Serpent in the Thorns (14 page)

Crispin smiled a grim smile and pushed over the threshold. “And what did Onslow say?”

“He wagered a farthing you wouldn’t come. I’ve won that, I have!”

“So you have.”

Crispin stepped in farther and Livith and Grayce entered. The boy stared at them. “And what is all this, Sir Crispin?”

It was useless to tell the lad not to call him that. “Where is Onslow, Freddy?”

Freddy scratched his mane of brown hair. “He’s at the hearths. I’ll take you.”

Freddy moved ahead but couldn’t help look over his shoulder at the silent women. Livith merely stared ahead of her, but Grayce rolled her eyes, looking at all the new sights.

The aromas of roasting meats and savory pottage billowed toward them. It was warmer as they neared the fires. A tall, strapping man with flaming ginger hair and an equally flaming beard flung his arms over the chaos of the kitchens. Staff scrabbled in all directions trying to keep up with his shouted orders. Kettles bubbled over the fire. Three-legged cauldrons shot steam out from under iron lids. Two young boys, no older than four, took turns turning the gears to a great iron spit roasting three pigs and four goats over one of the larger hearths. There were six hearths in all and a few separate braziers with smaller fowl dripping juices from prongs.

Crispin stood behind him, fists at hips.

“And move, you!” Onslow bellowed. A young boy, face dirty with soot, carried several large platters in his outstretched arms. Crispin feared he would drop them and earn a beating, but the boy had obviously been at this for some years, and moved nimbly past his master.

“You, Onslow, are the very picture of an Egyptian taskmaster.”

Onslow swiveled. His face screwed up in preparation for a barrage of curses . . . when it all loosened into a jovial slant. “Sir Crispin! Mother of God, what are you doing here? It has been many a day!”

“Yes, in the days when I could rightfully be called ‘Sir’ Crispin.”

“Aw now.” Onslow reddened. He grabbed Crispin’s shoulders, but thankfully did not enclose him in a hug. His apron looked too greasy for that. “You’re not here for what I think you’re here for?”

“And what do you think I’m here for?”

He sidled up to Crispin and spoke in low tones. “You know. The king? Someone tried to put him out of his misery.”

“I thought you did that every day with your cooking.”

He smacked Crispin’s shoulder affably, but the wallop nearly sent Crispin reeling. Onslow’s hands were as large as some of his platters. He laughed but stopped and drew on a serious expression. “That’s not a funny jest, Sir Crispin. I could be dragged into prison for suspicions like that.”

“You haven’t yet,” he said.

“You never said as much when you sampled my food before taking them to his grace the duke.”

“No, admittedly, I was better behaved then.” Crispin’s smile turned grave. “Now I have a favor to ask. These women”—he thumbed behind him—“they need work.”

Onslow’s face brightened. “You’ve come to the right place. We always need extra hands.”

Crispin spoke in quiet tones. “They need a private place to sleep. Away from the others. No cots in the great hall, nor may they clean in the hall. Let them work only in the kitchens, nowhere else. Understand?”

Onslow didn’t, but Crispin had known him a long time and he counted on that. Onslow’s eyes worked it out and he gave a final nod in agreement. “I’ll get Freddy to show them their place. I suppose you’ll tell me all about it over a beaker at the Boar’s Tusk.”

“Soon. Livith. Grayce. This is Master Onslow, the best royal cook of all time.”

“Any friends of Sir Crispin’s—” He urged them forward and then gave a whistle for Freddy, who remarkably heard it above the clatter. “Join me in a cup now, Sir Crispin?” Onslow asked over his shoulder.

Crispin shook his head. “That would cheer me greatly, but there’s no time now. If I may, I would like to look about.”

But Onslow’s lighthearted expression turned somber. “Er . . . Sir Crispin.” He looked around and motioned Crispin aside. “It has been many a year, true. And for the last four years you have been well known, honest as the day is long. But sir . . . you were cast from court because . . . because . . .”

“I would have seen the king deposed,” Crispin said quietly.

