Serpent in the Thorns

by Jeri Westerson

  The abbot waved his hand and stood back. “ ‘My Lord Abbot’? I am Nicholas to you.” He turned his head and looked down at Jack Tucker, who cringed. “And who is this?”

  Crispin laid his hand on Jack’s shoulder. The shoulder did not relax. “This is Jack Tucker. He insists on being my servant.” Crispin flashed a sideways smile. “Jack, this is the Abbot of Westminster Abbey, Nicholas de Litlyngton.”

  Jack’s wide gaze sped over the abbot and the room with its gold-encased manuscripts, silver candlesticks, and toasty fire. He made an awkward bow. “My lord.”

  Crispin jerked his head toward the abbot. “I did a minor task for the abbot some years ago—”

  “Minor task!” Nicholas guffawed. He patted Crispin heartily on the back. “I was accused of murder and Crispin here uncovered the truth, exonerating me. Minor task indeed!”

  “Sweet Christ!” said Jack, and then slammed his hand over his mouth when both monks turned to stare.

  Nicholas chuckled and took Crispin by the shoulders, steering him toward the fire. Brother Eric bowed to the abbot, glanced once more at Jack, and departed.

  Crispin tolerated the abbot’s attention. He knew it was the monk’s way. The fire felt good and even smelled good, better than the poor sticks and peat Crispin used for his own hearth.

  “Brother Michael,” said Nicholas to the other monk at his desk. “Please serve us some wine.”

  The abbot’s room was comfortable, even cozy. Tall arched windows with delicately cut panes of glass cast colored light upon the abbot’s desk and stone floor. A hound, ribs showing through the short fur, lay on the floor by the fire undisturbed by all the comings and goings.

  Brother Michael offered a goblet of wine to Crispin but not to Jack. The wine was better than good. Smooth, fragrant. Crispin surmised it was probably the abbot’s better stock from Spain.

  Crispin drank and realized that it had been a year since he last visited the abbot. He cast a glance into a far corner between bookshelves and a prie-dieu, and smiled to see the chessboard still in place. He narrowed his eyes at it and walked forward. If he were not mistaken, none of the pieces had been disturbed since their last meeting.

  He looked up at Nicholas. “Our game?”

  “Yes,” said Nicholas. “And I believe it’s your move.”

  Crispin examined the board. He’d already captured Nicholas’s queen and a few other pieces. He picked up the black knight and moved it forward. “Your king is endangered by my knight.”

  Nicholas frowned and examined the pieces. “Hmm,” he said, resting a finger on his lips. He glanced up at Crispin. “So he is. After so many months, I hoped you would not notice. But there is little that escapes your notice, is there, Crispin?” The abbot reached for a piece, paused, and then drew his hand back. “I shall have to mull this over. But in the meantime. . . .” He gestured to the chairs by the fire. The abbot settled in a chair with a blanket made of fox pelts cast across the chair’s arms and back. He urged Crispin to take another beside it. Jack positioned himself behind Crispin’s chair and grasped its carved back with white fingers. Nicholas bent down to scratch the hound’s head. The dog made no move except to raise his tail, thump it a few times on the floor, and drop it again. “Tell me why you are here. I doubt it is purely a social call. As much as that would please me.”

  “To my regret, Nicholas. I wonder if you could tell me about a particular relic.”

  “Oh, indeed.” He smiled and turned to Brother Michael, who stood by with the flagon. “I have great facility with relics. My chaplain, Brother Michael, has accompanied me on many a quest to see such venerable objects.”

  “Then you can easily tell me of the Crown of Thorns.”

  “The Crown of Thorns?” The jovial lines of the abbot’s face fell. He shifted forward over his thighs. “Why would you wish to know of that particular relic?”

  Crispin made a half smile and ran his finger absently around the lip of the goblet. He did not look up, but studied the glittering amber of the wine swirling in the bowl. “It seems to be on my mind of late.”

