Serpent in the Thorns

by Jeri Westerson

  Damn the boy. “The rest?”

  “Aye. The rest you’re trying so hard not to tell me.”

  Suddenly the pork didn’t taste as good. Crispin tossed the bone into the fire. He rose and went to the water jug and basin, pouring the icy water over his hands and shaking off the wet. “I discovered from whom the arrows came.”

  Jack gulped his wine and settled expectantly on his stool. “Well?”

  Crispin shook his head, tried to chuckle. “It’s absurd,” he said, returning to the table and sitting. “There is a simple explanation.”

  “Aye. There could be. If you’d just tell me.”

  Crispin stared at Jack, at a face that didn’t seem to belong to a young boy anymore. Jack’s eyes were wise. Well, sympathetic, at any rate. They did not show impatience as they should. They only waited. Who was this boy? As alone in the world as Crispin was. Clever. Resourceful. Just born on the wrong side of the Thames.

  Crispin sighed. “Very well, Jack. Master Peale was quite insistent that the arrows were made for . . . the duke of Lancaster.”

  No protestations, no jumping up with shouts of denial. Jack was calm, even nodded thoughtfully.

  It irritated like hell.

  “The duke’s arrows, eh? That’s a sly trick, that. Stealing his arrows so he’d appear to be guilty.”

  The simplest of explanations. Crispin’s gut was so tangled that he had not been able to dredge up such an uncomplicated rationalization.

  “So,” said Jack, mouth bulging with food. “Whoever stole his grace’s arrows is the killer.”

  Crispin bobbed his head inattentively. “It’s as good a conjecture as any.”

  “So what you’re saying is, there ain’t no way to trace them to the Captain of the Archers now, is there?”

  Crispin gritted his teeth and took a swig. The wine—turning quickly to vinegar—burned down his throat. “In truth, no.” He slammed the table with the flat of his hand. “Damn!”

  “Then you’ll have to catch him in the act.”

  He looked up at Jack. The boy’s face wore all the confidence in Crispin that Crispin did not have for himself. Jack’s chin jutted in pride, the same pride he’d seen on the faces of squires watching their masters at tournament or on the battlefield.

  Crispin leaned back in his chair. His fingers toyed with the rim of his wine bowl. “There is the possibility that he will not strike again. Not any time soon.”

  Jack chewed thoughtfully until his jaw slowed and stopped. “You may be right, there. He might lie low for months!” Jack scratched his head. He slowly pivoted his glance toward the buried reliquary. “Master! What are we going to do with that? We can’t keep it for months.”

  They both looked at the unassuming pile of straw.

  “The longer we delay giving it back,” said Jack, “the worse it will get.”

  “For ‘us’?”

  “Well, I deem m’self in your care—and you in mine.”

  Crispin’s smile flattened. “You’re right, of course. I’ve kept it too long already. I suppose I can leave out how I acquired it.”

  “Will the king accept that?”

  “I don’t know.” He scowled. “God’s blood! It’s looking more and more like I should surrender it to the sheriff.”

  “It would take the blame from you.”

  “And the credit!” He shot from the chair and paced the small room. Finally he lighted in front of the hearth. He leaned forward and pressed his hands against the wall and stared into the short flames. “I have so few opportunities—so few chances to prove myself.” He laughed but it came out a bitter sound. “Who am I fooling? No matter what I do—even if I announced the Second Coming myself—Richard would never allow me back to court. Never give me back my—” He made an airless chuckle. “My title and knighthood.” He shook his head, a smile still pasted on his mouth. “I am nothing,” he said quietly. “That’s what they told me, Jack. ‘You are nothing.’ And only God can make something from nothing.”

  He hung his head between his outstretched arms and closed his eyes. What foolish pride had made him think he could overcome this Hell with a simple return of goods? His head whipped up and he glared at the straw pile. He stomped toward it and cast the straw aside.

  “What are you going to do?” asked Jack’s worried voice behind him.

