“What good are favors from a dead man?” Lenny stopped, turned to Crispin, and made an apologetic sneer. “Beggin’ your pardon.” He turned again and hurried.
Crispin looked back. The echoing voice of the Watch drew closer. Crispin thought he could see the beginning of the halo of light from his lamp.
“Lenny, for the love of Christ!”
“What do you hope to gain?”
“My innocence.”
Lenny stopped and swiveled his head on his hunched shoulders. “Are you sayin’ you didn’t try to kill the king?”
“Yes, I am.”
Lenny’s look of disbelief almost made Crispin lash out at him. He grit his teeth instead and pressed against the wall. He snatched a glance back. The lamp’s glow brightened the alley’s entrance. The Watch approached.
“If I help you, what’s to be gained?”
Crispin had only a few pence in his money pouch. Pence. All he had left in the world. “The next time I see you stealing . . . I shall look the other way.” He scowled at himself. The words left a bad taste in his mouth.
“Every time?”
The Watch’s step crunched the uneven cobblestones on the road. The lamp glowed the edge of Crispin’s hair. “Yes, yes,” he hissed. “Every time, then, you scoundrel.”
“Well then.” Lenny threw his hood up over his head. “Come along.”
He ducked down and disappeared into the dark and drizzle. Crispin shot a glance back at the Watch and cursed Lenny, until the thief tugged on his wrist.
“Down here!” whispered Lenny, and Crispin saw the arch of stone set in the wall at street level.
Lenny disappeared into the blackness and Crispin dove for it. He couldn’t see, but he followed the sound of Lenny’s steps and descended. The air smelled damp and close, as if they were somehow under the Thames. Ridiculous. Too far away. Yet the feeling of cramped closeness remained. He raised his hand and felt the roof, slick with mold. It was some kind of tunnel. Some Roman construct. No wonder Lenny looked so much like a rat when he lived little better than one.
At last Lenny let out an exhale. Crispin stopped, straining his eyes to see. Flint and steel threw a bright spark into the darkness. Another, and a fluff of rags took a small flame. Lenny lit a candle to it and threw the flaming rag into the hearth. The room jumped into view, the light startling the shadows, which remained wary but black.
The room was disgusting. Dank, dark, and wet; an undercroft long abandoned because of the encroachment of the Thames seeping through its walls. Perfect for Lenny.
“Home and hearth,” said Lenny, rubbing his hands briskly before the small peat fire.
Crispin considered for a moment whether it would be better spending time in one of Newgate’s cells than here, and then dismissed it. This might be the lowest he might stoop, but the alternative meant a nasty death.
Crispin stood in the center of the room and stared at his surroundings, loath to touch anything.
“I’ve never had guests before,” said Lenny. He laughed. “Guests. Guest. That’s you, ain’t it?” Laughing, he choked on his jest, leaned over, and coughed.
“Lenny, I need to sleep. Is there a place?” He looked around trying not to show his distaste.
“There’s a pile of fine straw in that corner. Not too damp. You don’t mind if I leave you, do you? Nighttime’s the best time for me to, well, you know.”
Crispin trudged toward the pile and sank into it. He waved Lenny off. He was too tired and achy to debate it. He nestled down into the straw and fell asleep with the smell of moldering grass in his nose.
“HOW ABOUT A NICE cup o’ broth?”
It wasn’t Jack’s voice. Crispin bolted upright, his dagger in hand.
Lenny flung back. Hot broth flew into the air. The wooden bowl landed on the floor, face down. “Master Crispin! You’re tight as a bowstring.” He picked himself up and merely brushed the broth into his already dirty clothes. “Should have expected as much.” He picked up the bowl from the floor and shuffled toward the crock on the fire. He scooped the bowl in and drew out more broth. Liquid dripped from the bowl’s dirty edge.
Crispin sheathed his knife and ran his hand over his hair. “Apologies, Lenny. I forgot.”
“Understandable.” He handed Crispin the bowl.
Crispin took the bowl and tried not to sniff it or look at it before pressing the rim to his lips. He gulped without tasting and wiped the excess from his mouth with the back of his free hand. “Much thanks, Lenny. What is the hour?”
