Serpent in the Thorns (21 page)

“You didn’t let me finish.” Wynchecombe sauntered toward the tun and kept a careful eye on Crispin’s movements. Crispin followed the sheriff’s progress and kept his knife drawn but lowered.

The sheriff sneered and sniffed the spilled wine dripping from the spigot.

“I was going to say,” said Wynchecombe, turning toward Crispin, “that though you are a great prize, so is the Crown of Thorns. I think I am in a good bargaining position now. I do not think it will cost me the usual to get it from you. Will it?”

“Are you that certain I have it?”

Wynchecombe laughed. “Now I
am
certain. Come, Crispin. Is this relic worth your life?”

“Will you help me bring the true culprit to justice?”

“Bring me the Crown and I’ll consider it.”

“I don’t have time for you to consider it. Yes or no?”

Wynchecombe chuckled and nodded. “Very well. Have it your way. Get me the Crown and I will forget I saw you.
And
look for the culprit.”

“I know the criminal. It is Miles Aleyn, the king’s Captain of the Archers.”

Wynchecombe raised a brow. “Indeed. Can you prove it?”

Crispin made a sound very like a growl. “No.”

The sheriff looked up the stairs. Jack had pulled his knife and was breathing hard. He glared at the sheriff murderously. “Then it won’t be easy. How about that Crown, then. Get it.”

“You’ll let me go?”

“I’ll have to, won’t I? Take your mastiff with you before he hurts himself.”

“What about your own dogs? I don’t want to be let free only to be cornered by one of those heroes up there.”

Wynchecombe was still smiling. “You there. Tucker. Tell my man I want to see him.”

Jack hesitated and looked to Crispin. Crispin nodded for him to obey and Jack opened the door and went through it.

“You’d better hide again, Master Guest,” said the sheriff.

Crispin saw the sparse light from the open door illuminate the first bit of stairs. Wynchecombe’s smile galled but he had little choice. Reluctantly, he slid in behind the tun cask again—
hiding like a rat
, he thought—just as the sheriff’s man appeared at the top of the stairs.

“My lord?” he said.

“There’s nothing here. You men go along back to Newgate. I want to talk to the innkeeper a bit longer.”

“He’ll await you here, my lord.”

The man left and Crispin peered out of his hole. Jack stood in the doorway, one half of him lit by the firelight in the tavern, and half in the darkness of the cellar. He watched until every man left before he nodded to Crispin that it had been done.

Crispin crept back out from the shadows, stared at Wynchecombe, and reluctantly sheathed his knife. “I thank you, Lord Sheriff. Trust can be an uneasy thing.”

“I never said I trusted you. I still have the upper hand. If you don’t return with that Crown, your precious innkeeper and his wife will be hauled to prison on the charge of treason.” Wynchecombe opened his full-toothed smile again. “No risk. You see, I
do
have a sense of you.” His smiled fell away. “Make haste. I weary of this.”

Loathsome bastard
. Crispin edged past the sheriff, expecting like some unruly schoolboy to receive a blow, and climbed the stairs. “Come along, Jack.”

Crispin stared at the silent Gilbert and Eleanor sitting in the near darkness of the tavern hall, at Ned who sat on a stool by the door and looked back at Crispin as if he were the Savior himself.
Nothing like it
. If anything, he was the portent of doom to them all.

He cast his feelings of dread aside, concentrating instead on his mission. Crispin stood beside the tavern door and nodded for Jack to open it. He saw Jack step into the moonlit street and look carefully down one way and then the other. When his pale face turned back to Crispin, he gave a solemn nod.

Crispin slid carefully out the door and shivered in the cold. He regretted for the thousandth time his lost cloak, but there was nothing to be done about it. He was grateful, however, for the dark, for there would be fewer prying eyes when shutters were closed and shadows hid him.

He took the lead of Jack and trotted ahead, with Jack trying to keep up beside him. Neither said a word. Nothing needed to be said. They both knew the situation well. Handing over the Crown now was a small price to pay for the lives of his friends. He hoped it might spare his as well.

The moonlight lit the way, shining the muddy street like a ribboning beacon. They turned at Cheapside and followed it to where it became the Shambles. Passing the quiet shops on the dark street, Crispin suddenly felt more alone than he had for a long time. The poulterer who shouldered Martin’s tinker shop was shut up and silent. Not even the soft sound of clucking could be heard from its depths as they passed. Martin’s window, too, was shuttered and barred, though a splinter of light lined the sill where a candle no doubt rested.

Crispin nabbed the key from his pouch. He crept as silently up the stairs as he could, cautious about the creaking step. Jack was silent behind him. If there was anything the boy excelled at, it was stealth.

He brought the key forward, but it slipped from his fingers and fell with a tinkling clunk. He turned to Jack with a wince and they both froze, waiting for the shadows to pounce upon them. When nothing happened, he dropped to the floor with a whispered oath, and felt with his hands along the darkened wooden landing until he touched metal. Rising and rubbing his aching shoulder, he thrust the key in the lock at last and pulled open his door.

One glance at the corner and the pile of straw told him the reliquary lay undisturbed. He went directly to the hearth. The fire had burned down to ash but was still warm. He dropped to one knee and reached up into the fire box. His fingers ran along the shelf, and then he leaned into the hearth, twisting, reaching, the peat embers cooking his back and choking him with a puff of smoke and a swirl of ash. His fingers scrabbled as the panic slowly rose in his gut.

No use. The Crown was gone.

20

“COULD IT HAVE BURNT up?” Jack pushed Crispin aside and searched for himself. He didn’t notice when his cloak caught fire.

Crispin hauled Jack from the hearth and stamped out the flames. “It won’t do anyone any good to set yourself afire.” He sat back on the floor and rested his chin on his fist. “Someone has taken it. Who knew that the Crown of Thorns was hidden here?”

