Serpent in the Thorns

by Jeri Westerson

  Richard spoke again. His youthful voice broke trying to be loud enough for the immensity of the hall. “It is by our infinite mercy that you live, Crispin Guest, and only by that. Our choice was to let you rot in prison. And if not prison, then to banish you from this realm.” He blinked once at his uncle Lancaster. When he turned back to Crispin, his lips curled upward. To call it a smile was to dismiss the grimace of jackals, or the openmouthed anticipation of a buzzard. “But if live you must, then a better punishment is mete. We have decided you shall remain in England. Even London if you like.” He snorted a laugh. He looked to his courtiers to join him in his merriment, but their pale faces did not echo his high spirits. The smile soon turned to a sneer. “But not in prison.” He nodded to the knight to continue, snapped his ermine-trimmed cloak behind him, and returned to his throne. He climbed into it and settled his rump. He grasped the chair arms with bejeweled fingers and drummed. His eyes looked bored.

  The knight stood before Crispin again. “Crispin Guest,” he announced. “Stand.”

  Crispin concentrated on his muscles and forced them into use. He rose, his shoulders last, and he stood unsteadily, eyes taking in the king, the crowd, and the knight when he spoke again.

  “By order of his most gracious Majesty King Richard,” said the knight, “you are a knight no more. Further: you have no title, you have no lands, no wealth. You are nothing.” He stepped forward and pushed Crispin with both hands. Crispin stumbled back. The knight followed him. “Let no man succor you. Let no kinsman support you, or they shall suffer the wrath of the crown.” He pushed Crispin again. “By the king’s mercy,” said the knight, arms dropping to his sides, “you may go in peace.”

  Crispin raised his head. One by one, across the circle as if in a wave, the crowd turned their backs. All around him, shoulders stiff and taut. Crispin heard it as the sound of skirts rustling, and shoes scraping the floor. Then nothing.

  “What?” he heard himself say.

  “You are free to go,” said the knight, fist at his hip. “Begone.”

  Then it struck him. The words, all of them, pieced together. You are a knight no more. No title, no lands. No kinsman may support you. His heart lurched. He saw the backs of his friends, his companions. He was nothing. His ambitions, his years as Lancaster’s protégé, all crumbled like old bones.

  He might as well be dead.

  He looked at the belt at his feet, the one that once held his sword’s scabbard and was now naked of it, holding only the meager dagger. He leaned down and grasped the belt, dragging the dagger’s scabbard across the floor. He couldn’t quite muster the strength to lift it higher than his thigh. Dispossessed. From everything and everyone. How was he supposed to live? He reckoned that was the point. “But . . . Sire—?” he whispered.

  “You dare address me, Guest!” Richard leaned forward so far from his throne he looked likely to fall. His smooth face stretched wide; mouth baring uneven teeth, eyes wild. His words spilled from him, rushing forward like a rain of fiery arrows. “You may stay in London, but you will not come to court. You will not communicate with anyone of the court. Is that clear? You are an island, Guest. You will remain alone in the sea of London. And if you survive, you may consider yourself lucky. Thus I give you your life and only as a favor to my uncle. But do not ever ask of me anything!”

  Richard fell back into his chair and wiped the spittle from his lips.

  “Such is the king’s mercy,” said the knight. He drew his sword and raised it. “In the name of the king, begone!”

  Miles had been in that crowd. He stared with empty eyes at Crispin and turned his back dutifully with all the others and said not a word.

  And even under the torturers’ labors, Crispin, too, had said nothing. Honor bound to hold his tongue, he did. He named no one, knowing nothing of the fate of any of his fellow conspirators. “Like a lamb led to the slaughter house, he opened not his mouth.”

  Miles stood there and blended into the crowd and never paid for his part in the Plot.

  The memories faded, the echoed voices fell to silence. The reality of his one-room lodgings blurred back into view. Returned to the here and now, a voice at his elbow, soft and timid, still startled him. “Master.”

  Crispin turned. Jack, his cloak wrapped tight around his shoulders, his hands invisible beneath the ragged material, gazed up at Crispin with wide, moist eyes.

