Serpent in the Thorns (15 page)

The archers exchanged looks. “Sometimes he’s at yonder booth,” said the sandy-haired one, and gestured with his bow. Crispin turned and examined the empty booth. “But he isn’t there today,” continued the archer. “Try the armory.”

This time Crispin’s smile was more sincere. “Yes. I will do that. Much thanks.” He turned toward the direction of the armory and wondered why the first burly archer’s hand had curled around his arm.

“Say!” said the archer. “Didn’t you used to be somebody?”

Crispin’s face warmed. The urge to snap his arm out of the man’s grasp was strong but he did not move. They recognized him, ruining his plan of stealth. Maybe they wouldn’t recall. Maybe he’d get away after all without humiliation.

“I know who he is,” said the other. “He’s Crispin Guest. The Traitor.”

No getting away today. The word was meant to sting, and sting it did. Crispin leveled an icy glare at the sandy-haired one.

“Now, now, Peter,” said the other. They let Crispin go and stepped back, but only to assess him as one assesses a horse. “That was a long time ago. I hear tell he’s that private sheriff they talk of.” His tone mocked. As an archer, he had been lower in rank than Crispin. There seemed to be no end of men who were below Crispin in rank and who relished rubbing his nose in his change of status.

Peter made a doubtful expression and rested his hand on his dagger. “Why do you suppose he’s here then, Wat? Traitor and all.”

“Maybe he’s inquiring about the attempt on his Majesty.”

“Or maybe,” said Peter, drawing his dagger, “
he’s
the one who tried to kill the king.”

“Gentlemen.” Crispin stared at the dagger pointed at him. Wat also drew his and the two archers maneuvered to block off his escape. Crispin quickly measured the courtyard. Open avenues there and there. He could outrun the big man Wat, but the lanky Peter he doubted he could outmaneuver. Crispin lifted his empty palms and took a step back. He used the only weapon left to him: his inbred nobility. “I
am
here to investigate. But I have an urgent need to speak with Master Peale. If you have a dispute with me—” With two fingers he lifted his dagger from its sheath, flipped it up into his hand, and postured. His smooth and practiced movements were obvious even to the archers, and they hesitated. “Then let us meet our troubles here head on.” He took a step forward and smiled when they took a step back. Two against one and they were still frightened of him. He wanted to laugh but didn’t want to spoil the mood. Instead, he slammed his knife back into its scabbard. “But if there is nothing more . . .” He backed away, eyeing the men with their bobbing blades. They made no more provocative moves, and when Crispin turned, he heard Wat say, “Peter, you best go find Master Miles.”

Crispin decided to hurry.

The armory was left unguarded, possibly because men were constantly entering and leaving it. Crispin blended in and became just one more man among many. He passed row on row of spears, halberds, axes, unstrung bows, and arrows, bundles of them, all piled impossibly high. And seeming to inventory every one of them, an old man bent over a wax slate with a candle attached to it. He was grayer than Crispin remembered. Perhaps a little more unsteady of hand, but there was no mistaking the king’s fletcher.

Crispin thought about the reaction of the archers, but there was little to be done. “Master Peale.”

The man didn’t turn from his work. “Eh? What is it? Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“Master Peale. I need your help.”

The fletcher stopped and raised his head. “I know that voice.” When he turned, his yellowed eyes looked Crispin over. His lids drooped with extra folds; skin leathery as arrow quivers, lips chalky and flat, revealing long, discolored teeth. “Crispin Guest?” He said it slowly, running the unfamiliar syllables off his tongue as if speaking a foreign language. His lips didn’t seem to believe his words and they murmured an old man’s soundless echo.

Crispin stepped closer into the candle’s circle of light. “Yes, it’s me.”

Peale crossed himself. “Saint Sebastian preserve us.” He looked Crispin up and down again and set aside the wax slate. “What brings
you
here to court, Crispin Guest?” His voice slid from faint fear to suspicion. His bushy eyebrows lowered over his eyes.

“I know it has been a long time.” Crispin looked at the ground and stood one leg forward, the other back, foot gracefully turned outward. It was a practiced, courtly stance, something Lancaster’s tutors had hammered into him over the many years that he lived in the duke’s household. “
How do you expect to be a proper courtier, Master Crispin?
” Master Edan would say, correcting Crispin for the thousandth time on his deportment on the dance floor. Master Edan taught Crispin all the dances and courtly courtesy befitting a child of his station, lessons his parents would have shouldered had they lived.

