Serpent in the Thorns

by Jeri Westerson

  Crispin dived through the crowd; his only thought was to stop the arrow from launching. But there were too many damned people in his way! Move!

  In the back of his mind, he could hear that Lancaster had stopped speaking. A buzz of conversation amid high-pitched yelps of surprise followed in his wake. None of it mattered. All his concentration was centered on that tapestry.

  The bow advanced. He could see it now peeking from the tapestry. If he couldn’t make it in time—No! He wouldn’t think of it. Couldn’t. He doubled his efforts and threaded quickly between the courtiers.

  Finally shoving his way past the last stragglers at the crowd’s hem, Crispin leapt for the tapestry, grabbed the exposed weapon, and slammed it to the wall.

  The arrow shot forward, drastically off target from its intended mark. It flew and stuck in the wall just above the king’s chair.

  Richard leapt to his feet and snatched his wife’s hand, pulling her behind him. Someone screamed. The men on the dais threw themselves before the king, drew their swords, and whipped their heads around, searching.

  By then, the archer had released his grip on the short bow and rumbled behind the banners and tapestries to make his escape. The tapestry flew up, furling like a sail. Footsteps ran.

  Crispin tried to get to him, but now there was a crushing throng pushing against him. He stumbled. He reared up. His hood fell back, but it was too late. The crowd closed up again. Confused heads turned every which way. Women were wailing and everyone seemed to be shouting.

  And then someone gasped. Before Crispin knew what was happening, the crowd parted and left a wide circle around him. He suddenly and unaccountably found himself alone.

  Not so unaccountable. With a sinking feeling in his gut he knew exactly why.

  Crispin stared back at the anxious and horror-struck faces. A trickle of sweat dribbled down his temple to his cheek.

  “It’s Crispin Guest!” said a voice, shock spinning it to a whisper. The hall fell silent.

  Crispin didn’t need to look down at the guilty bow still clenched in his left hand.

  “Holy Christ,” he muttered.

  17

  AS CRISPIN SAW IT, there were only two choices: he could stay as he was and get captured and executed for a crime he didn’t commit—or he could run.

  He chose the latter.

  He threw himself forward into a knot of women. Screams filled his ears, but at least the women had no weapons. He felt the cascade of silk and satin on his hands, smelled their perfumes and sweat, and pushed ahead, crisscrossing amid the tight throng. All at once, he burst free of the crowd. Men with swords approached from one side, guards with guisarmes from another. The crowd of people shrank back.

  He looked at the short bow still in his hand and cast it away. At his back, a tapestry and a solid wall.

  This was not good.

  His eyes searched, mind churning. Escape. There had to be a way. There was always a way.

  He looked behind him at the tapestry, up to its stern iron rod, to the windows above.

  The men were coming, murder in their eyes. He was done for. No trial. No gaol. Just a bloody death right here in the great hall.

  Crispin spun. He grabbed the edge of the tapestry with both fists and pulled himself up, hand over hand. A spear whistled past his ear, moving his hair. He stopped only long enough to stare wide-eyed at the quivering shaft imbedded in the plaster before he threw his strength into reaching higher.

  The iron rod. He felt his hand curl around it and then the other hand. Now he dared look up and saw the window. It was farther than he thought.

  Another spear clanged against the wall just below his right thigh. He swung his leg up and his boot managed to just grab the rod. He’d have to stand on it to reach the window.

  He felt a tug on the tapestry and looked down. Two guards climbed up below him.

  No time to think. He pulled his other leg up and crouched on the rod like a frog, both sweaty hands clutching the rod between his feet. He walked his hands up the wall until he stood.

  He lurched. Why was the rod suddenly leaning? At his left, the rod hung precariously from its hanger imbedded in the plaster-covered stone. The damned thing was pulling away from the wall! Too much weight.

  A bit of plaster fell from the hanger. The rod lurched again as it slipped farther.

  “Better and better,” he muttered, shaking his head.

