Lancaster’s face whitened with shock. He lowered his hand and postured. “You’re a fool.”
“Am I?” He looked at Jack staggering to his feet and gathered him against his good side. “Then I am a fool. But I’m a fool with the most steadfast servant in all England. Shall I tell you what Jack in his faithfulness would not? Miles Aleyn was the last conspirator in the plot to overthrow Richard. It was he who lied and tangled England’s youthful knights into that deadly conspiracy. Only he and I walked away from it. He by the honor of those he cajoled, and me by your good grace.”
Crispin and Lancaster engaged eye contact and held fast to it like two wrestlers loath to release the other. A long moment passed. Finally, Crispin lowered his eyes to look at Jack. “Are you well, Jack?”
Jack snuffled, wiping the blood from his nose with his sleeve. “Well enough, Master.”
“Go get yourself some wine.” He pushed Jack toward the flagon. Jack hesitated and looked toward Lancaster. “I said get yourself some wine. My Lord of Gaunt will not object.”
Lancaster directed a sneer at Jack. “No. Why should I? I have lost all control of my own household. What’s a little wine for a servant boy?”
They watched as Jack poured wine into a goblet, took it in both trembling hands, and tipped it to his bruised mouth. The wine dribbled down his chin.
Crispin staggered and took a breath. Tumbling through the window and facing off with Lancaster was taking its toll. He cradled his arm.
“What’s happened to you now?” asked Gaunt, gesturing to the sling.
“I was shot with an arrow.”
“Oh Master!”
“I am well, Jack. For the moment. I would merely like to know why someone is trying to kill me. I would like to know why they are using your arrows.”
Lancaster studied Crispin’s arm a long time. The packing at his shoulder began to stain with red. Lancaster clutched his sword pommel, fingers whitening. “Seven years ago, Miles Aleyn stole my arrows before he went into exile to France.”
Crispin never expected Lancaster to speak, especially in that sighing, resigned tone. “I did not know he was exiled,” said Crispin. “It was never spoken of at court, or rumored outside it.”
“Very few knew. Even the king did not know. Which was why he appointed Miles as his Captain of the Archers.” He snorted contemptuously. “If I had known that his Majesty had chosen Miles, then I certainly would have said something. Alas, it was too late by the time I heard the news.” He stared at Jack still sucking down wine from his bowl. “I believe Miles told those willing to listen that he was going to France to join the king’s army, which was partially true.”
“Why was Miles exiled to France and why steal your arrows?”
“His exile included every comfort. But, of course, it was to get him out of the way.”
“Why?”
Lancaster strode to the sideboard. He gave a sideways glance to Jack and poured wine into another goblet. He knocked the cup back and drank the wine in long, rolling swallows. When he lowered the cup, he ran his hand under his dark mustache to wipe it free of wine droplets. “Because seven years ago I hired Miles to begin the conspiracy against the king.”
24
CRISPIN STAGGERED BACKWARD. AN iron fist grabbed hold of his heart and squeezed. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.
Lancaster hired Miles? Then that would mean all his life was a lie. Everything he’d known and believed—all lies.
“I never meant for you to become involved,” said Lancaster hastily.
Jack was at Crispin’s side. “You’re pale, Master. Sit down. Let me help you.”
Hands led Crispin to a chair. Crispin sat while his lord stood, a breach he never would have engaged in were he in his right mind. But he knew he’d never be in his right mind again.
Lancaster continued. He pressed his hands to his back and straightened. He was tall, taller than Crispin. He looked regal, majestic; far more so than Richard ever looked. “I needed to root out my enemies. In those early days, there were far too many. Conspiracies abounded. Many of them plotted my death, but there were also those who sought to discredit me against Richard. Those especially I could not afford. And so I devised my own plot. It was to flush out those rascals who would make trouble in the years ahead. And yet . . . I never knew how many young bloods were willing to put their prince away in favor of me.” He took a drink and lowered the goblet to his breast. He looked at Crispin and his eyes softened. “And I never suspected you would be foolhardy enough to join with them.”