  “What troubles you, Master Crispin? Is it your dream again?”

  So Jack knew. Little slipped past that boy.

  Crispin ran his tongue over his teeth. His mouth tasted bitter. “Go back to bed, Jack.”

  “I would keep watch, if it’s all the same to you, sir.”

  Crispin sighed. He looked up between the rooftops into the night sky. Woolly clouds unfurled, parted, while stars winked down at him. “I’m just thinking of that day again.”

  Jack shook his head. No need to explain. Jack knew what day he meant. “I can’t say I can ever imagine how you felt when all the world seemed against you. But I know this old town would be a much rougher place without the Tracker on the prowl. And where would I be, eh? In prison, that’s what. Maybe even hanged by now.” He rubbed his neck. “No, God works his mysterious ways and put you in your place for a reason, and I say God be praised for it.”

  Crispin smiled a little. “Thank you for that, Jack.”

  Jack glanced at the two arrows sitting on the table. “Care to tell me now about the Captain of the Archers?”

  “Miles Aleyn.” Crispin said the name like tar in his mouth. He looked at Jack and put his hand on his shoulder. “What I tell you goes no further than this room. Understand?”

  “Aye, Master. Let me tongue be cut out if I breathe a word of it.”

  He stared at Jack’s open innocence. Torture could not drag these words from Crispin’s lips, though he had come close. Another few days of torture and who knew what he might have said.

  “Miles,” he said hoarsely, “was the man who instigated the Plot.”

  Jack’s opinion was swift. “Sarding bastard!”

  Crispin agreed. “He never paid for his crime. He brought England’s finest young knights together in this conspiracy at the prompting of another, a man still unknown to me. He did not do it for honor or for deep convictions. He did it for greed and vainglory.”

  “And the other knights—?”

  “All dead.”

  “Did you know he was still at court?”

  “No. In fact, I do not think he was. Not until recently. I think he was appointed no more than two months ago. The former captain died in his cups Saint Swithin’s day. Fell out of a window. There was talk of a new captain about a month ago but I heard no mention of a name.”

  “How do you know all that?”

  “Because there was no Captain of the Archers evident a month ago at the archery butts. And I asked. You see, Jack, I do practice. Occasionally.”

  Jack’s indignation raised his shoulders and finally his whole body. He paced the brief room, swinging his arms as if to strike an enemy. The sparse hearthlight painted him in the figure of an excitable demon. “And he serves all this time as the high and mighty Captain of the Archers while you live on the Shambles! I’d cut his throat m’self if I could.”

  “I appreciate the sentiment, Jack, but do me the kindness of sitting. You’ll wake the Kemps below.”

  Jack lighted on the stool. “You’re going to get him, aren’t you, Master Crispin? You’re going to see he gets his.”

  “Oh yes, Jack. I will. But not merely him. I want to catch the man who hired him.”

  Jack looked over his shoulder again at the arrows. “Why’d he kill that French courier do you suppose? For the Crown o’ Thorns?”

  “No. He had ample opportunity to take the Crown. He killed that man as he tried to kill me. But I don’t yet know why.”

  Neither said anything more for a while. And it wasn’t until Crispin snuffled awake for the second time—sunlight streaming in his face from the op
en shutter—that he realized he had slept.

  The blanket tucked under his chin fell away when he stirred. He arched his back from his awkward position in the windowsill, but he was otherwise rested. Jack sat on the stool by the fire. Crispin’s coat lay across his lap and the boy hunched over it, pulling a threaded needle through the patch at the shoulder. He looked up when Crispin yawned loudly. Jack smiled.

  “Good morn, sir. There’s porridge on the fire. Shall I get you a bowl?”

  Jack stood halfway but Crispin waved him down. “Jack, why didn’t you wake me?”

  “Didn’t know when the last time was you slept so well.”

  “Neither do I.” He went to the hearth with a bowl he dragged from the table—last night’s dinner—and knocked its cold contents into the fire. He ladled out the thick porridge of barley, turnips, and peas and stood in nothing but his mid thigh chemise, back facing the fire, and spooned the food into his mouth.

