Serpent in the Thorns (30 page)

“No matter. Today, we are here to recognize the fact that you saved the life of your monarch. Certainly this calls for a reward. What sort of a reward would suit you, Guest? You saved the life of a king. You have saved England. What would be suitable?” He put his finger to his lips in mock speculation.

Crispin dared a glance at Lancaster. Gaunt’s face was tight, his lips pressed so firmly they paled.

“I know!” Richard stood. He took a step forward and looked down on Crispin. “Shall we restore your knighthood? Is that your desire?”

The room fell to silence.

Crispin’s eyes widened. He swallowed and licked his lips.
What goes on here?
His gaze cut to the other courtiers, but they were just as perplexed as he was. With a suddenly hoarse voice, he softly replied, “As it pleases your Majesty.”

“Not as it pleases us, surely,” Richard said a little too loudly. “As it pleases
you,
Guest. Shall we do it now?” He turned toward his uncle and whipped out Lancaster’s sword from his scabbard but Lancaster was so surprised he tried to reach for the blade before he seemed to realize what was happening and staggered back, surrendering it.

The king’s sword hung from the royal hip. Clearly, it wasn’t good enough for his purposes.

Richard brandished Lancaster’s sword. “Shall we dub you now?”

Crispin stared at the blade. The light from the candles ran like golden beads along its shiny length. So much time had passed. Not just in moments, but in years. Richard was no longer the young boy he had been. He was a young man, able to properly wield a sword, ready to go to war. It wouldn’t be long before he didn’t need a steward and declared his majority. It wouldn’t be long at all.

Richard lowered the sword to his thigh. “But before we do so . . . there is
one
thing.” He slowly raised the blade until its point aimed directly at Crispin’s chest. “We want to hear you ask for it. Go on, Guest. Ask for your knighthood. And we will grant it.”

Lancaster closed his eyes. The king’s favorites standing on the other side of his throne looked distinctly uncomfortable, staring at their feet or hands.

Crispin said nothing. He would not drop his gaze from the king.

“Did you hear me, Guest? Your knighthood. And not only that! For what good is a title with no lands and wealth to back it up? Lands and title, that, too, will we restore. All of them. And you will be yourself again, eh? And all you need do is get down on your knees . . . and ask. Well, Guest?”

Crispin felt them all waiting for his reply. He felt their eyes on him, their anxiety as thick as smoke.

All you have to do is drop to your knees, Crispin. Just swallow your damned pride and do it! Have everything you want again. What the hell’s the matter with you?

He looked at the floor. Was it only a week ago that Miles laid at his feet begging for mercy? Miles, the man who did not know the first thing about honor?

Crispin wanted to kick himself.
Jesu.
Honor. Gilbert was right. Honor had become the bane of Crispin’s existence. It seemed he couldn’t take a piss without considering the nobility of the effort. Was honor a lost art? Was Crispin a relic of his own past? If that were so, then perhaps being a courtier wasn’t all it used to be.

But to feel the weight of a sword at his hip again; to tell the sheriff to go to Hell; to eat decent food and drink fine wine. What was it worth? A few moments on his knees? A few words that meant little? What was the price of a man’s soul?

He flicked his gaze toward Lancaster. Had the duke sold his soul to discover his friends from his foes? He had surrendered the lives of honorable men, including Crispin’s. Lancaster had viewed it as a tactical move. And maybe that’s all it was. If Crispin had retained his knighthood and status, might he have resorted to the same “tactical” move one day to discover
his
enemies?

He knew he had to say something. Should he make a speech, or just sink to his knees? In the end, only one thing occurred to him. His voice felt coarse and low. “ ‘Fire is the test of gold; adversity of strong men.’ ”

Richard frowned. “What did you say? Do you think you’ve been tested? You, who committed high treason?” The pleasant façade gave way to Richard’s ire. He clenched his teeth. “We give you back your life. All you have to do is beg.
Beg
!”

And in that one word, the decision was made. Crispin clamped his lips shut, and lifted his chin.

The silence that followed cut through the crowd with painful intensity.