“Early morn. The sun ain’t up yet.”
Crispin pushed up from his bedding and stood, brushing bits of straw from his coat.
“The king’s men are wasting no time searching for you, Master Crispin. There’s a reward offered.”
“Indeed.” He stretched his back, careful of his tender shoulder, and walked the length of the tiny room, shaking out his stiff legs. He found a bucket of fresh water in a corner and splashed the icy liquid on his face and rubbed a finger into his mouth to brush his teeth. “A reward big enough for a man to do well, no doubt.”
“Aye. A goodly sum.” Lenny smiled. He rubbed his hands together, like a rodent cleaning himself.
Crispin spat on the floor and cocked an eye at the thief. “You plan to turn me in, Lenny?”
Lenny looked skyward and scratched his stubbled chin. What remained of his long greasy hair rested on his shoulders. “Now let me think. A tidy sum of gold or your festering hide? Which would you choose?”
Crispin sat on a rickety stool and balanced himself by placing his hands on his knees. “Well by God, Lenny. I think I would choose the money. Did you?”
Lenny’s smile opened wider and then he guffawed. “Aw, Master Crispin! You ain’t got no faith at all. You forget. I know you.” He squinted over the finger he pointed at Crispin. “I’ve slipped through many a grasping fist, but not yours. No, sir. A man thrown down to the gutter like you. But did you stay there? Indeed not. Either God or the Devil is defending your hide.” Lenny vigorously poked the fire to little avail. “If I turn you in for thirty pieces of silver I’m the one who’ll hang. No, sir. You’ve got more lives than Lazarus. You’re the cock that’ll win this fight, mark me. Don’t know how, mind, but I know you’ll fare well. You always do, curse you.”
“Why, Lenny, I’m touched.”
“Don’t go weepy on me. I know you. I’ll not have you come back and smite me. And you would, too.”
Lenny’s words would be humorous if the situation weren’t so dire. Crispin stared at the floor. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t know how to proceed. He wished it was Jack Tucker sitting across from him and not the bald-pated thief Lenny.
“What will you do now, Master Crispin?”
Crispin rubbed his chin. He needed a shave but it might be many a day before he got one. “I was thinking that very thing, Lenny. Right now the most important thing is to recover a certain lost item before my friends suffer further.”
“Ain’t the most important thing to unmask the real assassin?”
Crispin looked up. “You don’t believe I did it.”
“ ’Course not. You ain’t that addle pated.”
“Unfortunately, I was caught with the weapon in my hand.”
Lenny tried unsuccessfully to hide his chuckle behind his hand. “Oh my. That don’t go down well.”
“Indeed.”
Lenny sidled up to him and sat on the floor. “What is this lost item you’d be looking for? I’m good at finding things. Almost as good as you are.”
Crispin dropped his face in his hands and rubbed his brow, his eyes, his nose. “Does it matter? Gilbert and Eleanor will be in danger from the sheriff if I do not recover it soon.”
“Master and Mistress Langton? Oh that’s a shame, that is. Getting your friends into trouble. You shouldn’t aught to do that, Master Crispin. You should be more careful.”
Lenny’s oozing tone reminded Crispin with whom he spoke. Lenny could only be trusted so
far. If at all.
Crispin stood. “I can’t do anything about it lying low in this rat hole—” Crispin showed his teeth in a mordant smile. “Begging your pardon, Lenny.”
Lenny smiled back. His uneven teeth were long and slightly protruding. “Aye. You’d have to go disguised, now wouldn’t you. Can’t walk about in that cotehardie. Don’t everyone know it by now?”
Crispin ran his hand over the coat’s breast, feeling where the weave had worn away. The material was very thin now, patched and repaired numerous times, its buttons chipped and cracked. “Disguised?”
Lenny fussed over the fire, prodding the peat, which only offered a meager flame and smaller heat. “ ’Course if you’re caught, it’s over for sure. King Richard has no love for you. There might be no trial. After all, you ain’t no lord no more—beggin’ your pardon.”
Crispin paced the small room again. “A disguise is a good idea, Lenny. I might even be able to get into court.”
