Serpent in the Thorns (29 page)

“The French noblemen, you mean?”

She shone her teeth in a guffaw, and slapped her thighs. “You are a one, ain’t you? How’d you know about that?”

“And you happened to have a few good English arrows left to take to England?”

“Aye. My employer seemed to know a thing or two about them arrows. Thought it amusing to use them. Do you happen to know why? You know everything else.”

“Yes. Because Miles stole them from the duke of Lancaster and they can be identified as his.”

She put her hand over her mouth and laughed into it. “That’s a pretty notion, that. Someone’s trying to be especially naughty.”

“Indeed. About that ‘someone.’ Just who
is
your employer?”

She put up one finger to her pursed lips. “Oh no. Mustn’t tell. Especially to the likes of you.”

“You know I am being blamed for this.”

“Aye. That’s the funniest part of all.”

Crispin made a grimace. “Strange. I don’t find it amusing whatsoever.”

Her taut shoulders drooped. She edged closer to him, leading with her hips. “Come, Crispin. Let us put our differences aside. Let us recapture the moment. Who would know? I’ll leave off killing the wretched king and disappear, if that’s what you want, and you can go about your business none the wiser and no one else hurt.”

“I would never soil my hands with you again.”

She stopped. Livith’s face soured. Her eyes narrowed “Very well,” she rasped. “Have it your way.”

Crispin was waiting for a move, but he didn’t expect her fist. She punched hard into his shoulder just at the point of injury; rapid punches, three, four times. It took his breath away, the pain so intense, so penetrating. He gurgled a protest, went rigid, and fell backward to the floor.

Livith cast the table into the air, upending it. She snatched the short-bow from its hiding place on the underside of the table and slammed an arrow to it. She straddled him, aimed the point of the arrow right between his eyes, and pulled back the string.

Supine, Crispin looked up at Livith’s eye taking aim down the arrow shaft. No time to think. He swung his legs up behind her and clasped them around her waist. The arrow shot forward, skimming the top of his bare head. He yanked his legs down, pulling Livith backward.

The same moment he released her, he rolled to the side. He managed to get to his knees just in time to feel the crack of the bow against his head. Stars, flashing light and dark. Pain bursting in his head. He sunk down, but knew if he succumbed he’d be a dead man.

She swung the bow from the other direction, and Crispin raised his good arm to block it. At least it
used
to be his good arm. He spun his leg outward and tripped her. She fell hard to the floor on her backside and swore.

Crispin was down on his knees again, trying to breathe, trying to get a fix on what was up and what down. His head was light. Loss of blood, a blow to the head—all of it was taking its toll.
Wish I’d told Jack where I was going to be.
Funny how that seemed to matter more and more these days. What Jack thought. Where Jack was. Maybe Eleanor was right. Jack was more to him than a servant, but it was too late to do anything about it now. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t think he was going to make it. Defeated by a woman! That was especially galling.

Crispin groped for his dagger and yanked it out. He fisted it tightly. That was all he had left. He hadn’t the strength for any more punches, no more kicks. Just the weapon. If she knocked it out of his hand, then he’d only have time for about half an Ave Maria, then all would be over.

Crispin heard a noise and realized that it was Livith, sobbing. “That hurt, you bastard! Me bum. You broke it.” Out of the corner of his eye he watched helplessly as she struggled to her feet. She rubbed her backside and drew her hand over a sloppy, wet nose. “I am going to take an arrow and burrow it deep in that hole in your shoulder. That should feel right good, eh Crispin? That’ll be like the fires of Hell, I should think.” She kicked his hand, and the dagger flew. Sorrowfully, he watched it go. She limped to where it lay against the wall and picked it up. She turned it in her hand. “Nice. A fair piece, this. I think I’ll cut off your ear first. Then the other. Then a few cuts to the neck—not the artery, mind. I want you to linger. I want you to see your blood flowing away.”

“After all we’ve been to one another,” he said.

She chuckled, deep and smooth.

Crispin watched her approach and forgot to pray. His mind was full of blasphemies instead, and he licked his lips to utter a few choice ones aloud.

Just then the door flung open. Livith turned. That’s all Crispin needed. He projected all his strength, all his weight forward and head-butted Livith in the belly. She flew backward into the arms of Grayce.