Crispin’s eyes were hot. He blinked hard. “How could I not? I would have followed you into Hell if you’d asked.”
“Yes, I know.”
Crispin panted. His mind couldn’t catch up. Light-headed, he prayed he would swoon to spare him from this moment. He heard the fire spit and crackle over the logs, smelled the toasty oak burn. But he felt the warmth of the room as something distant, something just beyond his reach. He languished in a cold bubble while the rest of the world gloried in golden light. Was he asleep? If so, he lived in a nightmare.
It took a few moments for the sensations to dissipate and his mind to clear before he could absorb all the facts. Lancaster said his plot flushed out his enemies as well as his friends. “The plot worked too well,” Crispin said, voice hoarse. “You almost decided to go ahead with it.”
“Not enough of the right men supported it. I had to let it collapse.”
“And me with it.”
“When I found out you were involved, it was too late.”
Crispin took in a long breath. “Why didn’t you let me die?”
Lancaster’s stern glare softened and finally looked away. “I . . . couldn’t. I couldn’t.”
Crispin mustered his strength and rose. He stood unsteadily and straightened his shoulders. His entire body ached; the hole in his shoulder, his sore limbs. But mostly his heart. A blackened tear rent it ragged and wide. “You bastard,” he whispered, feeling on the one hand he had uttered blasphemy, and on the other righteous indignation. “I thought it was Miles. All these years I hated him. All these years when I thought it was him . . . it was you.”
“And now you hate me.”
Crispin’s lips peeled back. “What do you think?”
“I suppose I can’t blame you.”
Crispin stared at the broken window and beyond it to the rain-glittered garden. Spears marched by, some milled near the broken glass, and heads appeared at the sill. Lancaster took swift strides to stand before the casement, blocking the rest of the room. He leaned out the window and pointed. “I heard a noise that way. Go investigate.”
None of the men dared question the duke of Lancaster, and they withdrew. Lancaster pulled the drapes across the window, casting the room into velvet shadows. He turned back to Crispin.
Crispin stared at the floor. Was it only a few short moments ago he was immersed in an intimate encounter with Livith? To be back there now, to forget this horrifying truth and drown himself in the pleasures of a sensuous woman! There didn’t seem to be any point in pressing on, in capturing Miles. Who cared about the murder of a Frenchman? Or the king, for that matter, if Richard’s staunchest supporter was equally guilty? What a fool he’d been! It should have been obvious. If Crispin had only opened his eyes he would have known. Lancaster was a ruthless statesman. He conquered. He devoured. He took. Crispin should have known it. But in all his naïveté, all his trust, he hadn’t.
“Tell me the truth,” rasped Crispin, not looking at Lancaster. “Are you trying to kill the king? Are you behind this new plot?”
Lancaster never moved. He stood in that regal manner of his, the manner that brought men to his service, made them pledge oaths to him, ride to war with him, die for him. There was a solemn set of his mouth. “No” was all he said.
Crispin edged his glance up and looked at the face of his mentor. Lancaster didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. He stated his position simply. He denied his involvement. Crispin want
ed to believe him, but was it the truth? Crispin was beyond being able to distinguish truth from lies.
As if Lancaster could read these thoughts, he stepped closer and said more quietly, “Crispin, I had nothing whatsoever to do with this new evil. And I have been involved in many plots. I am not afraid to admit to you my complicity in those. But in this, I am innocent.”
“Innocent,” Crispin echoed.
Lancaster nodded. They both sensed the poor use of the word, considering the context.
“Master,” urged Jack. He glanced back at Lancaster, who stood in silhouette against the large hearth. Jack’s face was purple with bruises. “Master Crispin, we must go. You were right. There’s no place left for us here. We must leave London.” His voice was dull and full of weary maturity.
“What difference does it make?” Crispin whispered. “When Miles kills the king, I will still be blamed. Nowhere will be safe.”
“We can go to France, maybe. You’re always talking about France. Maybe we’d be welcome there.”