  “Why do these things curse me?” Crispin opened the box. He lifted out the golden casket and threw open the lid. He snatched the Crown of Thorns and turned it in his hand. “Look at this. It should be so treasured a thing. But look what it’s done to me. It gave me hope. I promised myself I would allow no one and nothing to do so ever again.”

  Jack stood at his shoulder and looked down at the Crown. His hands fumbled forward as if trying to protect it. “But it touched Jesus’ head, Master. I wouldn’t—You shouldn’t be touching it.”

  Crispin clenched the Crown in his hand. The dry rushes crackled. He wanted to heave it against the wall. He wanted to see it splinter into a million pieces. And he didn’t know why he was so angry at such a thing. It certainly wasn’t the Crown’s fault he was in this situation. After no choices for so long, he had chosen to become this “Tracker,” and it had been his saving grace. He could use the acuity of his mind, his fighting skills, and his knowledge to fight injustice. He was proud of his accomplishments. Miles was evil and had tricked him as he tricked all those other knights, now dead. But it wasn’t the Crown’s fault. It was only because of those couriers. That’s how he got the Crown.

  The French couriers. What had they to do with this? He wondered where they were.

  With a sigh, he slipped the Crown unsteadily back into its casket, closed the lid, and put it back within the wooden box. He packed the straw around it again but snatched his hand back with a sharp inhale. A bead of blood appeared on his finger. He’d pricked it. He looked in the straw and found a stray thorn. It must have fallen out of the Crown when he manhandled it. He drew it from the straw and dropped it in his pouch.

  He concentrated his hate on Miles. Surely it was all Miles, not Lancaster. Jack was right, had to be. Lancaster was an innocent pawn in this.

  There was much more to be learned. He needed answers not more questions. And if he was to learn anything he had to know more about why that Crown had not immediately been taken to court as it should have been.

  He had to find those couriers.

  14

  THE KING’S HEAD WAS blazed golden by the late-afternoon light, but it belied a grimy interior, more so even that the Boar’s Tusk. When Crispin entered, a haze of wood smoke hovered over the tables. Men hunched in a circle near the fire and lifted their heads from stooped shoulders long enough to look Crispin over before they gave him a dismissive flick of their lids and turned back to their coven.

  A woman approached Crispin. Mislaid strands of her hair hung in lifeless strings before her eyes and she wiped her hands on her apron. She might be the innkeeper’s wife, or just another wench who worked in the tavern’s hall. It was hard to be certain. “Good day. What will you have?”

  “I would speak with your Master.”

  She sighed. “Aye. He’s in the back.”

  He followed her leisurely steps through a ragged curtain. The innkeeper was there filling jugs of ale from a keg. He was a tall man, bald, with a beaklike nose. He aimed a milky blue eye at Crispin. “Eh? What’s your business?”

  “The Frenchmen. Are they here?”

  The man shot to his feet. “You’re the one.” His finger thrust toward Crispin’s face like a dagger, and when he got close enough to make that finger uncomfortable, Crispin took half a step back and laid his hand on his own weapon. “You’re the one that took my scullions. And I just hired them two. Where are they?”

  “They needed to be kept safe.”

  “Safe!” He snorted. “After killing that man. Now I’ll never be rid of those foreigners.”

  “They are here, then?”

  His face squinted. He mashed his lips before spit
ting at the fire. He missed. “Aye, they’re here.”

  “Where?”

  “Top of the stairs.” He leaned forward. “Oi. No trouble, mind.”

  Crispin showed his teeth. “No trouble.”

  He parted the curtain and trotted up the stairs to the gallery. He knocked politely. A rustle. A chair scraped. The door opened a sliver.

  Crispin nodded his head in a slight bow. “Mes seigneurs. Bonjour.”

  “Ah!” said the man in French. “It is that smart Englishman.”

  “Will you allow me in?” continued Crispin in the same language.

  The man closed the door in his face. Crispin heard him confer with his companion and then the door opened again. “Come in.” He stepped aside and the other man scowled as Crispin entered.

  Crispin assessed the two men, the table with its two beakers of wine, two bowls of half-eaten fare. “You had a fourth companion. Where is he?”