“
By my wits,
” Crispin had answered. A child’s voice mouthing a child’s youthful sentiments. He didn’t, couldn’t realize then how true those words would become.

Crispin touched the pouch hanging from his belt. “I have here three fletchings from arrows of your design, Master Peale. And I would have you identify for whom they were made.”

“Would you now?” He rubbed his gnarled fingers over his white stubbled chin. His gaze darted past Crispin’s shoulder. Crispin, too, looked back. No one was there. “Everyone is very interested in arrows of late.”

“No doubt.” Crispin produced the arrows from his pouch.

Peale didn’t look at them. His gaze centered on Crispin. “It has been many a day since you have been to court, if I am not mistaken. In fact, I am fairly certain the king is still of the same opinion about you, no?”

Crispin said nothing. Let the old man think what he will. It wouldn’t matter once he got his proof about Miles.

“Still stubborn, eh? Isn’t that what got you into your troubles in the first place?”

“And the sin of pride, Master Peale. But besides my sins, I have been given many gifts. The gift of wit and a keen sense of justice.”

“Aye, I remember. So.” His lips fumbled with a wry smile before his gaze dropped to the three items in Crispin’s hand. “And where did you get these fine specimens, if I may ask?”

“One from a dead man, one from my shoulder—a miss—and the third from a scullion.” He handed them to Peale.

“A dead man, eh? Anyone I know?”

“No. No one I knew either.”

“Yet one you claim was directed toward you.”

“A poor shot when the other was so clean. I wonder if it was meant to merely incapacitate rather than kill me.”

“And the scullion? Dead, too, I suppose.”

“No, barely wounded.”

Peale walked with the fletchings to his candle and turned them over in his hands. He examined the little ridges notched into the shaft near the feathers. “Yes. These are mine right enough.”

“Who were they made for?”

“Hmm.” Peale rubbed his index finger over his marks and stared at the raf ters. “Interesting. I believe—”

“Peale!” A voice shouted from the armory’s entrance. Crispin knew that voice and with one wild glance at Peale, Crispin ducked into the shadows. He slid his back along the wall and slipped into the tight space between a stack of broad axes. A blade’s sharp edge was mere inches from his nose. He tried not to breathe.

Miles’s shadow stretched across the floor. Crispin pressed flatter against the wall.

“Peale,” said Miles, “has anyone come to see you about some arrows?”

Peale was an old man, and old men were often excused from a curt tone or an impolite eye. Peale seemed to take full advantage of his maturity and squinted at the Captain of the Archers. “Everyone comes to see me about arrows, young man. I am a
fletcher
.” He said the last with careful diction as if speaking to a simpleton.

Miles’s brow arched with irritation. “Of course. I know that. What I meant was did anyone you would not expect come to you? Anyone who has no cause to be here?”

“Who am I to judge who has cause to be here and who does not? Verily, Master Aleyn, you make little sense. I must see about
all
arrows. Indeed, I must even see to your arrows, Master.”

Crispin threw his hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh.

Miles glowered. “Damn you, Peale. You act like a simpleton when I know you are not!”

“Then don’t treat me like one, Master Aleyn. Say what you mean and have done with it.”

“Very well. I’m looking for that scoundrel Crispin Guest. Surely you remember him.”

“Crispin
Guest
?” The old man scratched his head, causing his white hair to twist into a sunburst. “I haven’t seen him in years. What would he be doing at court?”

Miles didn’t sound as if he were having any of it. “If he comes to you, inform me immediately. He is trespassing. It should be made known to the king.”

“I will do my best to inform you, Master Aleyn,” said the fletcher with a dismissive bow.

Miles snorted, looked around for a moment, and then swept out of the room. Crispin heard the door close before he rose from his hiding place.

Peale’s eyes seemed to soften when they roved over Crispin again. “He doesn’t seem very fond of you, Master Guest.”

“He never was. And soon, he shan’t be enamored at all. The arrows, Master Peale.”

Peale brought his hand forward. He had hidden the arrow pieces behind his back. He nodded over them and handed them back to Crispin. “These are very special arrows. I made them for my Lord of Gaunt, the duke of Lancaster.”

Crispin’s elation deflated. He drew closer. “Lancaster? Are you certain?”