Crispin fell to the side, trying to roll to a sitting or crouching position. Livith lay on her back. Her knees jerked up like a dying crab. Crispin saw the knife across the room on the floor. So did Grayce. She was a slow thinker most of the time, but she had no trouble reckoning this situation. She dove for it the same time Crispin did.

Her fingers reached it first, but Crispin closed his hand over hers, trying to wrench it from her. He was weaker than he thought. He wasn’t getting anywhere. They rolled along the floor, Crispin doing his best to get the knife. He slammed her hands against the stone floor, once, twice. She leaned forward and dug her teeth into his wrist.

He cried out, but knew he couldn’t let her go. He gritted his teeth, sucked in a breath of icy air, and rolled again, this time slamming her head to the floor. That loosened her, and he did it again. She released the knife and he had no trouble rearing up and punching his fist into her face. Now there was blood on his hands, and it wasn’t his for a change. For good measure he took her head in both hands and slammed it hard into the floor. Twice. He heard a crack and then a blossom of blood oozed under her head. Her wild hair partially covered her cheek, and strands lodged in her slightly opened mouth and glaring eyes. If she were alive she’d move that hair off of her tongue and teeth. He had a feeling she wouldn’t be moving it.

A scream behind him. Livith had risen and stared at the specter of her dead sister. She raised her hands to her head and shrieked again. Then she focused her eyes on Crispin. The pain in her eyes turned to fury and she opened her mouth to emit an animal scream. She picked up the heaviest object within reach—the stool—and raised it over her head, ready to cudgel him.

He wasn’t entirely certain what happened next, but the stool seemed to be frozen in midflight, and many hands closed over Livith and dragged her backward. The stool hit the floor and cracked.

Crispin swayed for a moment. Not much left for him to do. Might as well fall to the floor and lose consciousness—which he did.

28

THEY HAD CRISPIN SITTING up in no time. He was grateful to be back in his own lodgings, though he had no memory of the actual journey. Visitors had come and gone, and he had little recollection of them, though he remembered vaguely Gilbert’s hand patting his, and Eleanor weeping into her apron.

A man had come, too, a man he didn’t know. An older man in a long, black robe, who removed Crispin’s shirt and stuck a needle into the hole in his shoulder. Crispin seemed to remember black thread, a ragged sort of pain, and then the sense that he was drunk, or something like drunkenness without the taste of wine. The man, of course, had been a physician, and he sewed up Crispin’s shoulder like a tailor. A tailor would have been cheaper, but since someone else had paid for the physician’s visit, Crispin didn’t worry. The only thing that made him worry later was discovering that Lancaster had sent the man.

A clean ban dage covered the packing on his shoulder, and a sling wound about that. A blanket covered what was left of Crispin’s modesty, and his coat—the old one recovered from a much relieved Lenny—sat draped over his shoulders. Jack sat on the end of the bed and tried to fill in the gaps in Crispin’s knowledge of events.

“Miles Aleyn told all, as you suspected he would,” said Jack excitedly. “It was him what killed Edward Peale. Didn’t want the arrows to be known as Lancaster’s. But ain’t that why he stole them in the first place, Master?”

“Yes, Jack. But I can see why he would not want the implication now. It would only turn unwanted attention to him. Did he know about the assassination plot?”

“Aye,” said Jack. “Though he didn’t know it was Livith and Grayce. It was his job to detain the couriers so that the assassins could meet with them and that was how they were going to get into court. He never noticed them scullions either, neither in France nor here.” He shook his head before he looked up, beaming. “Oh! And the best of all, he confessed that
you
had nought to do with it. And that was the last thing they got out of him.”

Crispin sipped red wine from a wooden bowl. He knew this flavor. The Langtons had sent it from the Boar’s Tusk. “Why so?”

Jack smoothed out the blanket in front of him. He didn’t look sorrowful when he said, “The torture killed him, is why. He’s deader than a post, and mourned as much.”

Crispin lay back and rested the wine bowl on his chest. He couldn’t muster a smile, but closed his eyes in satisfaction. Yes. This felt good. Miles had finally gotten his due. Crispin only wished he had been allowed to witness it.

He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. He looked at Jack and found a smile after all. “What of Gilbert and Eleanor? Are they well? Is the sheriff still after them?”

“No. The Lord Sheriff left off after Miles’s confession and that of Livith, that whoring bitch. She survived her torture but it won’t do her no good. They’re set to execute her tomorrow. It should be good and bloody. Want to go?”

