Serpent in the Thorns (5 page)

5

CRISPIN STOOD AGAIN IN the room at the King’s Head that the sisters shared, and noted what had changed and what had not. Jack mumbled his complaints about dead bodies and asked Crispin if he could wait outside with the sheriff’s men-at-arms. Crispin nodded to him vaguely and Jack looked at the room with a little grimace on his lips before departing like a shadow.

The dead man had been laid out on a straw-covered pallet. Two Frenchmen wearing the same livery as the dead man—a quartered houppelande with the French fleur-de-lis—stood over him.

Crispin eyed their slightly pink complexions and their severely coifed hair.
Where were these two when the man was killed?

“The French ambassador ordered them to court,” Wynchecombe whispered to Crispin, “but no one here speaks French with any facilty.” He looked at his clerk standing beside him, but the man shook his head.

“Mes seigneurs, un mot avec vous,”
said Crispin to the men.

The man with dark hair combed long over his forehead turned.
“Oh oui. Enfin, un anglais qui vaut la peine.”

“You three traveled together?” continued Crispin in French. The men nodded. “Did you see what happened?”

The dark-haired man shrugged. “We were . . . occupied.”

“I see. And he did not favor such ‘occupation’?”

“We know not. I think he spied his own conquest. Perhaps he followed her here.”

“I understand the French ambassador wishes for you to appear at the English court.”

The man spit on the floor. “He wants to imprison us for our carelessness. We have no desire to play into his hands.”

“If you came to England for the purpose of going to Westminster Palace, then why did you dally here, in this low place?”

He exchanged looks with his fair-haired companion. “We . . . had business here. We were to . . . to prepare for the English court.”

“Here?” Crispin asked skeptically.

Wynchecombe elbowed him. “What did he say?”

Crispin held up a hand to the sheriff. “Am I to tell the Lord Sheriff this . . . story?”

The man sneered. “Tell him what you like. We have another companion looking for the relic. We don’t need your help.”

Crispin turned to an impatient Wynchecombe. “They refuse to go to court. They feel it is a trap.”

“Damn these French,” muttered Wynchecombe. “Ask them their names.”

Crispin turned back to them. “My Lord Sheriff wishes to know your names.”

The dark-haired man bowed. “Gautier Le Breton. And this”—he said gesturing to his companion—“is Laurent Lefèvre. Our friend here”—he crossed himself—“is . . . was . . . Michel Girard.”

Wynchecombe nodded to his clerk. “Did you get that?” The clerk nodded and busily scribbled on a wax slate with a quill. The sheriff clucked his tongue and turned his attention away from the clerk and the couriers and studied the dead man. The arrow still lay deeply imbedded in his chest. “How about this arrow?” he said to Crispin. “Does it tell you anything?”

Crispin bowed to the couriers and left them in the middle of the room to stand at Wynchecombe’s side. “A nobleman’s arrow. Hawk fletching is more expensive than the more common goose feather.”

“I agree. Where was he when he was shot?”

Crispin strode across the dirt floor and pointed to the spot. There was still a puddle of blood mixed with dirt and now scattered footprints around it. “Here, my lord.”

Wynchecombe joined him and stared at the spot. “No struggle?”

“His weapon was still sheathed.”

“How about that shot?” He looked up at the window. “It would be an easy effort to shoot from that window to down below.”

“Look at the angle of the arrow. The Frenchman would have to have been lying flat on his back to be shot from that window.”

“What?” Wynchecombe marched back to the dead man and leaned over him. He fingered the arrow and snorted. “So. The angle is not right.”

“As I said, my lord.”

“He was shot here, then?”

“It would seem so, Lord Sheriff. At close range.”

“For that damned relic.”

Crispin paused. What was he to say? He knew the mysterious archer did not kill for the relic, the relic he now possessed. “Possibly. But there may be other motives we know not of.”

Wynchecombe’s mouth thinned to a straight line. “And why do you say that?”

One of the sheriff’s men-at-arms shoved his way through the Frenchmen and bowed to Wynchecombe. “My lord, the king’s guards are rousting the men to commence archery practice.”

“The king is doing so now?” asked Crispin.

“His decree said immediately, remember?” Wynchecombe nodded to his man. “Very good. See that all is orderly.” He turned his glare on Crispin. “Shouldn’t you be out there as well?”

Crispin bowed, relieved to get away. “Yes, my lord.” Should he say more? Crispin scanned the room—the French couriers eyeing the sheriff’s men with suspicion, the dank walls, the muddy mess on the floor—and decided to keep his thoughts to himself. He mulled over the relic in his possession. Yes, the more he kept from the sheriff, the better.

He sidled passed the sheriff’s men, enduring their sneers, and joined Jack in the muddy courtyard. He couldn’t help but look back into the undercroft and wonder about the couriers. Why would they need to “prepare,” as they said, to go to Westminster by lingering at this rough inn? Prepare for what?

They jostled passed the shaggy horses in the inn yard and stood at the yard’s edge, looking out on to Thames Street. “What a to-do, Master. Men scrambling out of their houses with their suppers still in their hands.”

“You heard the Lord Sheriff. It is the law to practice archery. Archers have saved the day in many a battle. An Englishman brandishing a long bow is feared throughout the continent.”

“If it is the law, why have you never gone before?”

He offered a smile. “I do go on occasion. But I must borrow a bow. Even though the law requires it, I do not own one myself. I can’t afford it.” He raised his head and watched the men moving down the streets, bows in hand. “Let us see what we can.”