“Aye, you see the point. Deposed or . . .” He leaned closer and whispered, “Or dead.”

Crispin nodded. “I see the difficulty. Perhaps this is why I am here, eh? To finish the job begun seven years ago?”

“Never jest about it! It could mean our heads.” His eyes darted this way and that but no one was close enough within the noise of the kitchens to overhear them. “But I have known you since you were a page in Lancaster’s household. Treason or no, you are a man of character. And if you swear to me by our Lady that you will do no harm to the king, then I will believe you.”

Crispin steadied his gaze on Onslow’s gray eyes. He placed his hand upon his own breast. “I solemnly swear to you, Master Onslow, on the soul of our dear Lady, that I will do the king no harm. I am here to protect him.”

Onslow let out a long breath and his cheeks rosied again. “There now. That assures me better than any priest’s oath.” He gestured toward the stairway leading to the great hall. “You know the way.”

Onslow didn’t stop to observe Crispin depart. He returned to shouting orders to his army of cooks at the hearths and cooking pots.

Freddy ushered the women away to their third lodgings in two days. Crispin’s thoughts could now concentrate on a crowd of images. Miles Aleyn, for one. But he also gave a thought or two to the French couriers. Where were they now? Did they make it to court? Return to France? He’d have to make inquiries.

Miles knew something about the women and pursued them to the Boar’s Tusk. If he thought Grayce had seen him, why did he not try to kill Grayce? If only she would speak! If he could only get her to say what she saw. Alas. He’d be just as likely to get a mule to speak, though a mule was bound to be wiser! Poor Grayce. Poor Livith. He gave the sinewy sister an extra thought and turned back to catch a glimpse of her in the clutter and scrambling of Onslow’s cooks and scullions, but she was lost amid the rabble and savory steam.

He made the short walk across a courtyard and then up some steps that took him from the kitchens to the great hall. An army of servants hustled there almost as much as they did in the kitchens. There were trestle tables to set up, benches to put in place. The trestles whined as they scraped across the stone floor. Servants with linens were carefully draping them over the tables, smoothing the wrinkles away with clean hands. Men on ladders were fitting large wax candles into candelabras as big as saplings, while their assistants were scrambling about bringing more candles. Still others worked tirelessly with brooms at the perimeters, sweeping away the dust and dirt.

No one took notice of Crispin.

And so. Richard wanted his feast to show the court he was not afraid. “But he should be,” Crispin muttered. The killer was not through.

Crispin looked out across the huge room with its high ceilings of open timber arches supported by two rows of pillars. Large, arched windows, with reticulated clear glass, lined both long walls north to south. Raised steps with Richard’s marble throne stood at one end and heraldic drapery of banners and tapestries hanging from iron rods ran along both sides down the length of the hall, some flat against the wall and others protruding like banners before a battle.

He wondered where Miles might be. Was he quartered in the palace or with the garrison? He couldn’t very well ask. But he still wanted to know. He wanted to know so many things. Why did he wish to kill the king? Was the old plot unfolding all over again? But if killing the king was his only objective, why waste time slaying a French courier?

He looked again at the throne, and like a moth drawn to a flame Crispin walked with slow steps toward the chair.

No guards. Stupid. Reckless. But so was Richard. He was seventeen now. Though no longer considered a child, it would be four more years before he was considered in his full majority. He made decisions for the realm relying at first on his uncle Lancaster. And though Parliament refused to make him regent, Lancaster continued to counsel the boy and hence ruled the realm, though from what Crispin heard, the king’s former tutor Simon Burley and Richard’s Chancellor, Michael de la Pole, had taken over those duties. That surely did not sit well with the duke. Rumors from court suggested that the nobles felt shut out of the king’s decisions. Richard more and more used the counsel of his friends over that of the nobles. That sat well with no one.

Crispin stood at the bottom of the steps to the raised platform. The last time he stood so close was on that day, seven years ago. A presence emanated from the throne like some malevolent creature pitched out of Hell.