  He looked up at the window. There was a sill but it wasn’t very wide, only enough for his feet. He reached up to grab it.

  Too far.

  He heard a grunt and told himself not to look down, but in the tense state his mind was in, he didn’t listen very well to himself. One of the guards climbing the tapestry had almost reached him. He thought of kicking him in the face but a better idea occurred to him.

  The man stretched his hand forward and gripped the rod. The whole tapestry shifted again. The man raised his head and looked over at the unstable hanger. His expression opened into fear. It was a good fifteen feet to the floor. He looked up at Crispin and whitened his knuckles on the rod.

  Crispin smiled and slid along the rod toward him. The man’s features changed to one of horror as he saw what Crispin was about to do, though he misunderstood the reason.

  Crispin raised his foot, but instead of kicking the man’s face, he stepped up onto his head. Crispin’s boot slid on the man’s hair and the human stepping-stone heaped a set of fine old curses upon Crispin, questioning his paternity as well as his sexual practices.

  Crispin ignored it. Now tall enough, he reached up and grabbed the sill. He pushed away from the man’s head to get a good grip. That was also enough to dislodge the guard. The man lost his hold, tried to regain it, and tumbled down. He knocked the other guard free and landed on a knot of men gathered below. Then the entire rod let loose from the wall. The men below scrambled out of the way before the rod and tapestry clanged heavily to the floor.

  Crispin dangled like a plucked goose from the windowsill. Halberd heads clanked against the wall in an attempt to reach his feet. If he couldn’t swing up to the window, he was as good as a dead goose.

  He grit his teeth and swung his foot, missed, swung again.

  Got it! He pulled his body up on the narrow ledge. For once grateful at his meager diet, he stood, facing the window. Unable to resist, he turned his head and got his first look at the hall.

  Chaos. All its inhabitants glared up at him, curses on their lips. Spears shook, swords flashed. They wanted his blood, that much was certain.

  With his chest pressed to the glass he felt the window with his fingers, the edges of glass, the lead dividers, looking for a latch or hinge.

  Then his heart burst with a shot of warmth. The window didn’t open. He was a dead man.

  He looked back down and wondered who he should land on for the best effect. It would be the last choice he ever made so he wanted it to be a good one.

  He saw it like a story woven into a tapestry. The man below cocked back his arm and took aim at Crispin. The spear released in a long and graceful arc, straight at him. If he didn’t move it would surely pierce him, and he wondered in the few heartbeats it took for the spear to leave the guard’s hand, if he shouldn’t let it do its work. The aim was good and would, no doubt, do great damage to his chest. All he had to do was stand as he was and make no attempt to move. A simple thing. Better than the death Richard would choose this time. Crispin ruminated on the possibilities—on who would mourn him, where his miserable body might be buried if allowed such an ennobling thing as burial. But then his instincts took over, made the decision, and forced him to lean to the side just as the lethal missile slid past him. The spear crashed through the window in a barrage of broken glass and twisted lead.

  Crispin windmilled his arms, trying to keep his balance. He stared at the window’s suddenly gaping hole. That would do.

  He closed his eyes, gave in to faith, and hurled himself through.

  18

  CRISPIN FELL
A LONG time, or so it seemed. A belly-churning ride toward the unknown. He did not know whether a grassy square awaited or a stone courtyard. Either way it was a long drop and likely to hurt.

  He struck the thorny bushes right away like many sharp knives pricking his skin through the coat. It broke his initial fall, but then he continued his momentum through the cracking branches and pointed twigs. The sounds of snapping wood were only slightly louder than his own grunts.

  He hit the ground on his shoulder, heard a crack, and exhaled with a wave of pain. He had a feeling the bone had just dislocated. As much as he wanted to lie on the ground and moan out his suffering, he knew he didn’t have time for it.

  Rolling to his feet, he assessed his surroundings. Still within the walls of the palace, he knew he had to get out at once. Oh for a sword! A glance at the walls made his sore shoulder twinge. Never mind the sword. Wings would be better appreciated about now.