“Oh Master Crispin. You are mad. You’d never make it past the guards. My, my. You’ve got bollocks, to be sure. Who’s the guilty bastard, anyway? Some lord?”
“This isn’t the toughest task I’ve ever had.” But Crispin knew that wasn’t quite the truth. His life had been in danger before, but never like this. “If I can prove this once and for all, I might be able to clear my name completely. Maybe the king will not distrust me anymore.”
“You fancy you’ll go back to court?”
“I’ve got no other choice, Lenny. It’s this or leave London for good.”
“What’s so good about London?” Lenny grumbled. “I’d leave in a tick if I could.”
“And how would you make your living?”
Lenny’s scowl widened into a grin. “Aye, you got me there, Master Crispin. A wily one, you are. Where would old Lenny go, eh? Straight to the Devil!”
“Lenny, I need another favor from you.”
“Another favor from old Lenny?” Lenny turned to the fire and crouched before it. His rags hung about him like a great fur cloak. “Giving you shelter, feeding you. That’s more than I done for anyone, Master Crispin, and that’s a fact. And only because I know you well. Even if most of our association comes from your arresting me.”
“Of course I’ve no right asking anything more of you.”
“That’s the truth. I done more than a Christian should. Charity, it is.”
Crispin nodded and reached into his pouch for a coin. A sharp pinprick. He yanked his hand out. A bead of blood formed on his finger. Gingerly, he reached inside again and pulled out the thorn.
“What’s that, Master Crispin?”
Crispin stared at its black, sleek surface, turned it over in his hand. “Madness. Foolery.” He reached into his pouch with the other hand and grasped a coin. He held it out for Lenny. “For your kindness, Lenny. And for the favor.”
“Well now. Ain’t that generous of you.” Lenny snatched it. The coin disappeared somewhere on his person. “What favor?”
“I’d like you to find Jack Tucker. I need his help. I know the fool didn’t leave London as I told him to do. But he should be nearby. Tell him to meet me at Westminster Abbey.”
Crispin rubbed his fingers over the thorn. He didn’t want to believe it, but his hand tingled where the thorn stuck him and he felt the growing sensation of confidence in his chest.
Crispin squinted at the man. “And Lenny. I also need to borrow your coat.”
22
THE SUN SENT A puss-yellow glow into a wash of clouds, dissipating the morning shadows and leaving London to awaken into another dismal and overcast morning. Crispin trotted along the edges of the houses and shops, not looking up, but keeping his gaze concentrated on the street or on the feet of horses and passersby. Lenny’s coat of rags, now resting on Crispin’s shoulders, stank of sweat, mold, and decay, as if something had died within its folds.
Crispin suspected that this was entirely possible.
The last he saw of his own rust-colored cotehardie was over Lenny’s hunched body. This better be worth the sacrifice. He didn’t mind holding his breath all the way to Westminster as long as he could get there undetected.
The king’s men were everywhere. They trotted down the lanes two by two. The closer Crispin got to Westminster, the more numerous they became. He forced himself to move slowly, even limp, and always, he kept his head shaded by his leather hood.
He hobbled to the alms door at Westminster Abbey and pulled the bell rope. After a few minutes, a monk appeared at the barred window. “There are no alms today, friend. Come back tomorrow.”
Crispin raised his head and winked when Brother Eric’s eyes widened in recognition. “The only charity I need, Brother, is to talk with the abbot.”
Brother Eric took a moment to compose himself. He stretched his neck looking past the barred window before he put his key to the lock and opened the door. “Master Crispin,” he said in a husky whisper. “What by blessed Jesu are you doing here? Do you seek sanctuary?”
“Not yet, Brother. I merely need to speak with the abbot.”
“He is at Prime with the others.”
“May I wait for him in his quarters?”
Crispin’s aromatic coat must have finally reached Eric’s senses. The monk wrinkled his nose and ran his gaze over the offending garment.
“I promise to leave the coat outside.”
Eric hesitated a heartbeat longer and finally nodded. He opened the door and Crispin stepped through. He stood in the cold porch while the monk closed the door and turned the key in the lock. Crispin shrugged out of Lenny’s coat, let it fall to the stone floor, and kicked it aside. A cold draught slithered along the colonnade and whirled around Crispin. He shivered and rubbed his hands up his arms. He was cold, but much relieved to be rid of that putrid coat.
