us about the Crown, if anyone can.”

  They did not enter by the front entrance, but through a side door that led to the cloister. The barred gate might have discouraged a lesser man, but Crispin expected it and pulled down on the bell chain several times, certain the call of the bell would summon someone. Soon it did. A becassocked monk with a black band of hair across his forehead and a shiny tonsure on his skull turned the corner. He walked with eyes lowered and murmured “Peace be with you” and then raised his head. His face, pallid and frozen in an innocuous expression of passivity, came to life. “Crispin Guest! How g
ood it is to see you!”

  “Brother Eric. It is good to see you as well. Is the abbot available? I would take a moment to speak with him.”

  “Yes, Crispin. For you, there is always time.”

  Crispin felt Jack’s gaze on him as he passed through the opened gate. The lad followed haltingly, eyeing the monk who stared back at him with a full amount of scrutiny.

  They strode along the cloister walk, steps echoing into the stone vaulting. The air was cold, particularly in the shadows, and seemed to linger within the windowed arches. Braziers dotted the walkway every few feet, crackling with burning logs, sending smoke up into the sooty ceiling vaults.

  The three finally came to a large oak door with ornate hinges. Brother Eric knocked but did not wait for a reply before he opened the door.

  One young monk sat at a high desk by the window. He looked up with a quill poised in his hand. The other was older, gray with wisps of hair blowing off his now natural tonsure. He stood before a large Bible lying open on its stand and contemplated the text, a finger pressed to his lips. His triangular nose stretched beaklike over his finger. His gray brows hunched low over hooded eyes. Though the gray hair marked him as old, his face did not seem as lined as perhaps it should be. His cheekbones, set high and pronounced, overshadowed a strong chin. He had a face designed more for a knight’s helm than a cowl.

  He turned at their step. It took a moment for his eyes to recognize the figures before him but when they did his face dented with smiles. “Crispin Guest!” He opened his arms, strode forward, and enclosed Crispin in a strong embrace. Crispin endured it. The monk pushed him back and held Crispin’s arms in muscular hands. “How long has it been? Look at you. You are looking hale.” He nodded. “I am pleased.”

  “And you look no older, my Lord Abbot.”