Richard reddened. He threw down the sword. The weapon clanged at his feet and skidded down two steps. “You whoreson! And
that
is precisely why you shall
never
regain your knighthood. You stubborn, arrogant bastard! We will
never, ever
trust you.
Never
.” He panted and backed up to the throne. When the back of his knees hit the seat he fell into it. The feel of it under him seemed to have a calming effect and he wiped his disarrayed hair out of his face. He straightened his shoulders. “Yes, your own man, I see.” He gave a hollow laugh and turned to de Vere. “A martyr to the last. Saint Crispin. No shoemaker you. You make armor of old tunics, and swords of your words. A shabby knight without holdings. Is that what you are? Sir Crispin of the Gutter? Then we so dub you.” He spat. It hit Crispin’s cheek. Crispin slowly raised his hand and wiped the royal spittle away. “Still,” said Richard, voice calm but face red, “you do deserve some reward for your altruistic actions.” De Vere handed him a pouch. The king took it and tossed it forward. It arced over the steps and landed with the loud clink of coins at Crispin’s feet. He had no doubt that there was a fine sum within. “Payment in full,” said Richard.

Crispin looked down at the bulging pouch. Gold. He was certain of it. Enough to buy a string of tinker shops and maybe an inn or two. Enough to set himself up well for the rest of his days. Enough in the Shambles sense, at any rate.

He raised his head and looked at the king. Richard wore a self-satisfied sneer, and he turned his face toward his favorites, who smiled in complicity at their monarch. What else could they do?

Indeed
. Crispin looked at the money pouch again. He saw his future receding, saw a life of relative ease decaying to dust.
Sir Crispin of the Gutter, eh? For seven years it was so. Well, and why not?

“I saved the life of the king not for gold, your Majesty,” he said in a clear tenor. “But in recompense for my faults. And because . . . England needs a king.”

Richard fixed his eyes on Crispin. The royal lips were pressed tightly together.

Crispin gave one last wistful look at the pouch, bowed low to Richard, and turned on his heel.

He heard Richard jump to his feet behind him and the commotion of men and women whispering.

“Guest! You dishonorable bastard! You dare turn your back on your king? Guest!” Crispin was tempted to look back like Lot’s wife, but he had no desire to turn to a pillar of salt. “Don’t ever show your face at court again, Guest! Do you hear me?
NEVER RETURN TO COURT!
”

Crispin walked unimpeded all the way through the great hall’s arch before he dared draw a breath.

29

CRISPIN SAT ON THE spine of a roof next to his back window and hugged his knees. The last of the day’s golden light had sunk westward an hour ago, swallowed by churning blue-gray rainclouds. His cloak kept him warm enough, but he wondered today if his boots would keep him from slipping down the slick tiles. He further wondered if he cared.

He had either done the most foolish thing in his life or the bravest. Even now he still wasn’t certain which it was. At least this time Richard appeared to the world like a spoiled child and all the court witnessed it. Still, to have been a hairsbreadth from his knighthood. So close to a sword in his hand once more . . .

“Master Crispin! What by God’s wounds are you doing out there? I’ve been searching all over for you!”

Jack leaned out the window. His pale face seemed paler in the dark, and little wonder. The last he saw of Crispin, he was being escorted by two guards to court, and for all the both of them knew, to the gallows.

“Come on out, Jack.”

Jack climbed out onto the sill and with arms outstretched for balance, made his way across the peak and sat next to Crispin.

“What are you doing, Master, if a body may ask?”

“Looking at the city. I think I prefer it at night. It’s not as dark as one thinks.”

His gaze followed along the spiky silhouette of the cityscape, rising and falling against a pocked field of stars so sharp they pierced the veil of night in pinpricks of light.

Jack hugged his knees and rested his chin on them. “I spend many a night like this, Master. You can see candles lit all over the city. It’s never completely asleep, is it? The city, I mean. I used to look at windows glowing with light, wishing—Ah well.”

“Wishing what?”

“Well, that I was inside.”

“Men like us, Jack. We’re never inside.”

Jack fell silent. It was companionable. Until he felt the boy twitching beside him. He cocked his head and Jack’s mouth was taut with thinking.

“Well?” asked Crispin.