  Nicholas took a deep breath. “The Crown of Thorns.” He said it slowly, thoughtfully. “Of course, this was the very same that the cursed Roman soldiers placed on our Lord’s head. We do not know its early history—who took it from the place of His glorious death and kept it safe. But I do know from the writings of a monk—who was that?” He rose, went to the bookshelf, and pulled down a large tome. He laid it over the Bible on its stand and thumbed through the pages. “Ah!” He leaned forward and read. “A Brother Bernard. Some five hundred years ago. He says the Crown resided in a church on Mount Sion in Jerusalem. And two hundred years after that, it was transferred to Byzantium.” He looked up. Crispin at first thought he searched for another book, but the monk was looking farther than that. His eyes glazed as his memory took hold. “ ‘Behold the thorny crown, which was only set upon the head of Our Redeemer in order that all the thorns of the world might be gathered together and broken.’ ” His lidded eyes looked at Crispin. “The Eastern Holy Emperors presented individual thorns to various Christian monarchs. I know of one such thorn sent to our own ancient King Athelstan—in the old times,” he said to Jack, who didn’t seem to understand what the old abbot was talking about, “and that very thorn still resides at Malmesbury Abbey.” He closed the book, replaced it on the shelf and sat again. He took a sip of his wine and cocked his head thoughtfully but directed his next words back toward Crispin. “As you surely know, one hundred years ago and more, the empire of Constantinople began to crumble, and in a desperate attempt for support—and money—Emperor Baldwin II sought the friendship of King Louis of France. He offered him the Crown of Thorns, though he needed to pay for its return from the pestilent Venetians. They kept it as surety for a loan. Italians!” he muttered. “They certainly understand the business of usury. Disgraceful. At any rate, the Crown of Thorns was soon redeemed and it was sent off to France where Louis built the magnificent Sainte-Chappelle for it. It is there still.”

  “What does the Crown look like? Can you tell me?”

  “Oh yes. I have seen it myself. As you might imagine, there are few thorns left after having been divided amongst the many emperors and kings over the years. It is now a circlet of woven rushes, a weave of decorative design no doubt created by careful fingers. Thrust amongst the rushes are the remaining thorns.”

  Crispin downed his cup. Before he could object, Brother Michael filled it again. Crispin decided wine was a good idea after all and gulped more. “And what does—” He took another quaff. Nicholas stared at him quizzically. “Does it—Are there qualities it conveys to . . . to anyone who might . . . touch it?”

  “Qualities? Oh. You mean the relic’s power. Oh yes. It does have power. These thorns pierced our Lord’s very brow, drew His precious blood. Of course they are imbued with power. Greater power than other relics, you can be sure.”

  “But what is that power?”

  Nicholas rose. He paced and rolled his goblet’s stem between his palms. “I wonder why you are so curious, my friend. You seem to have a personal interest in this.” He looked up and his gaze penetrated Crispin’s.

  Crispin, too, rose to stand close to the old monk. He set his goblet on a side table. “I do have a personal interest in it. But that is all I can say.”

  Nicholas stared at him another moment and then shrugged. “As you will. Your reasons must be good ones. I trust you,” he said with more conviction than was warranted. Was it a warning? “The power of the relic—it is said—makes those who touch it, especially those who wear it, invincible.”

  “Invincible? In what way?”

  “To everything. To fear, to danger. Even to death.”

  Jack lunged forward and grabbed Crispin’s arm. “Master! That’s what happened to m—”

  “Silence, Jack.” Crispin gave the abbot an apologetic smile that did not seem to convince the old monk of a casual exchange. “I think what my Lord Nicholas means to say,” he
said leaning toward the boy but looking at Nicholas, “is that a man can feel a sensation of invincibility.”

  “No, that is not what I said.” Nicholas stared down his hawk nose at Crispin. “The invincibility is real. Perhaps a feeling of euphoria accompanies it, but a man is invincible while wearing the Crown. So it is said.”

  Jack tugged at Crispin’s arm. “Master!”

  “Be still, for God’s sake!” He turned in earnest to Nicholas. “The King of France has loaned the Crown to King Richard as a gesture of peace.”

  Nicholas pursed his lips and nodded. “I have heard as much.”

  Crispin drew back. “Have you?”

  “I move easily through court, Crispin, as you know. I have kinship in high places. As you also know.”

  “Yes,” said Crispin distractedly. “Why should the King of France wish to give such power to his sworn enemy?”

