Richard’s face showed little emotion, though Crispin and all of London knew his devotions were sincere. Oddly, he looked as if he would rather be anywhere but there. Crispin supposed that two attempts on his life were getting the better of him. No wonder this ceremony was conducted in haste and inside palace walls.
Richard dutifully stretched out his hands to receive the Crown, bowed to the French ambassador who bowed back to Richard, then handed the Crown to a page, who raised a velvet pillow to receive it.
It was done. The Crown was now safely in Richard’s hands for the moment. But until the Crown was returned again to France, no one in England would breathe any sighs of relief.
The men and women of the court moved forward, hailing Richard. Servants arrived from all directions to offer celebratory wine. Crispin took this moment to fade into the crowd, backing away, especially from Wynchecombe. He aimed for the kitchens, hopeful he might retrieve his cloak. He walked backward, bowing to any who happened to look his way, though most did not. He was forgotten, just as he wanted to be.
The kitchens lay at the opposite end from the king’s dais, making a large expanse of floor to traverse. But he made his backward progress with little interference from milling servants and reached the kitchen archway without once being stopped.
When he looked up from under his hood one last time, something caught his eye.
Across the hall, almost exactly opposite the destroyed tapestry on which Crispin made his escape, he saw Miles, teasing the shadowy edge of a pillar.
Across from Miles, the French couriers stood apart from the English throng. But Crispin saw the moment they spotted Miles and recognition flowered on their faces.
Miles did not notice them, however, and took a step back, shielded from the king by the column. Something was in his hand.
Without thinking, Crispin reached for his dagger, but he was hindered by the cassock, and he wrestled with the unresponsive garment, trying to free it.
Before he could draw his blade, his shoulder—the same dislocated only the night before—slammed against the wall as if punched, ablaze in fiery pain. He staggered forward with a choked gasp, suddenly woozy. He took a step back—one, two—until his foot found no step at all. Darkness was closing in as he lost his balance and tumbled down the kitchen stairway. When his head hit the bottom step, he was already unconscious.
23
CRISPIN OPENED HIS EYES a crack, but as soon as he did, it seemed the whole world burst upon him in a roiling sea of hot pain. His head—no, his shoulder hurt more, the same one he had dislocated, and felt as if a demon jabbed it with a hot poker.
He tried to roll toward the shoulder, but strong hands pushed him back. His eyes looked up, tried to focus, gave up.
“Don’t try to move.” A woman’s voice. Familiar. Her hands were tearing open the cassock. “I’m going to fix you up.”
His dry lips parted as his mind caught up. “Livith?”
“Don’t move, I say. I found you at the bottom of the stairs.”
“Where am I now?”
“You’re in my room. It’s only a storeroom, but we call it home. For now.” She smiled at Crispin, a pleasant sensation out of so many discordant ones. “You went and got yourself shot with an arrow, didn’t you.”
Crispin turned his head and looked at the shaft protruding from the space between his shoulder and collarbone. Hawk fletching.
“Damn Miles to Hell.” Crispin jolted upright, or at least tried to. The searing pain flattened him again. “The king! Is he well?”
“He is. No harm came to him. You must keep your strength. I’ve got to get that arrow out.”
Crispin was about to protest, but realized Livith couldn’t very well get a physician or even a barber. He wasn’t supposed to be in the palace in the first place, and if caught, an arrow in the shoulder would be the least of his troubles.
“Very well,” he grunted. He felt the sweat burst out all over his body and a queasy feeling rumbled in his belly.
She nodded and looked behind her. Crispin was on the floor and she grabbed his arm and yanked. “It’ll be easier if you were on the table.”
He rose to his feet and stood on his two legs, though they did not feel as if they belonged to him. She maneuvered him toward the table and he sat on the edge and slid the rest of the way. “You’ll have to slide your shoulder to the edge. I’m going to drive the arrow through.”
“Christ’s blood.”
“It ain’t Christ’s blood I’m worrying about.”