  “He is not here,” said the first. His dark hair, lustrous in the firelight, remained brushed away from his wide forehead.

  “Any new insight as to why your friend was killed?”

  “Gautier had an idea.” Laurent turned to the other man with the dark hair and sour disposition. Crispin raised his face to him.

  “Well?”

  Gautier shrugged. “I thought I heard him say he saw someone he knew.”

  “Where?”

  “I do not know. I was preoccupied.”

  “With the wench Livith?”

  “I do not know her name.”

  Crispin looked at the first man. “What of you, Maître Laurent?”

  “I was similarly occupied. I did not notice our companion was missing for quite some time.”

  “You were supposed to be guarding this most holy relic for your king. Now your negligence has cost you. And us.”

  Gautier hooked his thumbs in his belt. “What’s another battle with England to us? This war goes on without ceasing.”

  “This relic was a goodwill gesture,” said Crispin. “It could have meant lasting peace.”

  There was a pause, and then both Frenchmen erupted in laughter. Crispin’s solemn face broke into a smile, and then he joined them. The Frenchmen pointed at him and Laurent clapped Crispin on the back.

  “Sit,” said Laurent. He pulled a jug from the shelf. “It is English wine, but it at least has spirits.” He poured three cups and handed one each to Crispin and to Gautier. “To peace?” he said, raising his cup.

  Crispin stood. “To the King of France.”

  The other two stood with cups raised. “To the King of England,” said Laurent. They all chuckled and clanked cups.

  They sat and Laurent refilled their cups. “A sensible Englishman. I never thought to find one.”

  “Oh, we do exist. Few are at court.”

  Gautier leaned forward. The hand clutching his cup had square, flat fingernails. “So. What is your interest in this? You are not the sheriff.”

  Crispin kept one eye on the door. It would not do well to have his back to it if their fourth companion returned. “No. It is my vocation to solve riddles. My name is Crispin Guest.”

  “You would solve the murderer of a Frenchmen? Why do you care?”

  “I care about all crimes. Especially when they have to do with the assassination of my king.”

  “Sang Deu! Someone has tried to kill your king?”

  “Have you not heard?”

  The Frenchmen looked at one another a long moment before Laurent shrugged. “I suppose we have,” he said in heavily accented English.

  “So you do understand my language,” said Crispin, also in English.

  Gautier rubbed his smooth chin. “When it is convenient.”

  Crispin settled in. “I see. Well then. Let us speak plainly. Why did you come to the King’s Head instead of going directly to court?”

  “We told you,” said Gautier with a frown. “We were to prepare for the English court.”

  “And that ‘preparation’ involved going off in separate directions to get your companion killed and the relic stolen?”

  Laurent stared at Crispin. His dark eyes narrowed. “Are we being accused of this?”

  “Did you kill Michel Girard?”

  Laurent knocked back his chair as he jumped to his feet and drew his blade. “He’s a spy for the crown of England!”

  Gautier followed suit. Crispin didn’t move and looked at them both. He leaned on his arm and sipped his wine. “If you only knew how humorous a suggestion that was . . .”

  “Get up.” Laurent waved the sword tip near Crispin’s face. Crispin felt it itch his skin and longed to smack it out of the way. He sat nearly immobile instead and drank more.

  “I think not. I’m not a spy. I want to get to the bottom of this plot.”

  Laurent tightened his grip on the sword. His knuckles whitened and shined with sweat.

  Crispin set his cup down and swiveled on his stool to face them both. Two swords aimed at his chest. He kept his breathing steady.

  Laurent’s eyes made the barest of flickers toward Gautier. They breathed heavily for a moment more before they both withdrew their swords from Crispin’s chest at the same time and smoothly sheathed them. “Then? Why are you here?”

  “For information. Anything that will help me. I find it improbable that you met here to ‘prepare’ for the English court.”

  Gautier sucked in his lips while Laurent scowled at the floor.

  “Just so. You will not say. Yet your companion is dead and you deny having to do with his murder. Is that correct?”

  Without looking at Crispin, they both nodded.

