Serpent in the Thorns

by Jeri Westerson

  Nicholas sighed and sunk into his chair. He dragged the fur wrap over his legs. “I’m not quite certain what to think. But—” His eyes, a glossy gray, studied Crispin, his lack of cloak or coat, and finally rested their gaze on Crispin’s face. “I do not believe you are a murderer.”

  Crispin snorted. “I’m relieved to hear it,” he muttered.

  “So why are you here?”

  Crispin sat in the chair opposite the abbot and closed his head in his hands a moment. Had it only been yesterday that all hell had broken loose in the palace? “I think I had better tell you everything.”

  Nicholas settled back and clasped his hands over his chest. He lowered his lids. “I’m listening.”

  Crispin smiled. The abbot looked as if he were prepared to hear Crispin’s confession. “Four days ago, a simpleton, a scullion, came to me confessing that she killed a man. When I reached the scene of the murder I realized she could not possibly have killed him.”

  Nicholas raised his head.

  “The man was shot with an arrow,” Crispin explained.

  Nicholas nodded and eased back, though his eyes weren’t as lidded.

  “It happens this man was the French courier transporting a certain relic from the court of France.”

  Nicholas snapped opened his eyes. “The Crown of Thorns!”

  “Yes. It was there. I took it.”

  “You took it? Why?”

  Crispin smacked his fist in his palm. “I wanted a bargaining chit. I wanted a way back to court. I would appear clever and devoted if I could deliver the Crown into Richard’s hands.”

  Nicholas said nothing, but his expression was a changing mask between tolerance and reproach. “Where is it now?”

  “That’s just it. The sheriff knows I have it. He’s agreed to let me go, but in return I must give the Crown to him. But now it’s been stolen from me.”

  Nicholas had been steadily leaning forward and now he almost rocked out of his chair. “Dear me. Do you have any suspicions as to who might have it?”

  “I think the remaining French couriers stole it—or, I suppose, regained it. But now my friends are in danger—those held under house arrest by the sheriff—and the true assassin is still afoot.”

  “Do you know who the assassin is?”

  “Yes. It is the cursed Captain of the Archers, Miles Aleyn.” Crispin scowled deeply and stared at the flames. “But the most troubling aspect of it all is the arrows. Those used to kill the courier, to try to kill me, and to try to kill the king. They belonged to my Lord of Gaunt.”

  Nicholas popped up from his chair and paced before the fire. “This is all very troubling.”

  “There is something more.”

  “More?” The abbot swiveled toward Crispin. His brows couldn’t go any higher.

  “The Crown. As a jest . . . in a moment of indulgence . . . I put it on my head.”

  Nicholas’s glance took in the crucifix behind Crispin. Crispin could not help turning as well and he strode to the object to stand below it. “Yes!” said Crispin, shaking a fist at the corpus. “I put it on my own cursed head and I’ve been in no end of trouble since.”

  Nicholas’s voice washed over Crispin like a cool hand to a fevered forehead. “And what happened?”

  At first he was going to tell the abbot that nothing happened. But with his eyes transfixed to the wooden carving, his lips parted, and he said instead, “I don’t know. An odd sensation of confidence.” He rubbed his fingers together, feeling the tips tingle. “That I could do anything, be anything.”

  “I see. I did hear tell of that magnificent escape of yours up the tapestry.”

  Crispin never shifted his gaze from the corpus’s crown. “It wasn’t the Crown. The effect had worn off by then.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes, dammit! I had to do it myself. No great power of God interceded to save me. I climbed the damned tapestry myself and fell out the damned window, all on my own.”

  “Crispin, Crispin. Why do you doubt so much? God watches over all we do. He cares for us as His children. Can you not put your faith in God, your fate in His hands?”

  He shook his head. “I find it impossible to do so.”

  “But why? You strive to do good. Look at this holy relic that came into your hands. God is using you through the Crown.”

  “I know no such thing.”

  “Your deeds will be rewarded. Mark me.”

  “No good deed goes unpunished, eh, Father Abbot?” He tried to chuckle, but it came out more like a bark. Crispin thought it was due to his dry throat and he walked to the flagon for a remedy.

