Serpent in the Thorns

by Jeri Westerson

  Crispin spat an ungrateful chuckle. “Forgive me, your grace, but so far, your logic escapes me.”

  “I cannot be seen with you. Especially today of all days. In case you haven’t noticed, you are accused of high treason and murder. I stood up for you once when you were guilty, but not again.”

  Crispin walked to the other end of the hearth and stared into the flames. His voice was flat. “I see. Of course, this time I am not guilty.” He bared his teeth. “Miles Aleyn is the assassin. Are you surprised to hear it?”

  Lancaster made no sound, so Crispin turned to look at him. The duke’s face maintained its glower. His dark beard and mustache framed his tightened lips. His bushy brows arched over his eyes with all the menace of a demon’s claws. “Strangely,” he said, voice quietly controlled, “I am not.”

  Indeed. “I have more to say,” said Crispin. He reached into his pouch and tossed the arrow pieces to the floor.

  Lancaster stared at them. The once smooth feathers were now crushed and twisted. “What’s this?”

  “Portions of arrows that have been involved in several misdeeds. One was found in a dead French courier. Another tried to kill me, and another an innocent scullion. I’ve no doubt that if the arrow that tried to kill the king were pulled from the throne it would match these others.”

  “So. What do these events have in common?”

  “Nothing. Except these arrows. They belong to you.”

  Lancaster looked up at Crispin. He didn’t growl or bellow as Crispin expected. In fact, he didn’t act in any way Crispin remembered from long ago. He merely blinked, dropped his gaze from Crispin’s, and stared into the hearth. The glow trembled yellow light across his craggy features and velvet cotehardie. “What is on your mind, Crispin?”

  Crispin suddenly felt exhausted. The fire in his blood that had propelled him up the tapestry and out the window was ebbing. He felt no strength left in his limbs. “What is on my mind?” He wiped the sweat from his face and let his hand drop to his side. Sweet Jesu. Every horror is on my mind. “I wonder if I may ask a question.”

  “You should take care, you know. To night alone you have been caught with a weapon of assassination and put a knife to my back. What next?”

  “My lord, I know that time can change a man. Change him in ways no one would ever expect.”

  “Yes,” said Lancaster slowly. “I expect it could. Circumstances, too, can change a man.”

  “Make him different. Send him in different directions.”

  “Yes.”

  Crispin heaved a sigh. “And so I ask you, your grace, why were your arrows used so heinously in the last few days?”

  “What proof have you that those arrows are mine?”

  What indeed? The maker was now dead. And who would need to silence him? Who but a man hiding something from the light of day? “The proof is dead along with Master Peale. But he did identify them to me. Much good that is.”

  Lancaster turned. His dark eyes revealed nothing. No spark. Not a twinkle. His lips twisted slightly and then parted. His voice was dangerous. “Do you dare accuse me, Guest? Do you?”

  The sickening feeling in the center of Crispin’s gut throbbed. “I only know what I know, your grace. That those arrows are yours. That Miles Aleyn was hired by an unknown person seven years ago to plot against the king and probably hired by the same man today. That these arrows killed and tried to kill. And that Edward Peale is dead.”

  “If that is all you know, then it is wiser to keep silent on the subject.”

  “Your grace—”

  “Do you have a death wish!” Lancaster fisted the hilt of his dagger but kept it sheathed. “Is it your desire to be slain here and now in my chamber? Who would accuse me then? An assassin killed? A man witnessed by all the court holding the foul murder weapon? I will be a hero. What’s to stop me, Master Guest?”

  Crispin straightened. “Nothing. You may do what you wish, my lord. I am at your mercy. I only want to know if we are opposing forces. I do not desire it. You know how I feel.”

  “And you know me not! Get out, before I take a sword to you.”

  “I made an oath to you once. I swore to be your man until my death. I have never foresworn that. But know this: I will not turn myself in. I will unmask the assassin—and his associates—and clear myself. To do that, I’ve got to escape this palace. I know you will not help me, but will you at least let me leave without raising the alarm?”

  “I will give you a quarter hour lead.”