Crispin lifted the wine bowl, looked at the blood red wine, and lowered it without drinking. “No. But you may go, if you wish. What of Grayce?”

“Dead. It is rumored that the king of France hired them two. But now I suppose we’ll never know.”

“No,” muttered Crispin. “We’ll never know.”

“That was a close one this time, Master Crispin. I’m beginning to think that a more quiet life would suit me better.”

“Oh? Are you looking for another situation?”

“Ah, I didn’t mean that, Master. It’s just that . . . you ain’t as young as you used to be.”

Crispin narrowed his eyes. “Thank you very much.”

“I worry over you. Like a mother hen.”

“Eleanor does enough of that.”

“I can’t help m’self. I like looking after you. It makes a man feel . . . important.”

“Well, Jack,” said Crispin, settling lower on his pillow. “I know I am in good hands.”

They both turned toward the door at the sound of many feet climbing the stairs. “More visitors?” sighed Crispin. “Please, Jack. Tell them I’m asleep. Tell them I will not see anyone today.”

“Right, Master.” Jack jumped up and skipped to the entry. Before the visitors had a chance to knock, he cast open the door. Nothing happened. He stood in the doorway and said nothing, not moving.

Crispin eased up and tried to look over Jack’s shoulder. “Who is it, for God’s sake?”

Jack turned with a horrified expression. He stepped aside and two men entered, pushing him out of the way. Shiny helms. Arms encased in mail and armor plate. Swords jutting up from scabbards. But worst of all, their surcotes were quartered with red fields of yellow leopards, and blue fields with yellow fleur-de-lis: the ensign of the King of England.

“Crispin Guest,” said one. “You are to come with us.” A camail of linked steel rings ran up either side of his head from his helm and formed a metal mesh like a wimple over his chin. The edges of his mustache flattened under the steel.

Crispin remembered to breathe. “On what charge?”

The other shook his head. “You are to come with us,” he said.

“Where?”

“To court.”

A long pause. Crispin’s gaze rose toward Jack. The boy froze by the door.
So, this is it.
Crispin cast the blanket aside and eased his naked legs over the edge of the bed. “Jack, help me with my shirt and cotehardie.”

Once Jack helped him dress and shave, Crispin stood and allowed the boy to drape his cloak over his shoulders. He turned to the men who had been watching dispassionately. “Gentlemen, I am now ready.”

The one who originally spoke grunted, and they both waited for Crispin to open the door before they followed him. Jack threw on his mantle and started after, but one of the guards turned. “You stay.”

Jack looked up with frightened eyes at both steely faces. “But I’m Master Crispin’s servant. He needs me!”

“He has no need for you. Get back, boy.” The man drew back his arm as if to strike. Crispin caught it and held it with his one good hand.

“There’s no need for that.” He turned back to the boy whose face shone white with panic. “It’s all well, Jack. I want you out of this, anyway. You’ll be safer here.”

“But I thought this was done with! What do they want with you now, Master Crispin?”

“I don’t know. But you must stay here. If I do not return . . . then go to the Boar’s Tusk. They’ll care for you there.”

Jack grimaced. He wiped his hand across his face spewing sloppy tears.

“Now Jack. I expect better.” He wanted to tell the lad not to worry, to have heart. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to utter the lies. Somehow it had all gone too well, too pat. He had been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Well, now it had. “Farewell, Jack. Be good. And . . . thank you for all you’ve done.”

“Master Crispin!” Jack’s cry was the last he heard before the guards slammed the door in the boy’s face. Crispin sneered at them for their loutishness, and then threw one end of his cloak over his shoulder and proceeded down the stairs.

He had plenty of time to think as they made the long walk to Westminster, they on horse back, he on foot. He spent the time looking at London, at her wharves, her inns, her wretched streets and hovels. When he was a rich lord, Crispin had always taken London for granted. The city was there to supply his needs, both physical and spiritual. Many of his household servants had come from London. He himself was born in London, though he spent his early childhood on his family estates in Sheen. But he knew, as indeed every Englishman knew, that there was nothing to compare throughout the rest of the country with London’s markets and shops. No country village possessed the same visceral stench of London, her streets teeming with workers, beggars, thieves, whores, and brigands; but also with nobility and kings, queens and ladies. London was England in miniature, as certainly as Onslow Blunt’s spun sugar creation had been.