Peale pointed to his marks. “These are my marks, young man. And these identify the archer. It is the duke. There is no mistaking.”

13

CRISPIN STARED AT THE arrows Peale dropped into his palm. Lancaster.

Peale cocked his head at Crispin. “I take it by your tone that you did not expect that name.”

“No, I did not.”

It had to be a mistake. The blame was on Miles, not Lancaster. Crispin leaned against a stack of spears, didn’t particularly mind when their points dug in his back. “Master Peale, could you be mistaken about this?”

“My mark is my mark, young man.”

“So it is,” he answered absently. He crushed the arrows tight in his hand. Perhaps if he could crush them altogether he might still the thumping of his heart, the pain throbbing there. Lancaster couldn’t be involved in such a plot. Unthinkable. What had Miles to do with Lancaster?

“I thank you, Master Peale.” He looked toward the empty doorway. “For
everything
,” he added pointedly.

Peale inclined his head and then turned back to his work as if the encounter had never happened.

“Oh. One thing more,” asked Crispin. Peale continued his inventory but never looked up. “Did you have the opportunity to examine the arrow that was directed at the king?”

The fletcher shook his head. “No. The fools. They destroyed it. They aren’t as clever as you.” He turned his head, and Crispin thought he saw him wink.

Crispin thanked him again and left the armory. He dropped the arrow pieces into his pouch and brooded as he walked. Miles was the shooter. Crispin felt it in his bones. When Crispin had examined the roof where the archer had treacherously fired on Crispin, he found light-colored strands of hair—hair that matched the archer’s.

Perhaps Miles had used Lancaster’s arrows. And this would not be so troubling a thing if it weren’t for a rising note of conspiracy. For Miles would have little to gain for killing the king, just as he would have had seven years earlier. Unless he was paid by someone to do it. Someone with enough wealth and influence. Someone who
would
have something to gain.

Crispin looked up and saw Miles turning a corner and striding in his direction. He slipped back and slammed himself against a wall. He didn’t want Miles to see him just yet. His clear case against him had suddenly become muddied.

Cautiously, Crispin stole into a side passage. He had to get out of the palace. His mind was not on the task. That kind of carelessness might get him killed.

HE MADE HIS WAY back to the kitchens, keeping his hood low over his face and his head down. When he left the kitchens no one remarked on it. No one remarked his passing through the Great Gate and he was safe to make his way through Westminster and back to London. He arrived at his lodgings by late afternoon.

Walking in the door, he inhaled the heady aromas of two hocks of pork roasting over the fire.

Jack turned from his basting and smiled. “Master, what’s the news?”

Crispin took off his cloak and hood, hung them on a peg, and fell into a chair. He sighed. “Much has happened, Jack. I’ve had to move the wenches again.” He related the story.

Jack listened and took one hock. Laying it on a slab of hard bread, he handed it to Crispin and then fetched a bowl from the larder shelf and poured wine into it from the jug. He put the bowl beside Crispin and then prepared his own supper.

Crispin chewed the meat, keeping his eyes on his food.

“So,” said Jack, settling beside Crispin. “When are you going to tell me the rest?”

Damn the boy
. “The rest?”

“Aye. The rest you’re trying so hard not to tell me.”

Suddenly the pork didn’t taste as good. Crispin tossed the bone into the fire. He rose and went to the water jug and basin, pouring the icy water over his hands and shaking off the wet. “I discovered from whom the arrows came.”

Jack gulped his wine and settled expectantly on his stool. “Well?”

Crispin shook his head, tried to chuckle. “It’s absurd,” he said, returning to the table and sitting. “There is a simple explanation.”

“Aye. There could be. If you’d just tell me.”

Crispin stared at Jack, at a face that didn’t seem to belong to a young boy anymore. Jack’s eyes were wise. Well, sympathetic, at any rate. They did not show impatience as they should. They only waited. Who was this boy? As alone in the world as Crispin was. Clever. Resourceful. Just born on the wrong side of the Thames.

Crispin sighed. “Very well, Jack. Master Peale was quite insistent that the arrows were made for . . . the duke of Lancaster.”

No protestations, no jumping up with shouts of denial. Jack was calm, even nodded thoughtfully.

It irritated like hell.

“The duke’s arrows, eh? That’s a sly trick, that. Stealing his arrows so he’d appear to be guilty.”

