Serpent in the Thorns

by Jeri Westerson

  “Now, Master Crispin, that wasn’t a very nice thing you done to old Lenny. He won’t appreciate it.”

  “I imagine he’s spilling his guts about me now. That will keep everyone busy enough. I hope.”

  Crispin checked again to see if anyone remained in the hall and then slipped out onto the stone floor. Heading across the hall was the best shortcut to the courtyard. Miles might be there and Crispin needed to conserve every step.

  The tapestry that Crispin climbed in his escape had been removed, leaving an obviously blank space on the wall between more tapestries and banners. The broken rod still hung there by one hanger. Gouges in the plaster pocked the stone wall, reminders where spears had penetrated. The window was covered with boards hastily nailed into place to keep the weather out.

  “What happened there?” asked Jack. “Looks like a whirlwind swept through.”

  Crispin looked up. “No, only one desperate man.”

  Jack turned to stare at Crispin. His jaw slackened and his widening eyes inquired, but he said nothing.

  They’d made it halfway across the floor when Crispin stopped. He saw movements in the shadows by the kitchen entrance, the figure of a man and the gleam of a sword pulled from its scabbard.

  The figure strode into the light and took a few paces forward. He wagged the sword at Crispin from across the expanse of floor, his gloved hand wound taut around the sword hilt. “Why, Crispin Guest!” Miles said tightly. His voice conveyed a smile even though his face did not. “It’s a miracle. Did I not just see you taken away by the palace guards?”

  Crispin stiffened. “No miracle. A trick of the eye, perhaps.”

  “So now the king must add sorcery to the charges against you. One wonders how many times and in how many ways you can be executed.”

  Crispin raised one edge of his mouth not quite into a grin. “I’ll wager none. It is not my execution that is close at hand, but yours.”

  Miles stepped closer. The sword bobbed toward Crispin. “Mine? I think not. For I am not guilty of anything.”

  “Do not make the angels weep, Miles.”

  Miles’s smile was that of a reptile. “You credit me with far more than my due.”

  Crispin backed away from Miles’s advancing blade, running his gaze over the three feet of steel. He raised his voice. “Miles Aleyn, you are under arrest in the name of the king.”

  Miles laughed. “And what authority gives you the right—or the gall—to utter such nonsense? Are we talking of the faery kingdom?”

  “The sheriff gives me the authority.”

  “The sheriff. I wipe my arse with London’s sheriff.”

  “We’ve all had enough of your bow work, Miles.” He gestured to his own arm. “Especially me.”

  Miles stepped closer, only ten feet from Crispin now. “I wish I can take the credit. But alas, I did not. Besides, I would have rather put an arrow in your heart than your shoulder.”

  “Lying to the last.”

  Miles chuckled and raised the blade. He stood only a few feet from Crispin.

  Crispin eyed the blade again, feeling himself at a distinct disadvantage with no sword and the use of only one arm. “What is your intention, Miles?”

  Miles whipped the blade through the space between them. The steel sang in the cold air. “Cut you down to size, perhaps. And pray, what is yours?”

  This time, Crispin’s smile was wide. “To beat the shit out of you.”

  Miles flicked a dismissive eyelash at Jack and directed his gaze again to Crispin’s bandaged arm and sling. He laughed. “With what?”

  “With this.” Before Miles could react, Crispin kicked Miles’s sword hand with all his might. The sword flew across the room.

  A surge of hot blood pumped through Crispin’s chest. That had gone better than he hoped.

  Miles shook out his gloved hand and looked back at the now distant sword. “Damn you, Guest!”

  But Crispin wasn’t done. He slammed his foot to Miles’s kneecap, and the archer went down. Without hesitating, Crispin threw a kick into Miles’s chest. A whoosh of air expelled from the archer’s lungs and he folded, legs splayed.

  Crispin panted and stood over him. “Well now. Maybe you will tell me—”

  Miles’s fist arced upward and caught Crispin in the gut. Crispin stumbled back a few steps, his good arm pressed to his belly. Miles tried to rise but his buckled knee would not allow him. Instead, he half-limped, half-slid across the floor like a beached whale. He pulled his dagger free.

