Serpent in the Thorns

26

“THEY CAPTURED ME,” RASPED Miles. “The damned French. And they did what they do to all captured English archers: They made certain I could never use a bow again. And I can’t. Satisfied?”

Crispin stared at the gloves. Yes, he saw it now. Some of the gloves’ fingers were artfully stuffed so that no one would be the wiser. And if Miles kept his gloves on at all times, as he had, no one would know. No one did.

Crispin kicked the gloves toward Miles, but Miles ignored them. “So, you did not use the bow yourself. You hired someone.”

“No.”

“Then how do those French couriers know you? Don’t deny it. I already know they do.”

Trapped. Miles knew it. Crispin saw it on his face. And it was only a matter of time before Lancaster’s men arrived. Miles glanced again at the empty archway.

“The more you tell me now, the less torture you will endure.”

Miles rubbed his hand over his lips, those misshapen fingers. “After . . . after my capture, I used my wiles to work my way into the French court. That’s where Lancaster’s funds made their mark. I could live well on English coins and also be in the French king’s employ.”

“You are the fourth man.”

His lips snarled and he shook his head. “You are very cunning, Guest. How did you know?”

“Their companion never reappeared. When they saw you they were surprised, perhaps not expecting to see you here. I simply put two and two together. But a question remains. Why did you force the couriers to meet you at the King’s Head? If you are so innocent, why were you plotting? Who told you to bring them there?”

“I was to warn them.” He looked uneasy, scraping his bottom lip with his teeth. “They were to delay going to court.”

“To give the assassin time to work his will.”

He continued to chew on his lip. His eyes darted to the archway. Without raising his head to Crispin, he nodded.

“Who, Miles? Who told you to do this?”

“I . . . I cannot say.”

“Cannot or will not?”

He looked up then, fragile defiance in his eyes. “Will not, then.”

Crispin narrowed his eyes. He nearly drew back his fist, but decided he wasn’t worth the split knuckles.

“When it was clear Lancaster was through with me,” said Miles, looking again over his shoulder toward the archway, “I had to make other plans. They believed a lot of things about me at the French court. Like you, they gave me more credit than was my due. But I didn’t disabuse them. It was to my advantage to appear craftier. I became a double agent, so to speak, working in both courts and spying for France.”

“You are a true whoreson, Miles. I have never met a more foul man than you. You regard your honor very low.”

“I don’t regard it at all. What has honor ever gotten me?”

Crispin heard Gilbert’s words suddenly in his head uttering the same sentiment. What had honor ever gotten Crispin? But Crispin had no need to question it as others seemed to do. He couldn’t understand a man like Miles. Noblemen were trained from birth in the philosophy of uncompromising honor. It was as natural as breathing. Or at least Crispin always thought this was so. “What about self-respect?” said Crispin, face warm. “What about dignity, pride, nobility? Our honor is ourselves. It is who we are.”

Miles laughed nervously. “Listen to you. You, who has not a scrap of honor left.”

“I have far more honor than you have ever had, Master Aleyn. You don’t even understand the concept.”

“I understand gold. That’s what I understand. And I understand compromise. I stole Lancaster’s arrows in order to be in a better position to negotiate. But then some bastard stole them from me. Then where do you suppose I next saw them? Hmm? Not at the English court. Not what you think.”

Crispin squeezed his hurt shoulder. It didn’t help. He felt woozy again. He knew it was from loss of blood and exertion. He glanced at the archway. Lancaster’s men were certainly taking their sweet time about it.

“Where then? If you are so keen to tell me.”

“Seven years ago. In the necks of two French noblemen. It seems these courtiers supported a treaty with England and that made the king too uncomfortable.”

“Which king?”

“The French king, of course. They supported the English treaty against the good wishes of their sovereign. An assassin took them out. Imagine my chagrin when I realized they were my good English arrows. That’s why they were stolen, of course. At least that is why I thought so. Because they were English arrows the blame would be put on England, if anyone cared to look that closely at the arrows. Only someone like you would care.”

“The assassin was never found?”

“No. And it was not me.”

“I have no reason to believe you.”

“No, you don’t. But when that boy comes back with Lancaster’s men, I will keep nothing secret. I have no taste for torture, especially my own.” He scooted closer to Crispin. “Listen, Crispin. There’s truly no need for this. I’ve told you what I know. You’ve discerned the truth about Lancaster and about me. That should be enough to satisfy you. Help me to get away, and I will make it worth your while.”

“Are you insane?”

“Look at you? You look like a beggar. I have gold aplenty. You’ll never hunger again.”

“Have you not listened to one word I’ve said?”

Miles jerked his head. He, too, heard the approaching footsteps. He turned desperate eyes to Crispin. “Crispin, I’ve got the gold. You can have it. All of it. Just help me get away. I’ll never trouble you again. You’re a fair man, I can see that. Let me do this for you, if you will do this for me. Guest! I’m begging you.”

Crispin took a step back and raised his chin. “I have a word of advice, Miles.”

Breathing hard, Miles glanced at the archway and back to Crispin. “Crispin, for the love of Christ—”

“When they use the hot pincers on you, relax your muscles as much as possible. There’s slightly less sensation when you do. Only slightly, mind. Probably not enough to make a difference.”

Miles implored with trembling hands. “Crispin! Help me!”

The heavy footfalls increased and there were suddenly many figures filling the archway. They headed straight for Miles and lifted him struggling in their midst. Miles’s face degenerated into grimaces and tears. His pleas and wails echoed in the hall and receded with him once they dragged him away.

Crispin smiled.

But the smile faded. Lancaster made the man into a criminal, whether Miles tended toward that demeanor or not. That was disturbing enough. But Miles had also confessed that he had nothing to do with the assassination attempts, and for some reason, Crispin believed him.

The notion of English arrows being used for the very fact they were English struck a chord. It reminded him of shoes.