  Hot, filling, and even tasty.

  “It’s good,” he said, mouth full.

  Jack nodded and smiled. Then he raised the repaired coat so Crispin could inspect it. “I think there’s more patches than coat left, Master Crispin, but no arrow hole no more.”

  “Thank you, Jack. You do for me more than I deserve. I truly wish I could pay you a proper wage.”

  Jack reddened and hid it by brushing out the clotted bloodstain at the repair. “Food and shelter’s good enough for my like, never you fear.”

  Crispin finished eating, dressed in clean braies and stockings, and took the coat Jack offered. He shrugged into the warm cotehardie and buttoned it all the way from the hem to his neck, all twenty-three buttons. There was a time he left the bottom thirteen buttons undone so he could ride his horse. But no more horse.

  Jack offered him his belt with its scabbard, and Crispin fitted it around his waist and buckled it in place. He gave his scabbard one slap out of habit and took the arrows from the table and slid them both in his belt.

  “Where do you go now, Master?”

  “I must go to a fletcher, the man who made these arrows. I would have him identify for whom he made them. That will fix Miles.”

  “What about archery practice? Did not the king’s decree command it daily?”

  “Yes, but it will have to wait.”

  Shouts. Feet running through the early-morning street. Crispin looked at a perplexed Jack. The market bells had not yet rung. Crispin knew the shops must remain shuttered until they did, but this was not a shout to open the markets.

  He dashed to the streetside window and cast open the shutters. A young boy ran down the lane below him and then disappeared down another. Butchers slowly emerged from their shops and stood on the muddy avenue.

  “Oi!” Crispin cried down to one man standing in the street’s filthy gutter spiraling with yesterday’s blood. “Master Dickon!”

  “Eh?” Dickon looked up and spied Crispin and pointed at him.

  “What goes on, Master Dickon? What is the shouting?”

  “That boy,” said Dickon gesturing after the lad. “He said that all business was to be suspended today.”

  “Suspended? Why on earth for?”

  “He said there’s been an attempt on the king’s life and his Majesty is in seclusion at Westminster.”

  10

  OPEN OR NOT, THE Boar’s Tusk was Crispin’s next destination. He knew Gilbert would let him in.

  Jack stayed at home, begging off. Crispin knew how he felt. A little frightened, a little at a loss as to what to do. Jack would spend the day cleaning the little room they shared, and that suited Crispin.

  The streets were oddly deserted. Merchants stood in their windows staring impotently at the streets. Several philosophers stood over a brazier, shaking their heads, commenting. A short man with a receded hairline hovered just outside their circle. He edged closer as their words became more heated.

  “Lenny!” called Crispin to the short man.

  Lenny swore an oath with a cloud of breath. The men glanced at him once, but it was enough to break the spell of his anonymity.

  He trotted toward Crispin with shaking head. He had the habit of hunching his shoulders and keeping his head below them, much like a buzzard. Crispin supposed he caught the habit from too long a time in low-ceilinged gaol cells.

  “What you go and spoil me game for, Master Crispin?”

  “You don’t want to end up in gaol again, do you, Lenny? You might lose a hand this time for certain.”

  “You wouldn’t put old Lenny back in gaol, would you, good Master? Weren’t it enough you done it three times?”

  “Let’s not make it a fourth. The sheriff is not likely to be cozened again out of taking a limb of yours in punishment. Wasn’t the loss of an ear enough?”

  Lenny rubbed the scabbed place where his ear had been and where his long, stringy hair covered it. “How’s a man like me to make a living, I ask you? I ain’t fit for much else, and that’s the truth.”

  “Let my example be yours. I have a new profession, after all.”

  “Well you’re you, ain’t you?” Lenny rubbed his chin bristling with a three-day beard. His eye twinkled. “There wouldn’t be something you want to hire old Lenny for, is there?”

  “Not at the moment. You still live near the Thistle Inn?”

  “It’s a place I can be found.”

  Crispin considered. “I may have something for you. You know my man Jack, don’t you?”

  “We met once or twice.”

  “He may come round and give you a message from me.”