  Crispin felt the abbot’s eyes on him as he poured himself a goblet of wine. He gestured to the other goblet and Nicholas nodded. Crispin poured another, drank a dose of his own, and handed Nicholas a full cup.

  The abbot took a sip and stood thoughtfully with it. “It is no accident that the Crown fell into your hands, Crispin. You experience its power but you are loath to believe it.”

  Crispin tipped up his goblet. “ ‘It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it.’ ”

  “You quote the pagan philosophers well,” said the abbot. Crispin smiled, a genuine one, and saluted with his cup. “But I find it telling, Master Guest, that you would rather quote a pagan than a holy saint.”

  “Very well.” Crispin held up his goblet. “ ‘O Lord, help me to be pure . . . but not yet.’ ”

  The abbot’s narrowed eyes held no humor in them. “So you know your Augustine. But did the venerable saint not also say: ‘Miracles are not contrary to nature, but only contrary to what we know about nature’?”

  Crispin’s smile faded. He looked into the bottom of his goblet and regretfully set it aside. “I am not here to debate theology with you. I must get into the palace again.”

  “Crispin, no! That would be foolish, dangerous, and unwise. I must beg you to put it out of your mind.”

  “The Crown may be there. The murderer most assuredly is.”

  “Then why come to me?”

  “This is the best place I knew of to come for a cassock.”

  “A disguise?”

  “I know of no other way.”

  This set the monk’s head wagging again. “Dangerous,” he muttered. “You have no friends there. If Lancaster is implicated as you say by these arrows, then he cannot help you either. Though I cannot believe he is involved.”

  “It does concern me.”

  “You pledged yourself to him. What if it comes to a matter of him or you?”

  Crispin sneered a glance at the discarded goblet. “I made an honorable oath. But not to fall into treason again. If it comes to it, I prefer to side with myself.”

  “Distressing,” Nicholas muttered. He eased back to his chair and cupped the goblet’s bowl with both hands. He stared into it thoughtfully. “The Crown of Thorns. These French couriers. It all reminds me of something.”

  “Oh?” Crispin wasn’t listening. He pulled out his dagger and toyed with the point of the blade. He was thinking how satisfying it would be to thrust it into Miles’s chest.

  “It was a few years back,” said the abbot, “in the early days of King Charles in the French court. I recall two French nobles were killed. Two who supported a treaty with England. Strangely, they were both killed by arrows.”

  “Eh? What’s that?”

  “Yes. By arrows. I’m afraid it was during the worst part of your difficulties a few years back.”

  “You mean when I was losing my knighthood.”

  The abbot missed the sarcasm in Crispin’s tone. “An assassin slipped in to the French court, blended in, killed his targets, and slipped away just as easily.”

  Crispin leaned forward. “The assassin was never found?”

  “No. This would seem to follow the same pattern.”

  “Except this one missed. He missed me and the king. Twice.”

  “Thanks to you.”

  “And he al
so missed the scullion.”

  “The one who thought she killed the Frenchman? The witless one?”

  “No. The other. Her sister.”

  “Why would an assassin trying to kill the king waste time on a scullion?”

  “Because she knows something. Saw something.”

  “Yes, I suppose. Poor creatures. We do sometimes think of our servants as expendable. As less important.”

  “But if I were killing a mere scullion . . .” Crispin lifted his eyes to look at the abbot. The hearth flames warmed the side of his face. “I wouldn’t waste an arrow. I would slit her throat, something quiet and discreet. I could get as close to her as I wanted. A servant, after all, is only a menial. I can approach them at will. An arrow is a distant weapon. I should have used my dagger or a garrote.”

  Nicholas rubbed his neck. “You do travel in odd circles.”

  “So why an arrow?”

  A knock sounded on the door. Crispin and Nicholas snapped to their feet, looking at one another. It could be Brother Eric, but if it were not, Crispin wanted as few people as possible to know he was there.