Richard. Crispin’s ire for him was more marked today than seven years earlier, when all he had wanted was his mentor on the throne. Was Abbot Nicholas right about Crispin? Did Crispin keep tidings of Miles to himself not to appear the hero but to let him kill the king?

He didn’t like that feeling creeping into his veins, the feeling of culpability. Was he responsible for setting in motion again the very treason that cast him out of his place at court? A sneer curled his lip. No. That kind of thinking could freeze a man solid. And there was nothing static about Crispin.

He rested his foot on the lowest step and leaned on his thigh. The throne—marble, cushioned. So much more than merely a chair. Some men coveted such a thing. Maybe even some of the men caught up in the conspiracy. Maybe some of them fancied themselves covered in ermine and wearing a crown, and Lancaster was only the tool to get them there.

He made a disgusted snort. What did it really matter now? Few men could change the tide of history. He was certainly not one of them. Might have been once, but not now. But Lancaster was such a man. He headed armies and won and lost the day many a time. The son of a king, he was always destined for greatness and he achieved it. It was on Lancaster’s shoulders that the tide of history turned, not on the shoulders of underlings, for though Crispin’s rank had been high, his personal ambitions had never achieved the status of such as Lancaster or his ilk, nor was it designed to.

If Richard lived or died, what possible difference would it make to Crispin’s life now?

But suppose Richard did die. He’d been married little over a year and the queen was not yet with child. What if she never was? Who then would be the heir? Would it be Lancaster after all?

Crispin closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Such thoughts bordered again on treason. He would not allow himself to dwell. Better to protect the throne, whoever sat atop it.

Two servants scraped a trestle table across the floor and Crispin snapped open his lids. The many tables were arranged around the braziers in the center. Everything, of course, piloted the eyes toward the head table on the other side of the room on its raised platform, to Richard.

Crispin had been a guest at the head table many times before, when Richard’s grandfather, Edward of Windsor, was king. He recalled chatting with the ladies and high-ranking men at that table while breaking his meats with them, drinking fine wine, absorbing the entertainments.

No more.

No more because of Miles Aleyn and his seducing lies.

Crispin chuffed a hot breath. He wanted his life back. Killing Miles wouldn’t grant that, but the deed would make his suffering a hell of a lot easier.

He felt the weight of the arrows in his pouch. A smile peeled back his lips. He needed to pay a visit to the king’s fletcher.

He put his hood up and left the hall. The garrison’s courtyard was where the archers congregated. The Master Fletcher would certainly be there.

He headed toward the garrison’s yard as if he had made the journey only yesterday. His feet took him without question in the right direction. He passed under an arch, down the steps, and into the open courtyard.

Men walked freely across the gravel quadrangle. Blacksmith stalls, armorers, and carpenter and wheelwright stalls lined the courtyard’s walls. He turned when he heard the unmistakable whistle and thud of arrows hitting their targets. Two archers, both wearing green chaperon hoods with short liripipe tails, practiced shooting arrows at straw butts. The men wore leather tunics lined with metal plates, but the broad-shouldered one seemed too big for his tunic, thick arms bursting through the tunic’s crenelled cap sleeves. A dark fringe hung below the hood’s brim and small dark eyes like a ferret’s peered out from under bruised lids.

Long sandy hair draped in lackluster strings over the other archer’s brows, and though his eyes were set wide apart in a concentrated stare, he did not look the brighter for it.

Crispin ambled along the wall toward them, leaned his shoulder into a wooden post, and watched the arrows meet the target one after the other. They were fine marksmen, as fine as any of the king’s archers. Good enough to shoot a man in an undercroft at close range.

They ran out of arrows and chatted in an easy camaraderie born of longtime service together. Crispin emerged from the shadows. “I beg pardon, good sirs.” The men turned. The bigger man’s small eyes grew smaller. He clutched his empty bow.

Crispin tried a smile. He wasn’t certain if he succeeded. “Would either of you know the whereabouts of the Master Fletcher, Edward Peale?”