  “And a farthing?”

  “And a farthing. You see? It isn’t all that hard to make a decent living.”

  Lenny smiled and revealed blackened teeth. He trotted off, running along the edge of the gutter.

  Crispin watched him disappear into London’s grayness. He felt the arrows at his side and thought about the fletcher he needed to talk to. Edward Peale was his name. Crispin had known him well from the old days at court, in the days Crispin used to hunt in the king’s deer park with other courtiers. Peale made the finest, straightest arrows. And he made his mark on every one of them, the mark Crispin recognized on both shafts. He also made marks to show the ownership of such arrows. It would be a simple matter, then, for Peale to identify the marks and convict Miles.

  But there was the matter of getting into court to talk to Peale. Certainly he was ensconced in the palace grounds as he always had been. Difficult, that. For one, Crispin was forbidden entrance to court. And two, with an attempt on the king’s life, Westminster Palace would be shut up tighter than a barrel of French wine.

  Thinking of the king he wondered how severe this attempt was. Abbot Nicholas would surely know.

  He glanced toward Gutter Lane just ahead and licked his lips. The Boar’s Tusk was only a short distance around the corner and it was a long, thirsty walk to Westminster.

  “Damn.”

  Business first. He must find out what happened to the king.

  THE STREETS ALONG WESTMINSTER Abbey and Westminster Palace simmered with activity. Soldiers scrambled everywhere like ants, moving just as mindlessly. They stopped Crispin three separate times with a “what’s your business?” before he was able to make his way to the abbey’s doorstep.

  When Crispin rang the bell, it took longer than usual for a monk to appear and open the gate. The monk wasn’t a brother Crispin recognized, but he took Crispin to the abbot’s empty chamber. The monk served Crispin wine and hurriedly left, leaving him alone to contemplate the stained-glass window raining colors on the abbot’s desk.

  After a brief interval, the door opened and the abbot rushed in.

  “Forgive me, Crispin. As you can imagine, this is a busy time.”

  “Yes. I came to get information on those very doings.”

  “Good. I see you have wine. I will pour my own. Please. Sit.” Abbot Nicholas fussed with the flagon, lifted the goblet, and pressed the goblet’s rim to his dry lips. His throat, peppered wit
h gray stubble from a rushed razor, rolled with a swallow. He moved smoothly to his chair, settled on its cushion, and looked up at Crispin. “A busy morn.”

  “No doubt.”

  A pause fell over the room until Nicholas broke it by something between a sigh and a snort. “The king is in good health, God be praised. Thank you for asking.” Nicholas’s sardonic expression disappeared behind the goblet.

  Crispin quaffed his own cup. No, he didn’t ask, didn’t really care all that much about Richard’s health, but as a citizen he was interested to know. “Didn’t kill him, eh?”

  Nicholas raised a hand. A benediction? A call for silence? “You truly should not speak your treason so loudly.”

  “Is it treason to wonder if the king is dead?”

  His age-yellowed eyes fell kindly on Crispin. “For you, perhaps.”

  Crispin toyed with his empty goblet. “What happened?”

  “His Majesty was taking an early-morning turn in his garden with his counselors when the attempt was made.”

  “Don’t tell me. An arrow?”

  The abbot’s eyes enlarged twofold. Wine glistened on his parted lips. “How did you know?” he whispered.

  Crispin shrugged. He launched from his chair with the goblet, stood at the sideboard, and touched the flagon, but decided against it and left the goblet there. He turned. The abbot’s tonsure was a mosaic of color from the window’s light. “There is an assassin afoot and he uses a bow. Was anyone hurt?”

  “Only a servant. He is well. It hit his arm. It was he who pushed the king aside out of harm’s way. He saw a cloaked figure with a bow ready to fire just over the garden wall.”

  Crispin looked at the flagon and nodded. The innocent. They’re always dragged into the king’s business with disastrous results. Maybe more wine wasn’t such a bad idea. He grabbed the flagon and sloshed wine into the goblet, then snatched up the cup and drank. His sleeve took away the excess from the side of his mouth.

  “Did the assassin escape?”