  Crispin gasped, looked up, and saw the knife. He yanked out his own and slashed at Miles. Miles jerked back.

  Crispin’s mouth set grimly and he jumped away from Miles’s blade and instead caught the side of the archer’s head with his boot. Miles fell forward and the dagger skidded free across the floor. Jack scrambled to retrieve it and held it aloft, aiming it toward Miles.

  Miles leaned on his arms and heaved his shoulders, sucking in air. Blood rimmed his lips and plastered the hair on the side of his head where Crispin kicked him.

  Crispin looked down at him, satisfied he’d done sufficient damage. He turned to Jack. “Go get the duke’s men.”

  “Right, sir!” Jack saluted with Miles’s dagger, turned on his heel, and ran, feet slapping hard on the floor.

  Crispin faced Miles. “Now, you turd. I have a few questions for you.”

  “Go to Hell, Guest.”

  “I’ve already been there. And I will soon see you there. Save your breath and keep your lying to a minimum. I know all about your association with Lancaster.”

  Miles snapped up his head, eyes wide. He slid his jaw but said nothing. A trickle of blood painted a crimson line down his chin.

  “Yes, I know. Tell me why you stole those arrows. Trying to make it look as if Lancaster were guilty?”

  “Enough, then! I stole the goddamned arrows. But that was seven years ago. You didn’t think I was going to go to France without some proof of Lancaster’s involvement, did you?”

  “He could have killed you. He should have.”

  “No, instead he exiled me.”

  “With money enough to set you up well, I imagine.”

  “That was all very well—for a while. But a man gets a hunger for his homeland. So I joined the king’s army.”

  “As an archer.”

  “Yes, as an archer.”

  “And you used that skill for treason, trying to kill the king.”

  “No, damn you! How many times must I say?”

  “Why do you lie now? You are a dead man already. Lancaster’s men will be here soon. Torture will extract the rest.”

  Miles’s brows winged outward. Sweat dotted his face and trickled down. “I tell you I did not try to kill the king. It is impossible.”

  “Not for the likes of you. You are a deceiver, an extortionist, a murderer. There is no honor in you. There is nothing but evil and death, and that is what you shall receive.”

  Miles tried to rise but Crispin used his foot to kick him back down. “Stay on the ground where you belong, dog!”

  “I tell you it is impossible! I did not try to shoot the king!”

  “And why is that so impossible?”

  Miles grimaced. He glanced back toward the archway where Lancaster’s men would soon emerge. His face shone with sweat, his tunic equally dark with perspiration. Breath trembling, he looked up at Crispin and locked eyes with him. “This is why.” He raised his gloved hand to his face and grasped the leather fingers with his teeth and yanked off one gauntlet and then the other. He tossed the gauntlets at Crispin’s feet.

  Crispin looked.

  Miles had only a thumb and two small fingers on each hand. The forefingers and middle fingers had been hewn off.

  26

  “THEY CAPTURED ME,” RASPED Miles. “The damned French. And they did what they do to all captured English archers: They made certain I could never use a bow again. And I can’t. Satisfied?”

  Crispin stared at the gloves. Yes, he saw it now
. Some of the gloves’ fingers were artfully stuffed so that no one would be the wiser. And if Miles kept his gloves on at all times, as he had, no one would know. No one did.

  Crispin kicked the gloves toward Miles, but Miles ignored them. “So, you did not use the bow yourself. You hired someone.”

  “No.”

  “Then how do those French couriers know you? Don’t deny it. I already know they do.”

  Trapped. Miles knew it. Crispin saw it on his face. And it was only a matter of time before Lancaster’s men arrived. Miles glanced again at the empty archway.

  “The more you tell me now, the less torture you will endure.”

  Miles rubbed his hand over his lips, those misshapen fingers. “After . . . after my capture, I used my wiles to work my way into the French court. That’s where Lancaster’s funds made their mark. I could live well on English coins and also be in the French king’s employ.”

  “You are the fourth man.”