She helped him to maneuver his bad shoulder off the table’s edge. He felt her at his belt.
“What are you doing?”
She smiled a sly grin full of immodesty. “Now then, Master Crispin. You think I’ll take advantage of you?” She kept her smile even as she crawled up on the table and straddled him. Her thighs tightened around him. “I like my men fully aware and conscious. And they like it that way, too.”
He managed a smile. “I’ve no doubt of that.”
She unbuckled the belt, stretched the leather between her hands, and held it toward his face. “I want you to bite down on this.”
He nodded and dutifully opened his mouth to receive it like a horse receiving his bit. The leather tasted of dirt, oil, and the dull tang of tanning. He bit down hard, especially when Livith brought up her wooden shoe and Crispin’s knife. She put the shoe on his chest and grabbed the arrow’s shaft. She cut the shirt away from the arrow wound and began running the blade around the shaft, sawing an even line around its circumference. “I’m going to break off the arrow as much as I can,” she said, hair falling in her face. It was the first time she hadn’t worn her scruffy linen kerchief and he could see the thick tendrils of the ash blond hair falling about her cheeks. He reached up and touched a curled end of one lock, and Livith slowed. She watched his fingers entwine, the hair curling around his hand. She looked into his eyes and he smiled again and spat out the belt.
“I thank you for this.”
“You can’t go about with an arrow in you, eh?” She smiled and replaced the leather between his lips.
His gaze fell away from her’s as the pain of the arrow overwhelmed. He stared at the shoe on his chest, ran his glance over its contours, the mud on its sole. Something about the shoe disturbed him, and he tried to unwind the hidden thoughts about it, but another wave of pain forced a groan from his lips through the belt, and he forgot all else.
Livith grabbed the arrow shaft at the base at Crispin’s shoulder, grasped the other fletched end, and suddenly snapped it.
Crispin arched and grunted through his teeth.
Livith steadied herself on Crispin and took up the shoe. “When I count to three, I’ll drive it through with this. Then I’ll have to pull it out from below. I’ve no way to tie you down and there’s no time to get help from anyone. Do you understand?”
He nodded and clenched the leather. Just get it over with.
She put her one hand firmly on his good shoulder to keep him still, and raised up the wooden shoe in the other hand. “One . . . two . . . three!”
Crispin screamed through his teeth. The leather belt took the brunt of it. He wanted to thrash out, to arch his back, but he held himself firm and stretched his neck sinews as far as they would go.
When he felt her yank the bloody arrow through his back, blackness encompassed him. The last conscious sensation was a wave of relief and his head smacking against the table.
* * *
CRISPIN AWOKE AGAIN, THIS time on a straw-covered pallet. His shoulder was packed solid with cloth and a sling was tied around his arm and neck. The cassock had been removed completely and lay in a heap beside the bed. He thought about sitting up for the grand span of a heartbeat and gave up the idea when the pain told him to stay where he was. He stared up at the dusty cobwebs and beams, inhaled the musty air, and licked his dry lips, praying for wine.
A door opened. He lifted his head enough to see Livith shutting it carefully, and she had something
in her hand and over her arm. “I brought you wine,” she said, raising the bowl. “Master On-slow gave it to me when I told him what it was for. I also brought your cloak.”
She handed him the bowl and spread the cloak over his nakedness like a blanket. She slipped her arm under his shoulders, cradled him, and lifted him enough to drink. He thirstily drank the bowl dry. “There. That will be good for the blood.” She helped him back down and sat beside him on the straw.
“Livith, thank you again. Did you see what happened?”
“I saw you tumble down the stairs at me feet with an arrow stuck in you. That’s all I saw.”
“Damn Miles. The audacity of him. I must stop him before he harms the king.” Crispin tried to rise and made no argument when Livith pushed him back.
“You’ll not get up today. You didn’t lose a lot of blood but it’s still a shock to the body.”
“I’ve been wounded before.”
“Aye.” She slid the cloak down revealing his naked chest and torso. Her finger traced the many sword and knife scars. “There’s probably the whole map of France here.”