  With a gesture, he silently told the abbot he would hide behind the window’s drapery. The abbot watched him, poised over his chair. Crispin retreated once again into temporary hiding, pulling the heavy material in front of him. It smelled of incense and smoke. He watched the abbot through a sliver of space where the drapes met. Nicholas sauntered toward Crispin’s goblet and tossed its excess wine into the fire. He set the cup on the sideboard, straightened his cassock, and calmly called, “Come.”

  A monk bowed as he entered. His face was hidden beneath his cowl. “There is a boy at the gate, my Lord Abbot. He insists on seeing you.”

  “A boy? Who?”

  “He gives his name as Jack Tucker. But he is garbed as a beggar, my lord. He claims he is in service to a knight.”

  Nicholas cast a shrewd glance toward the drapery. “Send him to me, Brother Walter. I will see him.”

  “But my lord—”

  “It is all well, Brother.”

  The monk bowed and left for the gate. Nicholas turned as Crispin emerged from behind the tapestry. “How did your servant know you were here?”

  “I sent a message. Will you loan me that cassock, Father Abbot?”

  Nicholas took a deep breath and shook his head. “Crispin, I truly fear for you this time. This is not some scoundrel on the street. This is the King of England. Already he likes you not. He needs little excuse to do you ill.”

  “I know. But if this is not done, I will lose everything. And I’ve already lost so much. I can’t afford to lose more.”

  “Your life?”

  “The least of my worries.”

  Nicholas trudged to his chair and wearily sat. “Of course I will give you the cassock. And I pray that all ends well for you.”

  Crispin scowled into the fire. “It can’t get much worse.”

  They both turned at the knock. Crispin needed no prompting to steal behind the drapes again, but when he heard the apologetic murmurs of Jack Tucker he slipped back out.

  “Jack! I’m glad to see you.”

  “Oh, Master Crispin! I am pleased to see you alive! I didn’t believe Lenny at first. What are you doing here? You’re not going to become a monk, are you, sir? It ain’t as bad as all that, is it?”

  The abbot straightened his shoulders. “Young man—”

  “Oh! Beggin’ your pardon, my lord.” He bowed to the abbot and crossed himself, and then quickly turned back to Crispin. “Master Crispin, I’m here at your service, sir. What would you have me do?”

  “You are going to get me into the palace.”

  Jack cut his gaze toward the abbot. “He’s mad. How many times have I said it? He’s barking mad.”

  “Jack, I may be foolhardy, but I am not mad. Tell me about the Frenchmen. Where are they?”

  Jack ran his hand up into his floppy mane of ginger hair. “I followed them to court.”

  “Do you know if they have the Crown?”

  “I don’t know. But they was carrying an important bundle. At least they took great care with it.”

  Crispin sat heavily on the chair, his hands hanging over his thighs.

  “I know, sir. Master Gilbert and Mistress Eleanor. Won’t the sheriff be reasonable? Can’t he see you had no choice in the matter?”

  Crispin hung his head. “I don’t know, Jack. I was greedy about the Crown myself. How can I blame the sheriff for the same sin?”

  “Then if you would go to court again, I’m your man. Let’s do it as quick as possible. Before I change me mind.”

  DRESSED IN A BLACK cassock and cowl, Crispin hurried across the lane to Westminster. Jack, too, was dressed like a monk—much to his protestations.

  “I don’t like it,” Jack muttered for the thousandth time. “It’s blasphemy, that’s what it is.”

  “Be still. This is only to get us into the palace. Do you want to be arrested?”

  “No, but what are we to do once inside?”

  “You locate Miles and I’ll find the French couriers.”

  “Oh, as simple as that. And just how am I supposed to find the Captain of the Archers?”

  “You could ask.”

  “And get caught?”

  “No one knows you, remember? It’s me they’re after.”

  Jack tugged on his cincture and straightened. “That’s right. The tables are turned, eh? They ain’t after me for a change.”

  “Yes. It must be a unique experience for you.”

  They reached the gate and both fell silent. The guards had been doubled since the last time Crispin was here—less than twenty-four hours ago.