  Holding his sore arm, he pushed forward and trotted along the wall’s perimeter. With a groan, he knew he’d have to climb.

  The palace grounds meandered. It wouldn’t be an easy thing to simply scale the wall and be out into London. Whose courtyard was this beyond the wall? What did it matter? He just needed to rest for a while. He was getting dizzy and slightly dazed. He needed to find someplace safe and quickly. Crispin took a breath and found that the pain in his shoulder made it difficult to draw a deep one. Maybe staying in the palace was the best course. They certainly wouldn’t suspect he’d be fool enough to remain.

  A tree near the wall offered a good place to climb, but it wasn’t a nice gnarled oak to give plenty of easy footholds. It was a tall, thin larch with a gangly arm thrown over the wall, a branch barely thick enough for a man’s weight.

  No time to debate it.

  Crispin hugged the tree and clenched his teeth. His shoulder was definitely misaligned. Nothing he could do about it. It was climb or die. He raised his knees and shimmied carefully up the rough bark. He felt as if he were traveling up an inch at a time. There was no telling when his pursuers would appear and he wanted the chance to get over the wall before they made it to the courtyard. If they didn’t know what direction he’d gone he’d have a better chance to get away clean.

  At last. He reached the limb hanging over the wall. He maneuvered toward it and tried to swing his leg over. His shoulder screamed its reluctance. He dug into the bark with his fingernails, tightened his arms around the limb and dragged his body forward, inch by inch, until he could open his eyes through the pain and look down. He would chuckle if he had the strength. “Out on a limb as usual,” he muttered. Below was the gravel, mud, and grass of another courtyard, but it was a long way down. The wall was covered in thick ivy. Their bright green leaves shone silver in the dying light. If he could get to the wall itself, he might be able to slide down the ivy, alleviating a lot of pain. It was worth a try.

  He’d have to fall just right. And what are the chances of that? Not much had gone right this evening, except he did stop the assassination. But what of tomorrow? He’d never be able to get into the palace again. In fact, after tonight, it might not be possible to stay in London at all.

  He stuffed that thought away for another time. If he dwelled on it, he might give up altogether and he certainly wasn’t prepared to do that now.

  Crispin drew a long breath and assessed the wall. He wiggled to the edge of the limb, looked down, and let his body peel over the side. His feet hit the wall first and then his knees collapsed under him. He rolled in the wrong direction, tearing off large swaths of ivy, and then managed to right himself and slid down through the foliage, bouncing off the last bit near the ground. He tumbled into the quiet courtyard and saw that it ran along Saint Stephen’s chapel and the palace. He lay propped against the wall. With a shudder, he realized he was in the same pose as the French courier shot with a deadly arrow two days ago, but there was little he could do. He had to get his breath back before he could rise.

  He listened. No sound. No shouts or running feet. He was safe for the moment but knew it wouldn’t last.

  Crispin pushed himself up the wall and stood, panting. His shoulder was bad. Something would have to be done soon, but first things first. He ran along the long courtyard and finally slowed when he reached another wall. He didn’t think he had the strength to climb another wall. He looked up at the apartments instead, saw a gentle light through the tall windows, and staggered toward them.

  IT WAS POSSIBLE CRISPIN slept only a few minutes. It was also possible he slept for a few hours. He wasn’t certain when he opened his eyes. Huddled in a dark corner beneath the shadow of a chessboard, Crispin stared at the darkened window. Shards of moonlight slid across the panes, and these were only visible riding on the brief slant of rain pelting the obsidian-dark glass. The room seemed familiar but his hazy mind would not supply an answer.

  The rolling ache in his shoulder told him not to move. His mouth felt dry. He spied a flagon sitting on a tray, its belly lit by a single candle and the glow of embers in the hearth that did little to warm him. His cloak had been left behind in Onslow’s kitchens. He supposed many a day would pass before he could fetch it, if ever he could. He’d have to make due with the short shoulder cape and hood.

