Serpent in the Thorns (16 page)

14

THE KING’S HEAD WAS blazed golden by the late-afternoon light, but it belied a grimy interior, more so even that the Boar’s Tusk. When Crispin entered, a haze of wood smoke hovered over the tables. Men hunched in a circle near the fire and lifted their heads from stooped shoulders long enough to look Crispin over before they gave him a dismissive flick of their lids and turned back to their coven.

A woman approached Crispin. Mislaid strands of her hair hung in lifeless strings before her eyes and she wiped her hands on her apron. She might be the innkeeper’s wife, or just another wench who worked in the tavern’s hall. It was hard to be certain. “Good day. What will you have?”

“I would speak with your Master.”

She sighed. “Aye. He’s in the back.”

He followed her leisurely steps through a ragged curtain. The innkeeper was there filling jugs of ale from a keg. He was a tall man, bald, with a beaklike nose. He aimed a milky blue eye at Crispin. “Eh? What’s your business?”

“The Frenchmen. Are they here?”

The man shot to his feet. “You’re the one.” His finger thrust toward Crispin’s face like a dagger, and when he got close enough to make that finger uncomfortable, Crispin took half a step back and laid his hand on his own weapon. “You’re the one that took my scullions. And I just hired them two. Where are they?”

“They needed to be kept safe.”

“Safe!” He snorted. “After killing that man. Now I’ll never be rid of those foreigners.”

“They are here, then?”

His face squinted. He mashed his lips before spitting at the fire. He missed. “Aye, they’re here.”

“Where?”

“Top of the stairs.” He leaned forward. “Oi. No trouble, mind.”

Crispin showed his teeth. “No trouble.”

He parted the curtain and trotted up the stairs to the gallery. He knocked politely. A rustle. A chair scraped. The door opened a sliver.

Crispin nodded his head in a slight bow.
“Mes seigneurs. Bonjour.”

“Ah!” said the man in French. “It is that smart Englishman.”

“Will you allow me in?” continued Crispin in the same language.

The man closed the door in his face. Crispin heard him confer with his companion and then the door opened again. “Come in.” He stepped aside and the other man scowled as Crispin entered.

Crispin assessed the two men, the table with its two beakers of wine, two bowls of half-eaten fare. “You had a fourth companion. Where is he?”

“He is not here,” said the first. His dark hair, lustrous in the firelight, remained brushed away from his wide forehead.

“Any new insight as to why your friend was killed?”

“Gautier had an idea.” Laurent turned to the other man with the dark hair and sour disposition. Crispin raised his face to him.

“Well?”

Gautier shrugged. “I thought I heard him say he saw someone he knew.”

“Where?”

“I do not know. I was preoccupied.”

“With the wench Livith?”

“I do not know her name.”

Crispin looked at the first man. “What of you,
Maître
Laurent?”

“I was similarly occupied. I did not notice our companion was missing for quite some time.”

“You were supposed to be guarding this most holy relic for your king. Now your negligence has cost you. And us.”

Gautier hooked his thumbs in his belt. “What’s another battle with England to us? This war goes on without ceasing.”

“This relic was a goodwill gesture,” said Crispin. “It could have meant lasting peace.”

There was a pause, and then both Frenchmen erupted in laughter. Crispin’s solemn face broke into a smile, and then he joined them. The Frenchmen pointed at him and Laurent clapped Crispin on the back.

“Sit,” said Laurent. He pulled a jug from the shelf. “It is English wine, but it at least has spirits.” He poured three cups and handed one each to Crispin and to Gautier. “To peace?” he said, raising his cup.

Crispin stood. “To the King of France.”

The other two stood with cups raised. “To the King of
England
,” said Laurent. They all chuckled and clanked cups.

They sat and Laurent refilled their cups. “A sensible Englishman. I never thought to find one.”

“Oh, we do exist. Few are at court.”

Gautier leaned forward. The hand clutching his cup had square, flat fingernails. “So. What is your interest in this? You are not the sheriff.”

Crispin kept one eye on the door. It would not do well to have his back to it if their fourth companion returned. “No. It is my vocation to solve riddles. My name is Crispin Guest.”

“You would solve the murderer of a Frenchmen? Why do you care?”

“I care about all crimes. Especially when they have to do with the assassination of my king.”

“
Sang Deu!
Someone has tried to kill your king?”

“Have you not heard?”

The Frenchmen looked at one another a long moment before Laurent shrugged. “I suppose we have,” he said in heavily accented English.

“So you do understand my language,” said Crispin, also in English.

Gautier rubbed his smooth chin. “When it is convenient.”

Crispin settled in. “I see. Well then. Let us speak plainly. Why did you come to the King’s Head instead of going directly to court?”

“We told you,” said Gautier with a frown. “We were to prepare for the English court.”

“And that ‘preparation’ involved going off in separate directions to get your companion killed and the relic stolen?”

Laurent stared at Crispin. His dark eyes narrowed. “Are we being accused of this?”

“
Did
you kill Michel Girard?”

Laurent knocked back his chair as he jumped to his feet and drew his blade. “He’s a spy for the crown of England!”