  Crispin stood as he was, back to the wall, and stared in disbelief at the man. He wanted to remind Lancaster how he’d served him as a household page all the young years of his childhood, his adolescent years as a squire, and when he was eighteen how the duke had made him a knight, dubbing him with his own sword.

  But he couldn’t. It wasn’t because his throat was too warm and thick. He just wouldn’t say the words. He glanced at the floor instead and clenched his jaw.

  Lancaster closed his eyes and raised his fist to his mouth, sliding the back of his hand over his lips. After a long silence he said, “You’ll never make it over the wall. It’s a fifteen-foot drop. There is a way out that few know of. A secret way.”

  Crispin raised his eyes.

  “It is still used on occasion. It might be guarded.”

  “Where?”

  Lancaster explained how to get to it, how to avoid the guards. Crispin understood.

  “Can you make it from here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then go.”

  Crispin turned to leave.

  Lancaster took a step, hesitated, stopped. “I hope you can prove your innocence. It’s going to take a great deal.”

  “I will throw the assassin at the king’s feet myself.”

  Lancaster raised a brow. “Indeed. It will take that. Are you up to it?”

  Crispin nodded but didn’t look at Lancaster. He couldn’t afford to. “Whatever it takes.”

  Crispin stared out the window he had pried open, out to the rain-wet courtyard. He squeezed himself through over the sill and dropped with a splatter onto the muddy grass and stayed in a crouched position, which did nothing for the state of his shoulder. When all seemed clear, he dashed for the bushes along the palace walls and made his way to the west corner. Lancaster said there was a secret door in the garden wall that led to a long passage that let out to the wharves.

  Crispin hoped it was true.

  The rain steadied, drumming his head until his hair hung like moss to his scalp. He dared not obscure his view by raising his hood. After slogging through the muddy yard and sodden foliage, he neared the place Lancaster said he should explore and he thrust his hands forward searching for the wall. The darkness had fallen suddenly, like a cord cut in the heavens. He swore an oath when his fingers smashed against the hard stone. His hands searched, muddy, slimy from the walls and God-knows-what. Then he felt the edges, found the secret latch, and sent up a quick prayer of thanks when it soundlessly opened.

  He slipped through and trotted a long way down an extended passageway. The smell of the wharves gave away his location and he stepped out into a back alley. The odor of rotting fish and sewage assailed him, but he thought it never smelled as sweet.

  Crispin ducked into the street and jogged down the slick cobblestones. He saw the Thames ripple through flashes of torchlight and slanted rain, and he hurried along the river back to London. He only hoped he could make it there before the king’s men.

  19

  “JACK!” CRISPIN THREW OPEN the door. The room was dark except for the faint glow of the peat embers in the hearth. “Jack.” He heard a yawn and fell on the sleepy boy in the hay. “Jack. You’re still here.”

  “Aye, Master. ’Course I am. What’s amiss?”

  “You’ve got to get up now. We’re going to the Boar’s Tusk.”

  “I ain’t thirsty, Master. I’m just weary.” He tried to lay back down but Crispin yanked him to his feet.

  “I said get up! Th
ere’s no time to waste. It’s not safe here.”

  “Not safe? ’Slud. What you got yourself into, Master?”

  Crispin started to light a candle but then thought better of it. “I went to Westminster Palace to try to stop an attempt on the king’s life.”

  “And did you?” Jack was fully awake now and pulled on his cloak.

  “Well . . . in a manner of speaking. I mean, I did stop it, but—”

  Jack grabbed the sore arm and Crispin winced. “You’re hurt. What’s happened?”

  “I got myself accused of the assassination attempt. And now I’m on the run. So if you don’t mind, make haste!”

  Jack threw his arm across the doorway to block Crispin. “Wait. You mean to tell me you got yourself blamed for trying to kill the king? Did anyone see you?”

  Crispin tried not to look at Jack. “Did anyone see me? Only all of court.” Crispin made a halfhearted attempt at a laugh. “It doesn’t look good, Jack. We must leave.”

  Jack raised his hands and made a plaintive plea to the heavens. “I leave you alone for a few hours—”

  “We must go!”

  “Wait! What about the Crown o’ Thorns?”