  His lips snarled and he shook his head. “You are very cunning, Guest. How did you know?”

  “Their companion never reappeared. When they saw you they were surprised, perhaps not expecting to see you here. I simply put two and two together. But a question remains. Why did you force the couriers to meet you at the King’s Head? If you are so innocent, why were you plotting? Who told you to bring them there?”

  “I was to warn them.” He looked uneasy, scraping his bottom lip with his teeth. “They were to delay going to court.”

  “To give the assassin time to work his will.”

  He continued to chew on his lip. His eyes darted to the archway. Without raising his head to Crispin, he nodded.

  “Who, Miles? Who told you to do this?”

  “I . . . I cannot say.”

  “Cannot or will not?”

  He looked up then, fragile defiance in his eyes. “Will not, then.”

  Crispin narrowed his eyes. He nearly drew back his fist, but decided he wasn’t worth the split knuckles.

  “When it was clear Lancaster was through with me,” said Miles, looking again over his shoulder toward the archway, “I had to make other plans. They believed a lot of things about me at the French court. Like you, they gave me more credit than was my due. But I didn’t disabuse them. It was to my advantage to appear craftier. I became a double agent, so to speak, working in both courts and spying for France.”

  “You are a true whoreson, Miles. I have never met a more foul man than you. You regard your honor very low.”

  “I don’t regard it at all. What has honor ever gotten me?”

  Crispin heard Gilbert’s words suddenly in his head uttering the same sentiment. What had honor ever gotten Crispin? But Crispin had no need to question it as others seemed to do. He couldn’t understand a man like Miles. Noblemen were trained from birth in the philosophy of uncompromising honor. It was as natural as breathing. Or at least Crispin always thought this was so. “What about self-respect?” said Crispin, face warm. “What about dignity, pride, nobility? Our honor is ourselves. It is who we are.”

  Miles laughed nervously. “Listen to you. You, who has not a scrap of honor left.”

  “I have far more honor than you have ever had, Master Aleyn. You don’t even understand the concept.”

  “I understand gold. That’s what I understand. And I understand compromise. I stole Lancaster’s arrows in order to be in a better position to negotiate. But then some bastard stole them from me. Then where do you suppose I next saw them? Hmm? Not at the English court. Not what you think.”

  Crispin squeezed his hurt shoulder. It didn’t help. He felt woozy again. He knew it was from loss of blood and exertion. He glanced at the archway. Lancaster’s men were certainly taking their sweet time about it.

  “Where then? If you are so keen to tell me.”

  “Seven years ago. In the necks of two French noblemen. It seems these courtiers supported a treaty with England and that made the king too uncomfortable.”

  “Which king?”

  “The French king, of course. They supported the English treaty against the good wishes of their sovereign. An assassin took them out. Imagine my chagrin when I realized they were my good English arrows. That’s why they were stolen, of course. At least that is why I thought so. Because they were English arrows the blame would be put on England, if anyone cared to look that closely at the arrows. Only someone like you would care.”

  “The assassin was never found?”

  “No. And it was not me.”

  “I have no reason to believe you.”

  “No, you don’t. But when that boy comes back with Lancaster’s men, I will keep nothing secret. I have no taste for torture, especially my own.” He scooted closer to Crispin. “Listen, Crispin. There’s truly no need for this. I’ve told you what I know. You’ve discerned the truth about Lancaster and about me. That should be enough to satisfy you. Help me to get away, and I will make it worth your while.”

  “Are you insane?”

  “Look at you? You look like a beggar. I have gold aplenty. You’ll never hunger again.”

  “Have you not listened to one word I’ve said?”

  Miles jerked his head. He, too, heard the approaching footsteps. He turned desperate eyes to Crispin. “Crispin, I’ve got the gold. You can have it. All of it. Just help me get away. I’ll never trouble you again. You’re a fair man, I can see that. Let me do this for you, if you will do this for me. Guest! I’m begging you.”

  Crispin took a step back and raised his chin. “I have a word of advice, Miles.”