“How did Grayce hide her bow anyway? You searched that room at the King’s Head.”

“Not as thoroughly as I should have done. I must confess that I did not expect to find a bow and so I little searched for one. But I suspect it was under the table all along. That was where Livith retrieved her bow in our last encounter.”

Jack nodded and said nothing more. After a while, Crispin felt the boy staring at him. When he turned, Jack’s eyes glittered at him in the darkness. “I heard a fool rumor about you,” said Jack. “It can’t possibly be true, now can it?”

Crispin rubbed his sore shoulder. “Oh? What rumor was that?”

Jack straddled the roof to face Crispin. “Well, the way I heard it, the king offered you your knighthood again, and you threw it back in his face. But that would be a lie, now wouldn’t it?”

“And do you honestly think that the king, a man with little interest in honor or just causes, would champion me and offer me knighthood?”

Crispin flinched and almost slipped off the roof with Jack’s surprisingly vigorous clout. The lad seemed to have forgotten his subservience. Crispin rubbed the offended shoulder.

“You dunderpate! He did! He sarding did! You idiot! And you have to go and turn your nose up at it, because Christ knows you’ve got all the money in the world! What in hell did you do a sarding, stupid thing like that for?”

Crispin offered a lop sided grin. “You truly had to have seen it for yourself.”

Jack burrowed into his knees and mantle, grumbling. “You always tell me I must better m’self, but when you’ve got the chance, that’s another tale.”

“I do want you to better yourself.” Crispin listened to Jack muttering for a time and then chuckled. Jack had none of the advantages Crispin had had, but the boy was very much like Crispin nevertheless. He recognized something of himself in Jack when he was that age. It seemed so long ago now. Eighteen years. A lot can happen to a man in eighteen years. A lot of good . . . or a lot of bad.

Crispin stood and nudged Jack back toward the window. He helped Crispin’s bad side. Once back in the small room, Crispin held his free hand up to the hearth and looked about at the single candle, one chair, and one stool. He considered for a moment, then walked to the coffer, opened it, and took out his writing things. He placed the wax slate and stylus on the table and gestured to the stool. “Jack, how would you like to learn to read and write?”

Jack stood by the hearth and swiveled his head toward Crispin. “Me? You going to teach
me
?”

“Yes. Why not?”

“I’m just a—I can’t learn no reading or writing.”

“Don’t be a fool. Of course you can. Now sit down.” Jack stood as he was, nailed to the spot. His face was somber and white. Crispin patted the stool as if encouraging some stray dog to approach. After a long moment, Jack seemed to surrender something and shuffled along the floor until he reached the table. Slowly, he lowered to the stool. “We’ll start with Latin. Then French. English, of course. And if you are a quick study, even Greek. Then you can read Aristotle for yourself instead of my quoting him to you.”

Jack’s jaw hadn’t closed since Crispin’s pronouncement. “You can’t mean it. I’m . . . I’m only a cutpurse.”

“You want to be a cutpurse all your life? You’re my servant. And my protégé, if you wish. Don’t you want to be a Tracker, too? To that end, I think it time I pay you a wage—say one farthing for each job I get. How does that sound?”

Jack didn’t move. His face grew solemn. More than that. His mouth curved downward in a sorrowful grimace and suddenly a single tear traveled from his reddening eye down his pale cheek. He raised his hand and slowly opened the laces of his tunic, reached in, and pulled out a pouch fashioned in smooth, oxblood leather. Obviously not Jack’s pouch. He lifted it toward Crispin, hand trembling. “I don’t know who to return it to,” he whispered.

Crispin solemnly took it. “As this is your last—isn’t it?”

“Oh aye, sir.” He crossed himself. “You can be sure of that!”

“Then tomorrow we’ll give it to Abbot Nicholas and you can make your confession to him. Start clean.”

“Aye, Master.”

“Wipe your face and come closer to the candle. Now this is how you write your name in English.” Crispin sounded out each letter as he penned them. “J-A-C-K. And in Latin . . . I-A-C-O-B-U-S and in French . . . J-A-C-Q-U-E-S . . .”

Crispin handed Jack the stylus and allowed himself a smile. Here was something no king could confer or ever take away.