  Crispin’s glance darted toward the corner. “God’s blood!” He stomped to the hay pile and freed the wooden box. He cast open the lid, pulled out the gold box and opened it. His fingers touched the Crown and he yanked it out and looked at it. “Where was your invincibility tonight?” he accused. He stood with it a moment, clutching it in his hands. What was the purpose of holding on to this any longer? Well, it would certainly do Crispin no good anymore, but there was always Jack. If Jack took this to court, perhaps he would get a reward. No, no. Better he take it to the sheriff when he could. The sheriff would surely realize that Jack was no marksman with a bow. Wynchecombe might have the bollocks to defend the boy, but then again . . . Crispin ran a hand up his face. He couldn’t think. His shoulder still pained him, still muddled his mind. Only one thing was clear. He had to keep the Crown safe until he could let someone know where it was.

  He glanced at the hearth and strode to it. He leaned down and, braced against the heat, he reached up inside the chimney as high as he could and tucked it on the smoke shelf.

  Done, he made for the door.

  “What of the boxes?” Jack pointed to the courier boxes in the hay.

  “Cover them up again and hope for the best. Then come on.”

  He didn’t wait for Jack. He knew the boy would catch up. Crispin rambled down the steps and onto the street. It was past curfew but it didn’t matter. His long strides took him quickly to Gutter Lane and even as he turned the corner Jack drew up beside him. He expected a smile on the boy’s normally cheerful face, but those ginger brows were instead wrinkled over worried eyes.

  Crispin knocked on the tavern’s door and a sleepy Ned answered. “Master Crispin, it’s far past curfew.”

  “I know it, Ned, but we need to come in. I must talk with Gilbert.”

  Ned had already shuffled out of the way, his hair more disarrayed than usual. Crispin didn’t know if the boy was heading for Gilbert’s room or not, so he pushed him out of the way and began shouting. “Gilbert Langton! Awake!”

  Crispin turned at a sound and saw Gilbert, wearing only his knee-length chemise, leaning in a doorway. Gilbert was rubbing his tosseled head. “What’s the matter? Crispin? For the love of the Virgin, what are you doing here at this hour?”

  Now that sanctuary seemed close at hand Crispin was ready to crumble. He needed rest. Food could wait. “Gilbert.” It felt good to drape his hand on his friend’s shoulder. He really wanted to drop into his arms. “There’s a lot to explain, but simply put, the king’s men are after me. I need a place to hide out for a few days until I can get out of London.”

  “Out of London?” Gilbert was now fully awake. He dragged Crispin by the arm and hurried him down the stairs into the wine mews. Ned followed with a candle. It barely lit the big bellies of sweating casks, a stone floor, a table, two chairs, and a cot the scullion sisters recently shared. “Crispin! What have you done?”

  “I’ve done nothing but try to save the king, and it’s got me only trials and evils!” He slammed his fist to the wall. “I saved him! And now I am blamed for trying to kill him myself!”

  Gilbert looked at Jack, whose pale face had nothing to offer. “We need wine.” Gilbert found a jug and put it under a spigot. “No need for straws, lads. Jack, fetch the bowls. One for each of us.”

  Crispin sank to the chair and put his head in his hands. Ned stood warily next to the other chair as Gilbert sat. Jack offered the bowls and Gilbert filled them, Crispin’s first. They all drank silently until Crispin shook his head and grasped the bowl with both hands. “I’ve gotten myself into a right fix this time. I truly do not know how I am to come out of it alive.”

  “The trick is,” said Gilbert, “to find the real assassin.”

  “I can’t do that if I’m not at court.” Crispin gulped the wine and set the bowl down again. Gilbert refilled it and he watched the alluring flicker of ruby red and yellow candlelight play against the sides of the clay bowl.

  Gilbert drank his wine. “The king has it in for you. Always has. Probably jealous of you and Lancaster. After all, a man can tell the difference between fawning and true affection.”

  Crispin rubbed his chin, feeling the stubble. He looked up into the shadowy faces of Jack, Ned, and Gilbert. “I can’t think anymore tonight. Let me rest. But Gilbert, you must keep watch. The sheriff may come here looking for me.”