It was a sight, indeed. Men of all ages and all walks of life were emerging from their houses like bees from a skep, swarming onto the streets, crowding out the shop keep ers. Wayward apprentices hopped nimbly into their shops’ doorways to avoid the melee. Arguments broke out as feet were stomped upon and bows smacked the heads of others. It was a cutpurse’s dream come true, Crispin supposed; that many men in one place, crowded, unaware of those surrounding them. He’d wager many a man would lose their purse this day. He resolved to keep a sharp eye on Jack Tucker.

Men on horses joined the throng, great destriers and embittered sumpters. Fresh horses, old, worn-out beasts. Dogs followed the stragglers, barking for the sheer novelty of it all. Women leaned out of upper windows, ticking their heads. It was as if a great army were heading out to battle, without the usual cheering and waving that accompanied such an event. Crispin had never seen the like and, by the measure of Jack Tucker’s wide-eyed stare, he’d never seen it either.

The dithering lines of men joined their brethren, all under the watchful gaze of the king’s guards, sitting on their mounts at every other corner. The would-be archers traveled through alleys and up widening lanes in a northerly direction toward the plains above London.

When an opening in the flood of men presented itself, Crispin and Jack joined them and headed almost all the way back to the Shambles, but turned instead up St. Martin’s Street to Aldersgate. Passing under the arch, they traveled with the others up Aldersgate Street.

Jack’s eyes were wide as he took in the countryside. “I never been to Islington before.”

“We still have quite a walk to go.”

The boy looked back toward London and shuddered. “I’m glad to be away from the sheriff. He makes me skin crawl. Why do you bother going to him anyway? He’s always beating you or threatening to do so. I say if you’ve found a dead man, say nought and let the sheriff suffer with it.”

“I was fairly confident he would do me no real harm.”

“ ‘Fairly confident’? Them’s not good enough odds for me. He threatened you with his
knife
! Said he’d cut off something.”

Crispin shrugged. “He didn’t, as you well know. And I always learn more than I inform. For instance, I know that this relic was the Crown of Thorns to be presented to King Richard. And I know what Wynchecombe does not: where those women are and where the relic is.”

“ ’Slud! How’d you know all that?”

Crispin stopped, whirled, and pushed a surprised Jack up against a short hedgerow. Jack looked down at Crispin’s hand pressed into his chest.

“Because while you were on the run from committing larceny, I was out discovering all these matters.” Crispin fixed his eyes on Jack’s. “Those men who came to my lodgings this morning. I don’t want a repeat of that. It soils my good name—such as it is. And it forced an encounter with Madam Kemp. And you know how I feel about that!” The boy’s face fell. “Jack, how many times have I told you not to steal?”

“I didn’t mean to do it . . . I mean, well, they were rich men. Sure to have more riches at home. What’s a few coins to them and, well, it’s . . . it’s a hard habit to break.”

Crispin’s hand pressed harder into Jack’s chest. “I’ll not toy with you further, Jack. If I catch you stealing again, I shall turn you out of my lodgings and return you to the streets where I found you.”

“Ah now, Master Crispin—”

“I mean it, Jack. I won’t tolerate it. Change your ways or you’re out.”

Crispin fastened his glare on him, dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s. He released Jack, turned his back, and strode onward.

Jack followed at some distance, silent and sullen. After a time he trotted up beside Crispin, head hanging, feet dragging. “It ain’t like I ain’t tryin’,” he said quietly.

“Try harder.”

“Aye. I will.” He said the words like a schoolboy after a brief round with a switch. Crispin almost felt sorry for him. Jack quickly changed the subject.

“Crown o’ Thorns,” muttered Jack. “If you know where this Crown o’ Thorns is why don’t you give it to the sheriff? Would you be the cause of war? That’s what the sheriff said.”

“It won’t come to that despite this show,” he said, nodding toward the march of men. “I have played the game of politics before, remember?”

“But that was when they called you ‘sir.’ ”

Crispin grumbled. “One never forgets the game, and it hasn’t changed. Even after seven years.”

“As you say. But I would not see the cursed French set foot in London.”

“Never fear that.”

Jack was momentarily distracted by the flitting of a chaffinch from hedge to hedge. The houses lining the road soon gave way to open country. Mounds of green rolled into the distance like a verdant sea. “Then why not give the Crown to the sheriff?” said Jack, pulling his cloak about him when the wind swirled up from the low-lying grasslands. “Let him dispatch it.”

“Because, Jack, this might be my path back into the king’s good graces.”

“I thought you didn’t give a damn about the king,” he said quietly, mindful of others along the rutted path.

Crispin set his jaw. He would be just as happy to see a sword chop King Richard to pieces, or even to watch him die from a lingering disease. “God’s blood! I weary of living like this,” he growled, not truly meaning to say it aloud, but it was good to give it breath, to snarl it. “If I return the Crown to court, then
I
will be the hero, not Wynchecombe. I weary of scraping to him. I weary of living in one room on a stinking street. And I weary of—”

“Me?”

He glanced at Jack’s anxious face, smooth with youth. Crispin took a breath and smiled an easy grin. “No, not of you. But I do weary of your stealing.”

Jack’s mouth set in a grim line. “I heard you the first time, Master.”

They arrived at the butts where the target mounds stood at the other end of the field, some sixty yards away. Some still sported wreath rings as smaller targets on their grassy faces. A low ditch ran before them where broken arrows still resided, like the quills of a hedgehog.