  Breathing hard, Miles glanced at the archway and back to Crispin. “Crispin, for the love of Christ—”

  “When they use the hot pincers on you, relax your muscles as much as possible. There’s slightly less sensation when you do. Only slightly, mind. Probably not enough to make a difference.”

  Miles implored with trembling hands. “Crispin! Help me!”

  The heavy footfalls increased and there were suddenly many figures filling the archway. They headed straight for Miles and lifted him struggling in their midst. Miles’s face degenerated into grimaces and tears. His pleas and wails echoed in the hall and receded with him once they dragged him away.

  Crispin smiled.

  But the smile faded. Lancaster made the man into a criminal, whether Miles tended toward that demeanor or not. That was disturbing enough. But Miles had also confessed that he had nothing to do with the assassination attempts, and for some reason, Crispin believed him.

  The notion of English arrows being used for the very fact they were English struck a chord. It reminded him of shoes.

  27

  JACK EDGED NEXT TO Crispin and they both watched Lancaster’s men disappear with Miles. “He’s a coward,” said Jack. He said it simply, a pronouncement, like “my soup is too hot.” He raised his chin to look at Crispin, and his bright eyes shone with the flush of pride.

  Crispin supposed the pride was for him.

  He leaned against Jack and the boy gave a cry. “Oh Master! We must attend to that arm.”

  “There isn’t time, Jack. There is still an assassin to stop. Verily, there are at least two.”

  “Two? Isn’t Miles one of them?”

  “No. He had his own secrets, and they distracted me from seeing what I should have all along.”

  Jack slapped his forehead. “Them French couriers!”

  Crispin lifted his shoulders in an effort to breathe. “Jack, do what you can to get Lenny out of shackles. Here.” He reached into his pouch and gave a little hiss when he jabbed his finger on the thorn. He pulled it out again along with some coins, and dropped the coins in Jack’s outstretched hand.

  “Oi! Master Crispin,” he said pointing to the object in Crispin’s palm. “That looks like one of them thorns.”

  Crispin looked at the thorn, and then at his finger. He had so many holes in him now he wondered how he had any blood left. “It is one of those thorns. It fell out of the Crown.”

  Jack
backed up, hands fanning the air and head shaking. “Christ’s toes! You must return it. Take it away.”

  “If only I could. I will give it to the proper authorities when all this is over.”

  “Oh!” Jack covered his mouth and then pointed a trembling finger at Crispin. “It’s that power. It’s the thorn protecting you. Jesus mercy.” He hastily crossed himself multiple times.

  “Don’t be a little fool. Go now. Rescue Lenny. You still look like a monk. It will put you in good stead. That silver will go even further.”

  “Where should I go?”

  “The captain of the guard. Or the sheriff, if you must.”

  Jack nodded but eyed Crispin warily. He fisted the coins and took off at a trot, looking back at Crispin once before disappearing through an arch.

  Crispin took another deep breath. He hoped he had enough strength to go on. But almost the same moment he thought it, a feeling of comforting warmth began in his chest and spread outward like a sunburst. It radiated into his sore shoulder, not exactly dulling the pain, but making it that much more bearable. He felt taller, straighter. He should be feeling exhausted. He should be in too much pain to lift his foot one more step. He should be fainting.

  He looked down at the thorn in his hand and slowly shook his head in his refusal to believe. “You can’t be doing this. I don’t believe you can do this.”

  The thorn lay in his palm. It looked like any other thorn: black, unimpressive yet somewhat dangerous.

  He looked at his finger. Already the pinprick was disappearing.

  He swiveled his head to look back at the direction he’d come, to the archway that led back to Lancaster. But thinking of the duke left him cold and desolate. Since his degradation, he and Gaunt had spoken little. The few times they had, Lancaster had used distant tones to protect his good name from association with Crispin’s. His good name. And Crispin had taken it like the properly chastised servant he was, feeling all along he deserved it. Like a fool! Where was the honor in all this? Even Lancaster proved that in order to protect his own interests, he was willing to sacrifice his fiercest supporters. The young knights in the conspiracy had given their lives. And Crispin had given his life, too, in a sense. Was there anything or anyone worth dying for?