Gautier followed suit. Crispin didn’t move and looked at them both. He leaned on his arm and sipped his wine. “If you only knew how humorous a suggestion that was . . .”

“Get up.” Laurent waved the sword tip near Crispin’s face. Crispin felt it itch his skin and longed to smack it out of the way. He sat nearly immobile instead and drank more.

“I think not. I’m not a spy. I want to get to the bottom of this plot.”

Laurent tightened his grip on the sword. His knuckles whitened and shined with sweat.

Crispin set his cup down and swiveled on his stool to face them both. Two swords aimed at his chest. He kept his breathing steady.

Laurent’s eyes made the barest of flickers toward Gautier. They breathed heavily for a moment more before they both withdrew their swords from Crispin’s chest at the same time and smoothly sheathed them. “Then? Why are you here?”

“For information. Anything that will help me. I find it improbable that you met here to ‘prepare’ for the English court.”

Gautier sucked in his lips while Laurent scowled at the floor.

“Just so. You will not say. Yet your companion is dead and you deny having to do with his murder. Is that correct?”

Without looking at Crispin, they both nodded.

“Mmm. Well, it is lucky for you that I already know the assassin. When did you discover
Maître
Girard was dead?”

“Not until the sheriff arrived,” said Laurent. “We were as surprised as anyone else.” And he looked it.

“Why did he kill your friend?” asked Crispin.

Gautier shook his head. “For the relic?”

It was Crispin’s turn to lower his gaze. “Perhaps.”

“Maybe,” offered Laurent, “they knew one another. The killer and Michel. He said he saw someone he recognized.”

Gautier dug his teeth into his bottom lip. “It seems strange, no? That Michel would be killed by someone he knew.”

“On the contrary,” said Crispin. “In my experience, I find that most murders are committed by acquaintances. Mostly in drunken tavern brawls. But this murderer also wanted to kill the king.” He gauged their faces as he said it. There was a flicker in their eyes but he could not tell what it might reveal. “How would Michel have known such a man, an Englishman?”

“I don’t know,” said Gautier. “He has never been to England before.”

“Then this killer has obviously been to France.”

Laurent nodded. “So it would seem.”

“Do you know a man named Miles Aleyn?”

The Frenchmen looked at one another. They slowly turned toward Crispin and answered, “No.”

Crispin eyed them steadily and it was Gautier who dropped his eyes first.

“Indeed.” Crispin glanced at his empty cup and left it where it sat. “What of this other companion of yours, the one searching for the relic. What is his name?”

After a lengthy pause, Crispin looked up again. The men stared at one another. Laurent stuck out his lower lip. “I do not think we are at liberty to say.”

“No?” Crispin stared pointedly at Gautier who shuffled his feet. “We have our instructions,
Maître
Guest. We . . . may not say.”

“I see.” He rose. “I thank you, gentlemen, for your time and your . . . trust,” he said with a sharpened expression.

“But you
will
do your utmost to expose Michel’s murderer?”

Crispin turned to Laurent. “Oh I shall. But I do not need to tell you that the more information you can provide the easier it shall be for me to discover the culprit.”

They were both as tight-lipped as before, though their gaze was steady on Crispin’s.

“Very well,” he said and bowed to both Frenchmen, put up his hood, and took his leave.

He stood outside their closed door and stared at it. What plot were they hatching that they would not divulge the reason for their stay at the King’s Head or the identity of their fourth companion? Did it have to do with the attempt on Richard’s life? Yet they seemed genuinely surprised by that news. Strange. And Miles Aleyn. The name had caused a spark of recognition in their eyes. They might not have killed their companion but they were hiding a great deal. Just what it might be, Crispin was yet uncertain.

The situation was getting more complicated than need be. It should be simpler. Miles did it. He had been in France. He told Crispin as much. He must have killed the Frenchman because the courier could identify him. Simple.

And the arrows? He stole them to deflect any identification from him.

But a bigger question remained. If it were a plot all along to kill the king, why the attack on Livith and Grayce? If they knew something, saw something that might incriminate the killer, then the scullions were in far more danger than he thought.

Where was that fourth courier?

He scrambled out of the inn and ran full tilt back toward Westminster Palace.

CRISPIN ENTERED THE PALACE kitchens easily and hurled down the steps. He scanned the room. It was even busier than before.

There, Livith was giving orders to Grayce while Grayce happily accepted them. They looked too busy to notice him. They were safe and none the wiser for their danger. Crispin bent over to grasp his thighs and breathed. He had imagined them both dead, arrows protruding from their necks. But now his thumping heart was tempered with annoyance. If only that damned Livith would let him force the information from Grayce’s stubborn mind.

Blowing out a sigh, he straightened. Livith was probably right. Grayce was too dull-witted. She said she didn’t remember, and in all likelihood she didn’t.

The urge was strong to bundle them both and send them into the country, but where could he send them? He knew no one outside of London who would do him a favor.

He tapped his finger on his knife hilt. There was little choice in the matter. He had done what he could. Hidden in the largest kitchen in London was surely an adequate hiding place.

A scullion shoved Crispin none too gently out of the way. Crispin didn’t take offense. He was the invader into their territory, after all. He was no longer a lord to be catered to.