  Nicholas’s chuckle turned into a throaty laugh. He looked once at Brother Michael, who didn’t get the jest. The abbot laid his hand on Crispin’s taut shoulder and said quietly, “Because, my dear friend, this power only falls to those who are pure of heart.”

  Crispin blinked. “Pure of heart?”

  “Yes. Men who desire no ill deeds to the innocent. Men who love God. Men whom the simplest man would trust.” He patted Crispin’s breast. “Pure of heart.”

  Crispin almost smiled. “So the king is not capable of summoning such power?”

  Nicholas casually looked over his shoulder. No one but Brother Michael stood there. “I shouldn’t say so. Perhaps it may even be treason.” Brother Michael raised his brows but said nothing. “The king’s counterpart in France is equally incapable.” He shrugged. “Truth is truth.”

  Crispin smiled at Jack and winked. “Pure of heart, Jack.”

  “God blind me,” he whispered and put his dirty fingers to his mouth.

  “I also hear tell,” said Nicholas, “that the Crown is missing. His Majesty thinks it a French plot to embarrass him. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about it, now would you?”

  “I, too, hear many things, my Lord Abbot. And I am the Tracker. If it is lost, you can be certain I can find it.”

  “Oh I am certain of that. If it is lost.”

  Crispin narrowed his eyes at the shrewd curve of the abbot’s mouth, but said nothing.

  CRISPIN AND JACK TOOK the rest of the afternoon to walk back to the Shambles. Neither spoke until they turned the corner and the full stench of a day of butchering and burning offal reached their senses.

  “Master Crispin.” Crispin looked down at the boy, who seemed unusually solemn. Jack bit his nails. “I know you got your own ideas. But wouldn’t it be better to be rid of that Crown? Maybe give it over to Abbot Nicholas for safekeeping. We shouldn’t be messing about with God’s power. We’re liable to get ourselves into a foul condition. Maybe even be cast into Hell for it.”

  “Your thieving is likely to get you into more trouble, Jack.”

  But Jack truly looked concerned. And Crispin could no longer deny his own discomfort with possession of the Crown.

  Pure of heart. He felt far from pure of heart. Especially when he wanted to kill Miles Aleyn. Yet he hadn’t killed him. There was plenty of opportunity. The guards be damned. He knew he could have slipped his dagger’s blade up between Miles’s ribs and gotten away before any of the guards were the wiser. But he didn’t. He simply could not kill a man in that manner. Oh, he knew Miles was capable of such dishonorable feats, but not Crispin.

  Pure of heart. “It is a curse,” he muttered.

  “It is, sir, as I was saying,” said Jack, but not about the same thing. “We must rid ourselves of the Crown and right quickly.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Jack,” Crispin sighed. “There is nothing dangerous about a few rushes and some old thorns—” Crispin’s words were cut off by a whoosh and an abrupt flash of hot pain. His shoulder slammed hard against a wall.

  Jack screamed.

  For a moment, Crispin was perplexed by what happened. But he snapped back to himself and glanced down at his own shoulder. An arrow pinned his coat to the wall, missing the shoulder with only a graze. An arrow with hawk fletching.

  8

  “CHRIST’S SOUL! MASTER CRISPIN!” Jack jerked forward, but there was little he could do.

  Crispin reached up, curled his fingers around the arrow’s shaft, and yanked it from the wood. It tore a further hole through his coat and he swore at the ragged cloth. He pressed his hand to his left shoulder, felt a little wetness from blood, and didn’t worry further over it. “It is only a graze,” he said to Jack and examined the arrow. “More importantly—” He looked up and scanned the rooftops. Nothing but smoke and ravens. “Where did it come from?”

  Of course, every man on the street was carrying a bow.

  “It couldn’t have been no accident,” said Jack.

  “No, not likely.” Crispin pointed to a rooftop across the lane. “He’d have to have been there. Possibly behind that gable.” Crispin trotted over the rutted street and looked for handholds on the building. The timbering bowed outward from the daubed wall at differing levels, offering places to put his foot. He did so, grabbing the exposed wood, and hoisted himself up the jettied wall. A windowsill offered more purchase for his foot until his fingers reached the eave and he hung on a corbel for a moment. He tried not to think of loose tiles before he swung his leg up and onto the roof. He pulled himself farther until his entire arm rested on the roof and he managed to roll himself onto the tiles. He stood at the edge and looked down at Jack on the street. “I could use that relic now, eh?”