“The English king’s assassin? Oh yes. They’ll welcome me with open arms.”
Jack looked to the duke. “M’lord. Tell him. Tell him he must go. Tell him to forget Miles and the Frenchman. Leave it to the sheriff.”
“I should have confessed seven years ago,” said Crispin dully. “I would have been dead by now. Unconsecrated, and my soul wandering in Purgatory, but surely it would be a better Purgatory than this.”
Lancaster snorted. “Surrendering, are you?”
Crispin raised his face. He didn’t know what he looked like, but his expression startled Lancaster enough to take a step back. “Don’t I have every right to?”
“Of course. You have earned the right. But I expected that after so long, you would know how to survive, how to circumvent your enemies.”
Crispin struggled to push himself from the chair. Jack tried to help, but Crispin swung his good arm and Jack got out of its way. Crispin rose and squared with Lancaster. “Until this moment I thought I knew who my enemies were.”
“I am not your enemy.”
“Oh no? That’s right. You were my savior. Of course, I would not have needed a savior if your henchman had not deceived me into committing this most unforgivable act of treason!”
“You do not realize your situation.”
“Oh, but I do.”
“No, you don’t.” Lancaster raised his royal head. It was only by an accident of birth that he was not king now. Richard. The resemblance was slight between the faces of uncle and nephew, but there was no mistaking what color of blood pulsed through Lancaster’s veins.
“No one has ever committed high treason in this realm and lived,” he told Crispin. “You were spared for a purpose.”
“Who do you think you are? Do you play at prophet now?”
“I am the one who pleaded for you. Richard had no cause to accede to my pleas. It was his choice and he knew it. His counselors advised him otherwise, to take your life. But he chose not to. I don’t know why.”
“I do not care. I know well the life I have lived since. And I tell you, I would rather be dead!”
“Well then, why not let the guards take you? Walk out into that corridor now and shout it to the heavens. You’ll be dead soon enough.”
“M’lord!” Jack lunged forward, his fingers outstretched as if trying to capture the duke’s last words. “Please don’t tell him that. Tell him you will champion him.”
“Crispin, tell your servant to be still or he will find a sword in his gut.”
“The both of you! Be silent!” Crispin raised his hands to his ears. The wounded shoulder, however, would not allow him to raise that arm so high. He grabbed the hurt shoulder instead and trudged across the room to a shadowed corner where the chessboard sat. He remembered playing many a game with the duke on that very board. He wiped the sweat from his upper lip. “Can’t you both be silent,” he whispered, “and let me think?”
Lancaster’s confession had been demoralizing and terrifying. He stared at the chessboard and felt his sore shoulder heave with each heavy breath he took.
The chess pieces gleamed in the sallow light, their proud knights mocking. He swept his arm over it and cast the pieces to the floor. One of the knights broke in half, forever separated from his stallion.
A decision needed to be made. And yet it seemed already made for him. “Jack.” Crispin said it so quietly, even he wasn’t certain he uttered it. He stared down at the broken knight.
The boy edged forward. Crispin heard his shoes scrape against the wooden floor behind him. “Master.”
“If I stay to do what I feel is my duty—to stop this assassin from killing the king—then I will be captured. It will be the end of me. My Lord of Gaunt here will no longer have a voice in the matter.”
Jack frowned. Crispin noticed the beginning of a ginger whisker. No, he was far too young. Perhaps it was only another freckle on the burl of his chin. The boy’s voice was unsteady, but his words were strong and did not falter. “I would just as soon see you free, sir, but I know it is not your way. And if you die this time, then it is for a noble cause. Not one of treason, though all the world may still think it. I will know. And all your friends will know. Anyone who knows you well will know.” He said the last looking directly at Gaunt. The duke’s mouth did not move. His lips formed a thin, tight line. But Crispin thought he detected the merest trembling of his chin.