  ONCE NED AND GILBERT left them alone, Jack settled Crispin on the cot, and as soon as he hit the straw he lost track of Jack and everything else.

  Until the sound of men shouting awoke him.

  He scrambled out of bed. His knife was in his hand and he looked up the stairs where Jack pressed his ear to the door. He motioned down to Crispin to be quiet and hide.

  Crispin cast about for a reasonable hiding place. Behind the large tun cask. A tight fit with his nose pressed against the damp wood. His nostrils filled with the smell of must and old wine.

  Wynchecombe’s voice trembled the rafters. “I know he’s here!” He crashed through the door sending Jack tumbling down several steps. Crispin squeezed his dagger hilt. If anything happened to the boy because of him . . .

  “Bring a candle,” bellowed the sheriff.

  One of the sheriff’s men thrust a candle at him. He took it and held it aloft. “Ah, Jack Tucker. Where the lapdog is, the master is close at hand.”

  “No, my good lord. I don’t know where Master Crispin is. What is all this about?”

  “Get out of my way.”

  Crispin heard a slap. He held his breath, ready to pounce.

  The sheriff’s heavy footfalls thundered down the steps. He paused at the bottom and then silence.

  It had been folly coming to the Boar’s Tusk. Now Crispin endangered all those he loved. He should have taken his chances on the Shambles or simply gotten out of London completely. Of course it was all too late. What was the use in hiding? There was no way out of the cellar and Wynchecombe was going to catch him. It was over.

  The sheriff blew a long breath through his nose. “Go out to the tavern and wait for me.” He called this up the stairs, Crispin assumed to his men.

  “My Lord Sheriff? And leave you alone with a desperate criminal?”

  “He can’t get out except up the stairs. Leave me, I say.”

  Crispin listened to the sound of the men’s retreating footsteps until they finally disappeared.

  “Jack,” said the sheriff, his voice low and slick. “Close the door.”

  “My Lord Sheriff, I’m telling you—”

  “Close the damn door!”

  Jack’s miserable steps trudged slowly upward and then the door clicked closed. “He’s not here, my lord,” repeated Jack in a desperate voice.

  Wynchecombe didn’t reply. His echoing steps made a slow meander. The flat of his boots crunched damply on th
e stone floor. “Crispin.” His voice echoed hollowly. Each cask tossed the sound back to Crispin. “Oh Crispin. I know you’re here. Best come out and talk to me. It’s your only and last chance.”

  Crispin didn’t think he could stomach being thrown into prison again. And he did not relish the idea of more torture. This time, they would devise something better, something more lingering. And then his execution was bound to be long and agonizing. Perhaps he could use the sheriff as a hostage. It was worth a try.

  Crispin squeezed out of his hiding place and stepped before the sheriff. The candle in Wynchecombe’s hand lit his face with enough malevolent light to sharpen his features to demonic proportions.

  “Well, well. Here he stands.” The sheriff laid his hand on his sword pommel, seemed to consider, and let his hand fall back. “A merry chase, but now it is done.”

  “You have something to say to me, Wynchecombe?”

  He shook his head and chuckled. “Must I constantly remind you, Crispin, that you must address me as ‘my Lord Sheriff’? Why is that so difficult to remember?”

  “I have no time for games. If you’ve come to arrest me I warn you. I won’t go quietly.”

  “I didn’t expect that you would. I will be happy to see you in gaol again where you belong and to collect the reward for your capture.” He smiled. The candlelight caught it. His teeth glowed like bones. “Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t.”

  Crispin glanced down at his hand, and turned the dagger in the candlelight.

  Wynchecombe looked at it, too. “Are you going to use that?”

  Crispin tightened his hold. “I haven’t decided yet.”

  Wynchecombe’s smile flattened. “I’m still waiting for a reason.”

  Crispin tried, as he had tried many times before, to discern the man behind those dark eyes. Wynchecombe was greedy, self-important, vicious, cruel, and ambitious. But his dealings with Crispin had been fair, tempered, of course, by Wynchecombe’s threats and imperious style.

  The sheriff seemed to be offering him a chance—whatever that chance was. His other options didn’t look so good.