They reached Charing Cross. The spires of Westminster Abbey and the palace were finally visible. Crispin’s heart began a drumbeat. Not that he wasn’t ready for the inevitable. He had been ready for a long time. He supposed it had been overdue. But he had set his sights elsewhere, on other things. There was Jack Tucker, for one. The boy had blown into Crispin’s life like a whirlwind. He had been just another thief on the streets, with a life sure to end on the gallows. But after only a few short months, he had become smooth like a river stone, doing his best to fit into a world Crispin barely felt comfortable in. He had much he wanted to teach Jack. Now there would be no time.

Gilbert and Eleanor had been good to him, too. There had been no advantage in it. He was no lordling to grant favors. He was even incapable of paying them on time, and he still owed a great deal to them for food—but mostly drink. It seemed they made a friend of him simply because they had wanted to, and this, to Crispin, was a novelty. Was this the advantage in a lack of pedigree? Had he learned this secret only at the end of his life?

He fully expected to enter the palace by the stables or the prisoner’s gate, and was slightly surprised to be entering by the grand entrance of the great hall.

Crispin’s heart pounded in his ears, so much so, that he could hear very little else.

The hall brimmed with light and people. The rustle of gowns, the buzz of low voices. His recently laundered coat clung to him with sweat.

The crowd parted for him and the hum of conversation died away in whispering echoes. His gaze darted uncertainly from face to face, very few he recognized.

The guards directed him to the dais with Richard’s throne, and Crispin inhaled sharply. Richard was there, leaning on his throne, flanked on one side by Michael de la Pole and Robert de Vere, and on the other by John of Gaunt.

Crispin finally stopped before the dais and bowed low to Richard. The king raised his languid lids and studied Crispin. He wore an ermine-trimmed gown covered in gold netting. His hair was neatly trimmed and curled just above his shoulders. His sparse goatee and mustache looked enhanced by a brush of darker powder. He inclined his head—not so much to acknowledge Crispin’s obeisance, but to hear the proceedings. The gold crown—a substantial ornament with gems and points—gleamed.

Crispin waited. What was supposed to take place now? Was he to throw himself on the floor and beg for mercy?
Richard can wait till Doomsday
.

The king glared at him. He leaned his chin on a bejeweled hand. “You saved our life,” he said.

Crispin almost fell to the floor anyway. With a steady voice and another bow, he said, “Your Majesty.”

Richard edged forward. His small eyes studied Crispin. “When was the last time we spoke, Guest? Eh? I was quite young then. Just a boy.”

Steady, Crispin
. “Seven years, your grace.”

Richard sat back. “That’s right,” he purred. A smile curled the edges of his lips, as careful a couture as his hair. “Seven years. We were newly crowned. Fresh from Westminster Abbey. They brought you before me, remember? In chains. We wanted to look at you; to see the man who would have deposed us for our uncle.” He turned his face toward Gaunt who didn’t so much as quiver a lash. Richard snorted at his uncle, and turned back to Crispin. “We knew who you were, of course,” Richard went on. “You were always polite but . . . unfriendly. We never liked you before, and we certainly did not like you that day. No, indeed.” He leaned forward, hands on his knees. “Ever wonder why we never executed you?”

The hall seemed to hold its collective breath. Crispin made certain he kept his gaze riveted to the king. In his head drummed the litany:
Don’t look at Gaunt, don’t look at Gaunt
. . .

“Many a time, sire,” he said aloud.

Richard smiled. It was practiced this time. He clearly enjoyed hearing Crispin’s words. “ ‘Many a time,’ ” he echoed. “It was something you said once. I was quite young, but I remembered it. You said, ‘It would be worse for a nobleman to lose all than to lose his life, for all
was
his life.’ Do you recall saying such a thing?”

“Not in so many words.”

“But certainly your philosophy, eh?”

“It . . . sounds like me, your grace.”

The king smiled again. He toyed with a gold chain around his neck. Crispin noted the width and design of the chain and considered that the proceeds from the sale of one link of this decoration could feed Crispin for an entire year. “Today, Guest, you stand before us a different man. Though, by God’s wounds, I think you were wearing the same clothes!” The courtiers laughed politely at that, and just as quickly quieted.