He inhaled, careful not to jar his shoulder. “You may be right.”
“But this—” She pulled the cloak down farther and ran her finger over the old burns just below his rib cage. “This is not from war. Who did this to you?”
Crispin gazed at Livith’s clouded eyes. They narrowed with scorn but it was not directed toward him. “That was the king’s men trying to extract a confession.”
Her face hardened but she did not take her hand away. “I’d’a thought you’d want King Richard dead.”
“Not by the hand of an assassin. He is still my king.”
She raised a brow. “And did you think so when you was committing treason?”
“That was then. This is now.”
She made that low laugh deep in her throat. Crispin felt it somewhat lower.
He tried to survey the room, but all was too dark. He got the vague impression of shelves and barrels, but that was all. “You shouldn’t be alone with me here,” he said. “I feel you are safer back with the kitchen staff.”
“No one will trouble us here.”
“But the killer was after you, too.”
“I tell you no one has troubled us.”
She hadn’t replaced the cloak. Instead, her fingers slowly ran up his breast, combing through his dark chest hair. She talked softly as she stroked, though at this point her words sounded more like the sighing of wind in the trees, or the soft sibilance of a waterfall. Maybe it was the wooziness in his head or the stabbing pain in his shoulder and arm, but he found himself intrigued with her mouth; that tart moue spouting all sorts of blasphemies and brash statements. He thought of her thighs tightening about his hips when she ministered to him earlier and it was suddenly impossible to concentrate at all on what she was saying. He reached up and clasped his fingers to the back of her neck and brought her face down. He covered those taut lips, thinking to silence her, but she moaned her pleasure into his mouth, opened her lips, and mashed her nose against his.
She slithered atop him and straddled him again, yanking his cloak completely away and tossing it aside.
“Are you extracting another arrow from me?” he gasped when she pulled her lips from his.
She smiled. Her eyes became slits, those faery eyes. “I am looking for a shaft,” she said, then grasped his braies and tugged them down.
“I should protest,” he said mildly, lifting his hips to accommodate.
She looked down. “I don’t see any objections.” She chuckled and raised herself.
Crispin closed his eyes and allowed her to do her will on him. A small portion of his mind warned him, but he ignored it, much as he ignored the pain of the hole in his shoulder.
She rocked over him, a soft moan escaping her lips. And then she leaned forward, mouth taunting his, teasing with feather touches. “Mon péché,” she breathed before she licked his open lips.
He heard a cry, but it wasn’t the one he expected. He snapped open his eyes and turned. Grayce stood in the doorway, her apron hem brought up to her mouth to stifle another scream. She shook her head, wild eyes glaring at Livith, and then she sprinted back into the shadows, feet slapping the stone floor.
“Mary’s dugs!” cried Livith, and rolled off him. Crispin caught the sight of white buttocks before her skirt fell back into place. She stared at the archway and then glanced back at Crispin with an apologetic smile. She hoisted his braies back into place. “Sorry, love. I must discover where she’s got to. Explain it to her.” She leaned over and kissed Crispin once, shook her head and made what he could only describe as a half-growl, half-purr, and lit off after Grayce.
Crispin threw his head back. Damn! But the creeping cold of the room did much to sober him. Livith had replaced his braies but not the cloak. He rolled to his good side and slowly edged into a sitting position. He found his cast-away cloak, and slid off the pallet to retrieve it. He decided to get his shirt on, even as bloodied and torn as it was. Better than nothing. She had conveniently torn away the left sleeve, so he shrugged into the right sleeve, eased it up his shoulder, and let the rags drape over the sling. He slung the cloak over his shoulders, and then slipped the shoulder cape and hood over his head. This proved more difficult, for the leather chaperon hood was fashioned to fit the body, and his sling got in the way of the cape sitting properly on his shoulders.
He swayed from weakness and pain. “I wish she’d brought more wine.” He needed warmth. He needed to get out of the palace. He needed Jack Tucker.