  “Don’t jest about it!” cried Jack.

  Crispin picked gingerly across the slick tiles until he reached the gable. He grabbed it and looked over every inch of the roof surrounding it. He did not expect to find footprints on the slate, but he hoped for other clues that might lead to finding the culprit. He almost gave up when he spotted a half moon of mud. A heel? No, too small. The ball of a shoe, perhaps? He looked along the edge of the gable and glimpsed something more along the rough edge of its daubed wall. The archer must have leaned there to take his shot. Crispin peered closely and grasped with two fingers. A few hairs—gold-colored—and a few threads. White. Possibly a shirt.

  “Find anything?” asked Jack from below. Crispin could not see him from the pitch of the roof.

  “Yes, but not much. I’m coming down.”

  Crispin took one more look over the spine of the roof in the opposite direction, saw nothing, edged down to the eave, lowered himself to the jutting beam, sat on it, and leaped the rest of the way. He showed Jack his spoils.

  “That ain’t nought but a hair and a thread. What can you make of that?”

  Crispin shook his head. He let the items fall to the ground. “I don’t know. There was a partial footprint up there, too. It only proves he was where I thought he was.” He stood a moment thinking, glancing at Martin Kemp’s tinker shop just two doors down.

  A queasy feeling rumbled in his gut. “Jack.” He slapped Jack in the chest and leaped forward into a run. “The Crown!”

  Crispin reached the foot of the stairs first. He took the steps two at a time and fumbled for his key, finally sliding it into the lock. He turned it, left it in the lock, and pulled the door open.

  Everything was as he left it. The box lay buried under the straw. He fell to his knees and dug it out and lifted the golden casket out of the wooden box. He lifted the lid.

  Still there.

  He sat back on his feet just as Jack slammed into the doorjamb, panting. “Well? Is it gone?”

  “No.” Crispin slowly closed the lid and replaced the gold casket in the box. He carefully assembled the straw about it again and stood, brushing bits of straw from his knees. “It’s untouched. The room is untouched. Surely he knew where I lived. Why didn’t he take the Crown?”

  “Maybe he wanted to kill you first.”

  Crispin looked at Jack and noticed the boy clutching the arr
ow in his fist. Jack raised it. “I thought you’d want it. Evidence.”

  Crispin smiled. “Very good, Jack. You’re learning. You’ll be an accomplished Tracker on your own someday.”

  Jack’s brow grew a crop of wrinkles running up into his loose fringe. He handed over the arrow for Crispin’s inspection. “What, me? A Tracker? I ain’t as smart as you, Master. I could never—”

  “You’re young. Keep your eyes and ears open and you can be more than a servant.”

  “God blind me.” Jack shook his head and caught sight of Crispin’s torn coat. “Oh Master! Let me see to your wound.”

  He shook off Jack. “It’s nothing, I tell you.” Crispin was more entranced by the arrow. He knew it was the brother of the one that killed the courier. Hawk fletching, barbed tip. Expensive. Not the kind a man would use for target practice. A hunter’s arrow. A nobleman’s arrow. The same sort of arrows sitting in the quiver of the Captain of the Archers.

  AFTER SHEDDING HIS COAT for Jack to repair and shrugging on his cloak to cover his shirt, Crispin went back outside to look up at the gable across the way. Despite the odd looks from passersby, he climbed the wall again and slid up onto the roof. A light drizzle washed away all sign of the muddy footprint. Not that it could have helped him. Only a shoe left behind would have done that, but Miles would not have been so careless.

  Crispin looked up. Was his mind playing tricks, or did he hear Miles’s voice?

  He stepped to the edge of the roof and looked down. There was Miles, astride his horse and talking to a page. Miles patted the boy on the shoulder and sent him off. He chuckled and fisted the reins.

  Crispin noticed the quiver of arrows hanging from the saddle—hawk fletching all.

  Miles would be gone in another moment. The horse shook his large head, awaiting his master’s instructions.

  Crispin scanned the street. The page disappeared around the corner. The street emptied. The drizzle kept them away from the pungent butcher’s street. Crispin stared at the top of Miles’s head . . . and leaped.