  “Mmm. Well, it is lucky for you that I already know the assassin. When did you discover Maître Girard was dead?”

  “Not until the sheriff arrived,” said Laurent. “We were as surprised as anyone else.” And he looked it.

  “Why did he kill your friend?” asked Crispin.

  Gautier shook his head. “For the relic?”

  It was Crispin’s turn to lower his gaze. “Perhaps.”

  “Maybe,” offered Laurent, “they knew one another. The killer and Michel. He said he saw someone he recognized.”

  Gautier dug his teeth into his bottom lip. “It seems strange, no? That Michel would be killed by someone he knew.”

  “On the contrary,” said Crispin. “In my experience, I find that most murders are committed by acquaintances. Mostly in drunken tavern brawls. But this murderer also wanted to kill the king.” He gauged their faces as he said it. There was a flicker in their eyes but he could not tell what it might reveal. “How would Michel have known such a man, an Englishman?”

  “I don’t know,” said Gautier. “He has never been to England before.”

  “Then this killer has obviously been to France.”

  Laurent nodded. “So it would seem.”

  “Do you know a man named Miles Aleyn?”

  The Frenchmen looked at one another. They slowly turned toward Crispin and answered, “No.”

  Crispin eyed them steadily and it was Gautier who dropped his eyes first.

  “Indeed.” Crispin glanced at his empty cup and left it where it sat. “What of this other companion of yours, the one searching for the relic. What is his name?”

  After a lengthy pause, Crispin looked up again. The men stared at one another. Laurent stuck out his lower lip. “I do not think we are at liberty to say.”

  “No?” Crispin stared pointedly at Gautier who shuffled his feet. “We have our instructions, Maître Guest. We . . . may not say.”

  “I see.” He rose. “I thank you, gentlemen, for your time and your . . . trust,” he said with a sharpened expression.

  “But you will do your utmost to expose Michel’s murderer?”

  Crispin turned to Laurent. “Oh I shall. But I do not need to tell you that the more information you can provide the easier it shall be for me to discover the culprit.”

  They were both as tight-lipped as before, though their gaz
e was steady on Crispin’s.

  “Very well,” he said and bowed to both Frenchmen, put up his hood, and took his leave.

  He stood outside their closed door and stared at it. What plot were they hatching that they would not divulge the reason for their stay at the King’s Head or the identity of their fourth companion? Did it have to do with the attempt on Richard’s life? Yet they seemed genuinely surprised by that news. Strange. And Miles Aleyn. The name had caused a spark of recognition in their eyes. They might not have killed their companion but they were hiding a great deal. Just what it might be, Crispin was yet uncertain.

  The situation was getting more complicated than need be. It should be simpler. Miles did it. He had been in France. He told Crispin as much. He must have killed the Frenchman because the courier could identify him. Simple.

  And the arrows? He stole them to deflect any identification from him.

  But a bigger question remained. If it were a plot all along to kill the king, why the attack on Livith and Grayce? If they knew something, saw something that might incriminate the killer, then the scullions were in far more danger than he thought.

  Where was that fourth courier?

  He scrambled out of the inn and ran full tilt back toward Westminster Palace.

  CRISPIN ENTERED THE PALACE kitchens easily and hurled down the steps. He scanned the room. It was even busier than before.

  There, Livith was giving orders to Grayce while Grayce happily accepted them. They looked too busy to notice him. They were safe and none the wiser for their danger. Crispin bent over to grasp his thighs and breathed. He had imagined them both dead, arrows protruding from their necks. But now his thumping heart was tempered with annoyance. If only that damned Livith would let him force the information from Grayce’s stubborn mind.

  Blowing out a sigh, he straightened. Livith was probably right. Grayce was too dull-witted. She said she didn’t remember, and in all likelihood she didn’t.

  The urge was strong to bundle them both and send them into the country, but where could he send them? He knew no one outside of London who would do him a favor.

  He tapped his finger on his knife hilt. There was little choice in the matter. He had done what he could. Hidden in the largest kitchen in London was surely an adequate hiding place.