He followed the silent monk through the cloister and up the steps to the abbot’s lodgings. Eric opened the door for Crispin but stood aside for him to enter alone. “My Lord Abbot will be in anon, as soon as Prime is over. I must return to my duties.”
“Brother.” Crispin reached out and touched his dark sleeve. Eric raised his pale face to Crispin. The monk’s eyes were rimmed with red from lack of sleep and his pale hair was cut in wisps on his high forehead. “I must ask you to tell an untruth should anyone inquire if you have seen me.”
Eric’s expressionless face brightened momentarily. “Seen who?” he said, and turned to retreat down the colonnade.
Crispin smiled and stepped over the threshold. He was grateful the room was warm as he was clad only in his chaperon hood and shirt. He stood by the fire, its soft crackle the only sound. Or did he hear the distant song of the monks chanting their devotion in the church’s choir?
The peace and quiet should have pacified, but it only set his teeth on edge. He paced before the fire, glancing once at the chessboard frozen in the midst of their play, and once at the large crucifix on the opposite wall. The figure of Christ lay in shadow even as the morning light rose through the stained-glass window. Crispin ignored the crucifix at first and strolled to the chessboard. He examined the pieces, his mind jumping five moves ahead. His fingers closed over a pawn and he edged the piece toward the white king. “Your king is still in jeopardy,” he whispered to the empty room. He saw the game play itself out, saw the white king fall, Crispin’s black pieces surrounding it. But his gaze snagged on the black knight, superbly carved in ebony. A knight in full harness, his lance lowered, the charger reared. Compelled by its intricacies, he closed his fingers over it and raised it up for a closer look. Each detail of mail and surcote, all amazingly reproduced in miniature. He looked at the board again; at his pieces closing in on the white king. “After all the careful strategy, it is the pawn who brings down the king despite everything the knight does.”
He turned the piece in his hand and noticed the pinprick on his finger. He placed the knight back on its square and raised his hand to examine the fading mark, rubbing his fingers together. He turned again to th
e crucifix.
The carving of the crucifix was a realistic study of agonizing death, that promise of redemption for sacrifice. The figure’s arms were outstretched almost beyond endurance, the feet cruelly nailed. On his head, a carved wooden crown of thorns.
Crispin reached into his pouch and carefully felt for the large thorn. His fingers examined, smoothed, grasped the object and then let it go. “Invincible?” he murmured. “I’ve never felt more vulnerable.”
If he couldn’t find that Crown and give it to the sheriff, he dreaded to think what would happen to Gilbert and Eleanor. Lenny’s mocking tone rang in his head. No, he hadn’t been careful. It was the height of idiocy ever setting foot again at the Boar’s Tusk. What had he been thinking?
He glared at the crucifix again. “I need your help,” he whispered. “If those bastard Frenchmen have the Crown, then I’ll never get it back, and Wynchecombe might suppose I tricked him. I will not have harm come to my friends!”
“Are you giving orders to God?”
Crispin whirled. The abbot stood in the entryway. Under the dark cowl his face wore a frown.
“My Lord Abbot,” said Crispin with a bow.
“Crispin.” The abbot tossed back his cowl and strode to the fire. He stretched his hands over the flames, turning them. “Forgive me if I do not say I am happy to see you.”
“Understandable. But I had little choice in coming.”
“Are you seeking sanctuary?” The abbot’s voice was gentle but his expression seemed to infer he’d rather not agree to it.
Crispin stood several paces from the abbot and the fire, but he never moved closer to the hearth. He shivered. “No. I can’t do what I need to do if I request sanctuary.”
Nicholas aimed a reddened eye at him. “And what is it you ‘need’ to do?”
“Find the true assassin.” The abbot’s expression of doubt drew a ball of heat from Crispin’s chest and up his body. He clenched his fists. “I am not a killer!”
“This is not what I heard.”
“Forget what you heard. What do you believe?”
Serpent in the Thorns Page 19