“You. Me. Them wenches. The sheriff. Who else?”

“Who else? No one. Who could have guessed?”

Jack jumped to his feet. “Abbot Nicholas! He guessed.”

“Yes, but he would not have stolen it, nor sent anyone. Who else? Help me, Jack.”

“I can’t—no one else knew of it. Neither Master Gilbert nor Mistress Eleanor would guess its hiding place.”

“True. It was hidden. It would have to take a desperate man—Desperate
men
. God’s blood.”

Crispin rose and made for the door, then stopped. If he delayed by investigating his hunch, Gilbert and Eleanor would be in danger. “Jack, I need you to go to the King’s Head.”

“What for?”

“The Frenchmen are staying there. I need you to follow them. It may already be too late.”

“Right, Master. Did they take the Crown?”

“It is a wild hunch. But their mysterious fourth companion may very well have told them about me. They would have come here at least to talk to me and discovered the Crown for themselves. At least it is a possibility I cannot afford to leave alone. Keep a close eye on them, Jack. Don’t let them out of your sight.”

“Where will you be?”

Crispin looked around his small room. He wondered if he would ever see it again. “With any luck, I won’t be in Newgate. And I shan’t stay at the Boar’s Tusk. That’s already caused too much trouble.” He ran his thumb over his knife pommel, polishing it smooth. “Find me at the Thistle.” Jack made to leave but Crispin grabbed his shoulder. “Jack, if I am arrested, don’t stay here. Go. Leave London.”

Jack’s face was as sorrowful a mask as Crispin had ever seen. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep his own emotions in check.

“Leave London? Where would I go?”

“I don’t know. You’re a smart lad. You’d get by.”

“But Master, I’d never leave you.”

“Jack, if I’m arrested there will be very little left to leave. You’d need to fend for yourself.”

“But I’d stand by you. I’d not have you die alone.” Jack’s eyes welled. Two large tears rolled down his dirty cheeks.

Crispin closed his eyes and cursed. “Don’t, Jack. We haven’t got time. Just promise me you’ll leave London. That’s a command!”

“I won’t make that promise!” He shook himself free of Crispin’s hand and threw himself down the steps at a run.

Crispin swiped at his eyes once with the back of his hand before he turned to the room with a trembling breath. He gathered the courier bag with its two boxes and hauled the strap over his shoulder. He rushed down the steps, hoping to see Jack one last time, but the boy was too swift. There was no one and nothing on the blue-gray street but the silver shimmer of moonlight on puddles.

Crispin wondered if a life of sin had led to this moment. He wasn’t much of a praying man. In fact, his prayers more often than not became blaspheming tirades to the Almighty. But as he glanced skyward, thinking about what had been in the box slung over his shoulder, he again asked, as he had asked so many times before, “Why me?”

Why had he stepped into trouble time and time again? Always, he thought he was doing right when it was always so wrong. Hadn’t he tried to help Richard this time? Was his intent not good enough, his heart not pure enough?

He stopped when he turned the corner and spied the Boar’s Tusk. The building sat quietly in the gloom, its bright windows dark except for the faint glow of candle and hearth behind the shutters. He swallowed a lump in his throat. “Well, I’ve had a good run. I can’t say I won the race, but neither did I lose it.”

He adjusted the courier bag and headed straight for the door. It wasn’t barred and so he opened it. Four white faces turned to him. The only one who stood was Wynchecombe.

“Ah!” said the sheriff. He gestured to the table and Crispin brought the bag over and put it down where Wynchecombe pointed.

“My Lord Sheriff, there is something I need to tell you.”

“Oh?” Wynchecombe was distracted by the boxes, especially the gold one. He set it on the table and put his hand on the lid.

Crispin rested his hand over Wynchecombe’s. The sheriff looked up with a quizzical expression. “My Lord, this is the courier box—intact as you see it. But the Crown, alas, is gone.”

“What?” He flung the lid open and looked inside. He drew his dagger and grabbed Crispin’s shoulder cape. “What game do you play, Guest?”

“No game. It is gone. Stolen.”

“You’re hiding it.”

“No, my lord. On my honor.”

“Honor?” He threw Crispin back. “You have none! I’m a fool to have trusted you.”

“I would never sacrifice my friends. Take me, if you must, but for the love of the Holy Rood, do not hurt these innocent people.”

The sheriff glared at Crispin, turned to the white-faced Gilbert, to Eleanor who clutched Gilbert’s arm, to Ned who sucked on his fingers.

“Where’s the cutpurse?”

“He hasn’t got it. I swear by our Lady.”

“Where is he?”

“I sent him away. If I couldn’t save myself—”

“You’re the fine nobleman, aren’t you?”

“I came back, didn’t I?” Crispin thrust his chin defiantly, perhaps his last act of defiance.

Wynchecombe cocked his head and pursed his lips. He swiveled toward the others. “I knew you’d be back.”

“Then you also know I’m not lying. I am at your mercy. You know that, too. To come back meant I’d be walking to the gallows myself.”

“Crispin.” He nearly purred it. He shook his head.

Damn the man! The sheriff wanted to arrest him. Truly wanted to see him hang . . . Or
did
he?

The sheriff continued shaking his head until his smile turned to a frustrated sneer. “You are the damnedest man I ever met!” He paced, stood before the fire, paced again, then stopped before Crispin and aimed his finger at him. “You
will
find that Crown of Thorns for me. You will return it only to me. Understand?” He looked once at Gilbert and Eleanor. “I will do what I can on this other matter, but I make no guarantees.”

Crispin’s heart beat a step faster. “You will not pursue me?”

“No. But remember”—he gestured with his head toward the others—“I know where these live.”