  Crispin approached the gate with head down. He raised a benediction to the guard who approached. “My brother,” drawled Crispin. “My Lord Abbot of Westminster bid us come to the palace and offer what succor we may.”

  The guard looked them over and, without further question, allowed them through.

  That was a little too easy. Crispin looked back, but the guard did not follow. The palace seemed eerily quiet, none of the usual sounds of merrymaking or chatter; no raucous laughter and drunken challenges. It was as if everyone had crawled into their shells to await the coming tempest.

  “It’s quiet here,” said Jack.

  “Yes, I was thinking that very thing. You’d better be on your way, Jack.”

  “Where shall we meet again?”

  In Heaven? “When all is finished, the abbey seems the safest place. Off to it.”

  Jack nodded unsteadily and Crispin stopped him by touching his arm.

  “Good luck, Jack.”

  “God’s blessings on you, sir.”

  Crispin watched the becassocked Jack amble down the corridor and finally disappear around a corner.

  “Now, if I were a French courier who had recovered my lost package, where would I go?” Crispin smiled. The French ambassador, of course.

  He cast a glance down the corridor. The rooms along the Thames were generally where they put foreign dignitaries. At least that was so in Crispin’s day. He pulled his cowl down to shadow his face, and headed down the passage.

  He looked behind to make certain no one followed, turned a corner, and nearly slammed into an entourage. They chattered in French, calling him an oaf with one side of their mouths and asking for forgiveness with the other. Crispin looked up and saw the two French couriers Laurent and Gautier beside another man, older, wearing a long gown and a long gray beard. The French ambassador. He fussed with a bag slung over Laurent’s shoulder.

  Two guards were also with them, their bland expressions hidden beneath mail coifs and helms.

  The man whom Crispin took as the French ambassador turned to Crispin and said in French, “Our apologies, Brother. But it seems this encounter is the wheel of fortune turning in our favor. We must have you bless this happy event.”

  “Of course,” replied Crispin, disguising his voice.

  But instead of allowing
Crispin to gesture a benediction over them and mumble some Latin, the ambassador said, “Come. We go to see the king.”

  The entourage moved forward, but Crispin hung back.

  One of the guards turned. “Well? Let us go, Brother.”

  He watched the backs of the couriers, the ambassador, the guards, and raised his eyes to Heaven.

  Crispin recognized the way. They were heading toward the great hall. Richard will be there and doubtless, I will be out of the pan and into the fire. I hope I don’t bleed too much on Abbot Nicholas’s cassock.

  When they reached the archway, Crispin could tell by the rumbling conversation that there were more present than Richard. Many courtiers were there, including Richard’s cadre, the queen, and Lancaster. Among the milling knights and courtiers stood the sheriff, the reliquary at his feet. The scowl on his face told Crispin that he was none too happy. In any case, the proceedings should prove to Wynchecombe that Crispin had nothing to do with any trickery. At least, not yet.

  He scanned the room, looking for Miles. No surprise he was nowhere to be found.

  The ambassador and his entourage placed themselves before King Richard, who was standing on the dais. The crowd hushed.

  “Your most gracious Majesty,” said the ambassador with a flourishing bow. “At last, we have recovered the sacred relic. I am charged by my sovereign, the gracious King Charles of all France, with presenting this sacred Crown into your safekeeping.”

  He turned and reached into the bag over Laurent’s shoulder. Slowly, and Crispin thought with a great deal of theatricality, he drew forth the Crown of Thorns and held it up as if he were the archbishop on coronation day.

  Then he looked at Crispin.

  My cue. Crispin walked in a slow, careful amble—the kind of walk he expected a monk to make—and stood between the ambassador and the king. He eyed Richard out of the corner of his cowl while keeping his head low. He raised his hand and made the sign of the cross over the Crown. Everyone followed suit. Under his breath, Crispin intoned, “Putresco in inferni, o taeter rex.”

  Richard hadn’t heard him but the ambassador glanced at him sideways, an uncertain glint in his eye.

  Crispin ducked his head and made the sign of the cross again. “In nomine Patri, et Filio, et Spiritu Sancte. Amen.”