He stared at the door and made his way to it, then rested against the wood. Opening it a crack, he peered up the dark stairway and trudged up the stairs.
When he reached the top landing, he looked about. He could hear the sounds of the kitchen staff nearby. He opened a door and found the kitchen. Leaning heavily in the doorway, he watched the servants scurry, no doubt under Onslow’s direction. They carried platters, pots, and baskets, crossing and recrossing the wide expanse of the cavernous kitchen. But the perfected madrigal of servants dodging between each other was suddenly interrupted. Several servants near the great hall’s archway fell forward, colliding with others until the whole arrangement fell into disarray. Crispin soon saw why. Spear points danced above the crowd. Guards. And they were heading toward him. Someone had called the alarm. Grayce!
Crispin darted forward, forgetting for a split second the pain of his shoulder. He tumbled, remembering it, and fetched up against a table.
The guards tromped forward and Crispin peeled back. There had to be another way out. A door! He staggered toward it, hauled it open, and found himself out in a courtyard. Bloodied tree stumps served as butchering blocks. Empty barrels, feathers, and other refuse littered the yard. He looked for weapons. At least his knife was still in its scabbard on his hip, but it wouldn’t be enough to fend off a garrison. He passed through a door in the wall and hopped another low wall, ran a few yards, and felt a disturbing sense of familiarity when he looked up and found the window he’d crawled into before. Lancaster’s. Dare he try the duke’s patience a second time?
He looked back and heard the scramble of men and the clack of spears. They found the door and would soon be upon him. No choice, then.
Crispin climbed to the window and looked inside. The duke was there before a bright and appetizing fire. A short monk was talking to him.
No. Not a monk. Crispin froze in disbelief. It was Jack Tucker still in his borrowed cassock, but his slight frame drowned within the large, black gown. The boy shivered, head low between his shoulders in a half-bow of obeisance and fear, and he spoke in hurried sentences.
“Who are you?” cried the duke. “How did you get in here?”
“I am Master Crispin’s servant, m’lord.” He peeled back the cowl. “Jack Tucker.”
“Crispin’s servant?” Lancaster took a step back. He looked toward the doorway but no one was there. “Who allowed you in here?”
“Did he send you?”
“Oh no, m’lord! He’d flog me good if he knew I was troubling you.”
Lancaster frowned. “Away with you. I haven’t time for this.”
“M’lord, please. I beg of you. You must help him. He’s in powerful trouble. He’s trying to help so many people and all he gets is vexation in return. You must know he didn’t try to kill the king. You must know it!”
“I said get out. Must I use my sword on you?”
Jack dropped to his knees and tore open the cassock, baring his chest. “Do with me what you will. But I won’t stop begging for help.”
Lancaster drew back his hand and struck Jack across the face. Crispin gasped when Jack tumbled backward. But the boy recovered and brought his hand to his reddened cheek. “I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer, m’lord. Master Crispin is in danger of his life. He was trying to save the king, not kill him.”
Lancaster stepped forward and struck him again.
Crispin grabbed the sill. What was he to do? What could he do?
Jack rose to his knees again, only more unsteadily. “You can beat me within an inch of me life, but I won’t stop beggin’. My master’s missing. He might be dead.”
Lancaster glared down his nose at Jack and eased his palm back and forth over the pommel of his sword. “Does he still think the culprit is Miles Aleyn?”
“Aye, m’lord.”
“Does he say why?”
Jack licked his bruised lips. “He does.”
“Why, then?”
“He bid me say nought and nought I will say.”
Lancaster drew back his hand and delivered another blow that echoed throughout the chamber. Jack’s whimpers reached Crispin, and he curled his hands into fists.
“I will not say. My master bid me be silent and I will not say!”
Crispin pushed so hard the window shattered and he rolled into the room. He snapped to his feet and faced Lancaster. Somehow Crispin’s dagger was in his hand. “Strike him again and liege lord or no I swear I will drive this knife into you.”
Serpent in the Thorns Page 21