The simplest of explanations. Crispin’s gut was so tangled that he had not been able to dredge up such an uncomplicated rationalization.

“So,” said Jack, mouth bulging with food. “Whoever stole his grace’s arrows is the killer.”

Crispin bobbed his head inattentively. “It’s as good a conjecture as any.”

“So what you’re saying is, there ain’t no way to trace them to the Captain of the Archers now, is there?”

Crispin gritted his teeth and took a swig. The wine—turning quickly to vinegar—burned down his throat. “In truth, no.” He slammed the table with the flat of his hand. “Damn!”

“Then you’ll have to catch him in the act.”

He looked up at Jack. The boy’s face wore all the confidence in Crispin that Crispin did not have for himself. Jack’s chin jutted in pride, the same pride he’d seen on the faces of squires watching their masters at tournament or on the battlefield.

Crispin leaned back in his chair. His fingers toyed with the rim of his wine bowl. “There is the possibility that he will not strike again. Not any time soon.”

Jack chewed thoughtfully until his jaw slowed and stopped. “You may be right, there. He might lie low for months!” Jack scratched his head. He slowly pivoted his glance toward the buried reliquary. “Master! What are we going to do with that? We can’t keep it for months.”

They both looked at the unassuming pile of straw.

“The longer we delay giving it back,” said Jack, “the worse it will get.”

“For ‘us’?”

“Well, I deem m’self in your care—and you in mine.”

Crispin’s smile flattened. “You’re right, of course. I’ve kept it too long already. I suppose I can leave out how I acquired it.”

“Will the king accept that?”

“I don’t know.” He scowled. “God’s blood! It’s looking more and more like I should surrender it to the sheriff.”

“It would take the blame from you.”

“And the credit!” He shot from the chair and paced the small room. Finally he lighted in front of the hearth. He leaned forward and pressed his hands against the wall and stared into the short flames. “I have so few opportunities—so few chances to prove myself.” He laughed but it came out a bitter sound. “Who am I fooling? No matter what I do—even if I announced the Second Coming myself—Richard would never allow me back to court. Never give me back my—” He made an airless chuckle. “My title and knighthood.” He shook his head, a smile still pasted on his mouth. “I am nothing,” he said quietly. “That’s what they told me, Jack. ‘You are nothing.’ And only God can make something from nothing.”

He hung his head between his outstretched arms and closed his eyes. What foolish pride had made him think he could overcome this Hell with a simple return of goods? His head whipped up and he glared at the straw pile. He stomped toward it and cast the straw aside.

“What are you going to do?” asked Jack’s worried voice behind him.

“Why do these things curse me?” Crispin opened the box. He lifted out the golden casket and threw open the lid. He snatched the Crown of Thorns and turned it in his hand. “Look at this. It should be so treasured a thing. But look what it’s done to me. It gave me hope. I promised myself I would allow no one and nothing to do so ever again.”

Jack stood at his shoulder and looked down at the Crown. His hands fumbled forward as if trying to protect it. “But it touched Jesus’ head, Master. I wouldn’t—You shouldn’t be touching it.”

Crispin clenched the Crown in his hand. The dry rushes crackled. He wanted to heave it against the wall. He wanted to see it splinter into a million pieces. And he didn’t know why he was so angry at such a thing. It certainly wasn’t the Crown’s fault he was in this situation. After no choices for so long, he had chosen to become this “Tracker,” and it had been his saving grace. He could use the acuity of his mind, his fighting skills, and his knowledge to fight injustice. He was proud of his accomplishments. Miles was evil and had tricked him as he tricked all those other knights, now dead. But it wasn’t the Crown’s fault. It was only because of those couriers. That’s how he got the Crown.

The French couriers. What had they to do with this? He wondered where they were.

With a sigh, he slipped the Crown unsteadily back into its casket, closed the lid, and put it back within the wooden box. He packed the straw around it again but snatched his hand back with a sharp inhale. A bead of blood appeared on his finger. He’d pricked it. He looked in the straw and found a stray thorn. It must have fallen out of the Crown when he manhandled it. He drew it from the straw and dropped it in his pouch.

He concentrated his hate on Miles. Surely it was all Miles, not Lancaster. Jack was right, had to be. Lancaster was an innocent pawn in this.

There was much more to be learned. He needed answers not more questions. And if he was to learn anything he had to know more about why that Crown had not immediately been taken to court as it should have been.

He had to find those couriers.