  A step. He cringed into the darkness. The door opened and a figure entered. Crispin couldn’t tell who it was in the gloom and he waited until the figure approached the fire, picked up a poker, and jammed it into the wood, stirring the coals to flames.

  Without a sound Crispin rose and stood behind him. He hated like hell to do it, but he drew his dagger and pressed the tip to the small of the man’s back.

  “Don’t turn around.”

  The figure tensed. Crispin could tell the man wanted to swing out with his arm. He saw the arm curve, the fingers curl into a fist.

  “You’re a dead man,” whispered the man.

  “Yes. I’ve lived under a sentence of death for seven years now.”

  The man almost turned.

  “Don’t!”

  And then Crispin noticed too late that familiar profile.

  With a gasp, Crispin dropped the hand with the dagger and sheathed the weapon. He stepped back and bowed. “Your grace.”

  Lancaster turned and glowered. Crispin slumped or tried to, but his shoulder caused him to yelp and he staggered back.

  Lancaster’s glower turned to something else. “You’re hurt.”

  “My shoulder. Dislocated it.” He fetched up against the wall.

  “I can fix it.”

  Crispin’s eyes met his and stayed there. Neither man moved. It was a common enough battle wound for a knight. Tumbled from one’s horse, a knight was lucky to have only dislocated a shoulder joint.

  Lancaster’s bearded jaw slid. His teeth gleamed in a grimace below the mustache. No doubt, he liked this situation as much as Crispin.

  The pain and dizziness made it difficult for Crispin to go on, and if run he must, he had to fix his shoulder. He nodded to Lancaster and the duke moved forward and took his arm.

  “This one?”

  Crispin nodded again.

  “It’s going to hurt. And might I say, you deserve what you are going to get for putting a knife to my back.”

  “Forgive me, my lord.”

  Lancaster sneered. “Brace yourself.”

  Crispin straightened, forced his back against the wall. Lancaster propped his foot to the plaster wall, took hold of Crispin’s arm with one hand and his wrist with the other. “Ready?”

  “Do it.”

  Lancaster yanked. Farther . . . farther . . . until they both heard a pop. It hurt like hell, but the relief was instant, except for a radiating ache across his back and chest. Crispin resisted the urge to roll his shoulder.

  “Much thanks,” he grunted. He leaned against the wall.

  Lancaster released him and stepped back. “What the hell are you doing here at court?”

  Crispin almost chuckled. The breath he blew out nearly rumbled itself into an iro
nic snigger, but too much sourness wore it away. “On my honor—that is, whatever you may value of what my honor once was—I did not try to murder his Majesty. In point of fact, I stopped it. The assassin is still at large.”

  Lancaster’s shoulders relaxed, but his pacing and posture showed anxiety still stiffening his body. “Much evidence to the contrary.”

  “Evidence?”

  Lancaster bore down on him. “God’s wounds, Crispin! You had no business being at court, and you had the cursed bow in your hand! Did you think that little detail could be overlooked?”

  Crispin ran his dirty fingers through his sweat-damp hair. “I know it looks bad—”

  “Bad? Catastrophic!”

  “There’s little to be done now. My objective is to leave the palace. Alive.”

  “You will have to take your chances with the king’s men.”

  “I have no intention of being turned over to the guards. Unless that is your intention.”

  “I haven’t decided. I haven’t yet reckoned why you are here in my chamber. Am I required to rescue you? How many times must I do so?”

  Crispin tried to smile. “Seventy times seven.”

  “Don’t be flippant.”

  “Your grace, if you surrender me, I will most certainly be tortured.”

  Lancaster heaved a sigh and turned toward the fire. He scowled into it. “I know that.”

  Crispin followed him to the fire and stood behind his back. “Then you also know I will have nothing to confess.”

  “Yes. I know that, too.”

  “And then I will die.”

  “Yes.”