Crispin smiled briefly. “Then, for your sake and the sake of my friends, I must do my best.” He straightened and cradled his bad arm. He pulled his cloak about him and lifted his head, though he did not look at Gaunt. “I will take my leave of you now, your grace. I will trouble you no more. Indeed, I think there is very little either of us has left to say to the other.”
“Crispin—”
Crispin bowed deeply. “I take my leave. With or without your permission.” He headed toward the door and leaned heavily against Jack when the boy offered his arm. It wasn’t until they stood outside Lancaster’s apartments that Crispin breathed again. He looked both ways down the empty corridor.
He looked at Jack, and the boy offered a sincere and sorrowful expression. Crispin squeezed Jack’s shoulder. “Thank you, Jack. For everything.”
Jack nodded. His face was on the verge of tears.
“Did you find Miles Aleyn?” Crispin asked.
“No, Master,” he replied in an unsteady voice. “I’m not even certain he’s in the palace.”
“He is. I saw him. In fact—” Crispin remembered Miles’s face masked in shadows by the column in the great hall. “The French couriers. They saw him, too. And they recognized him. They knew him.”
“But they told you they didn’t.”
“They said they didn’t know him by that name.” This was better. Immerse in the problem and then all the other hurts could be forgotten for a time. The puzzle was the place to hide. The puzzle was a safe haven.
“He’d been to France,” said Jack.
“Yes.” Crispin minced through the puzzle in his mind. “Yes. France.”
Crispin stood that way for a long time, his face blank. Jack finally nudged him. “Something else troubling you?”
“Yes, but it has to wait. I’m not leaving here until I find Miles.” Crispin set off down the corridor, cradling his arm.
Jack trotted after him. “What happened, Master Crispin? To your arm.”
“Miles. There was an arrow. Livith found me and ministered to me.” Pain radiated throughout his left side, especially where the wadded cloth blotted the hole. He looked down and saw blood soaking the linen. He needed to be sewn up like his old coat, but he didn’t have the time.
He took a deep breath and started running. He grunted out the pain but he couldn’t stop, wouldn’t. If he had killed Miles the day he saw him in Islington he’d be in better stead now.
He didn’t know where to look, but his feet took him near the great hall. He slammed himself against the wall just within the shadowed arc
hway and breathed. Jesu, this shoulder hurts! “Jack. Go look. I can’t risk being seen.”
Jack straightened his cassock and pulled the cowl up over his head before he leaned toward the archway and peered around the corner. “Only a handful of courtiers,” whispered Jack, “but Miles is not among them . . . Hold there. Someone running.”
Crispin heard the scramble of feet, shouting, and then more feet, marching feet pursuing.
“The poor bastard is down!” hissed Jack. “A cluster of guards wrestled him to the ground. He’s in for it now. Been there m’self.” Jack edged farther into the hall, extending his body. In his black cassock, he looked more shadow than boy.
“They’re picking him up,” Jack continued. “It looks like . . . it looks like . . .”
Jack’s spine snapped to attention and he rubbed his eyes and looked first at Crispin and then back to the hall.
Crispin stared at Jack and whispered, “What is it, for God’s sake?”
Jack shook his head. “It looks like they’ve captured . . . you!”
25
CRISPIN’S FACE DID NOT change for a heartbeat and then he threw back his head and gave a hearty laugh. “Captured me, did they? How do you know?”
“Well . . .” Jack hugged the edge of the pilaster. “I see a man wearing that cotehardie of yours—”
Crispin continued laughing though it hurt his shoulder and he ceased abruptly. “My decoy has arrived. What are they doing now?”
“They’re ushering him away. Out the other door. Everyone’s going. The hall’s empty.”
Crispin stepped tentatively toward the archway. “Good. We’ll go this way, then. It will save me time.”
“Who was that poor bastard?”
“That was Lenny.”
Jack smiled. “And he agreed to be your decoy?”
“Not exactly. I hinted to him that he might earn a reward at court. Looks like he just got it.”
“Why is he wearing your coat?”
“I needed a way to get across London without being detected. We traded coats.”
Serpent in the Thorns Page 22
