Serpent in the Thorns

12

“I DON’T LIKE THIS, Crispin,” said Gilbert, looking back down the darkened stairwell. Crispin left the sisters below to gather what remained of their goods. “This Grayce says she killed a man.”

“She’s like a child, Gilbert. She doesn’t know what she is saying.”

“All the same—”

“All the same I must get them someplace safe until I can reckon why the killer wishes to eliminate them.”

“What safer place could there be than court?” said Livith, her tone, as always, as mocking as her posture. She stood at the top of the stairs and clutched her shredded bag over her shoulder.

Crispin stared at her. Her expression was filled with scorn, always seemed to be. Determination, too, set her eyes like gray quartz, translucent yet hard and milky. They were eyes that knew how to keep secrets, and for a moment, Crispin allowed himself the luxury of wondering about her, where she came from, what her life had been like caring for a dull-witted sister. He never used to wonder such things when he was a lord. Creatures like her could only be found in the bowels of his manor, never seen, seldom heard, but necessary to the smooth running of a large household. She was like one of many who had cooked his food and cleaned his floors. He never thought twice about them before except in the casual way of a lordling about his people. But Lancaster’s household had been different. Crispin had gotten to know the cooks and valets to serve his lord better. Even at Westminster Palace he had made friends in the kitchens, though little help they could offer once he was cast out of the place.

What did Livith think of him when she heard him speak with his court accent and worldly expressions? Did she see him as a lord in rags, or as merely the man who would save her and her sister?

But Livith’s words caught up to him at last and he considered their worth. Court, eh? Court was a busy place, like a maze. People milling in all directions. The back stairs was busiest of all. And didn’t he have to find a way to see Edward Peale, the king’s fletcher? What better excuse to get into court than under the guise of a kitchen worker. If the guards are looking for an assassin, they will not suspect a man and a couple of scullions.

He smiled. “In truth, that is a good idea.”

“What?” cried Livith. “I was only jesting. Are you completely mad?” She looked at Gilbert for confirmation.

“Aye,” said Gilbert. “He is mad.”

“No. It’s an excellent idea. The killer would never think to look for you at court. What is more invisible than a couple of scullions?”

He dragged her past the stairs, through the tavern, and over the threshold with one hand and Grayce with the other. He made a backward nod of thanks to Gilbert. “It’s closed up secure with extra guards,” he assured. “The killer won’t be looking for you in the kitchens, not at court, at any rate. He’ll be concentrating on the king.”

“But if it’s closed up so tight how will we get in?”

Crispin stepped into the street. He pulled up short and yanked them both back when a cart rumbled swiftly by, kicking up clods of mud. “I have acquaintances in many places. Perhaps no longer in the finer halls of court, but I do have loyal friends in the scullery.”

“Ain’t you full of surprises.”

He said nothing to that. When the way was clear, he herded the women into the street, thinking about how he was to accomplish the impossible. He chuckled to himself. Impossible feats were his specialty. After all, surviving treason had been an impossible feat and here he was.

He dodged an arrogant-looking man on a fine white stallion. Pulling both women clear of the horse’s heavily shod hooves, he bowed low. The man never once looked his way.

Yes, here he was.

They traveled through London’s gates without exchanging any words and crossed the Fleet, making the long walk to Temple Barr into a descending fog. Westminster was still a good walk hence, giving him plenty of time to think. Why had Miles run from court just to find the scullions? There must be some greater plan afoot. It was easy enough for Miles to come and go. It made Crispin grind his teeth at the audacity.

He adjusted the arrows in his belt—three now with the one that nearly speared Livith. She must have noticed, for she grabbed one of the arrows and pulled it out. “What you doing with these?”

He stopped, took it out of her hand, and thrust it back in his belt. “They are the arrows the killer used. I know the maker and he can identify for whom he made them by the marks on the shafts.”

She whistled. “ ’Slud! So you don’t know who the killer is.”

“I’m afraid I do. But I would have solid evidence.”

“Who then?”

He looked at her heavy brows, dark near her nose’s juncture. They tapered outward, ending in a slight upturn, echoing the angle of her long lashes. They were faeries’ eyes, almond-shaped, impish. Her angular cheekbones caught the spilled light from an open shutter and directed his gaze downward toward her small mouth, the top lip with its two sharp points, and its bottom sister, round, pouting, as if some passionate stranger bit it.

“I suppose you have a right to know. It is the king’s own Captain of the Archers.”

“Christ’s bloody hands! Does the king know?”

“Not yet. You see now why I must have absolute proof?” He placed his hand on the three arrows. “That is why I need to take these to Master Edward Peale. He is the king’s fletcher. He will know.”

“You can’t go into court with arrows in your belt. Especially looking like the ones what shot the king.”

His fingers teased the hawk feathers. “You may be right.” He yanked them from his belt and broke them over his knee. He tossed the pointed ends into the gutter and stuffed the remaining fletched portions into his empty money pouch. “Let us go, then.”

Grayce stopped. “You’re going to leave them arrowheads in the gutter?”

“Come on, Grayce.” Livith grabbed her arm and glanced up at the surrounding rooftops slowly disappearing in the gray-white fog. “Make haste, now, Master Crispin. I don’t like being out in the open.”

They walked in silence for a time, just another set of travelers along London’s streets. Crispin felt Livith looking at him and after her long scrutiny, he turned toward her curious expression. Her face did not exactly inquire but hid more than it told in the slight smile that turned up those appealing lips.

She pushed a strand of blond hair out of her eyes. “What sort of man is a ‘Tracker’? It’s a strange-sounding profession.”

“No more, no less than any other.”

“You’re like the sheriff but you ain’t the sheriff. You’re not even the sheriff’s man. It don’t seem right, you on your own.”

“It’s the way I like it.”

She rubbed the ban dage at her side, grunted from pain, and shouldered her bundle again. “You think I don’t know who you are, but I do. There’s not a soul in this part of London who don’t know you—and that you used to be a knight before you committed treason.”

“And?” His voice dropped into a threatening tenor, but he didn’t care. If she wanted to fish this pond she’d better take the consequences.

“And here you are. Working for me. Don’t that gall you?”

He eyed her sidelong, but his lids never raised more than half. “Sometimes.”

That made her smile, slow and easy. “Ah you’re a one, you are. You’re hard to reckon. Why not become an outlaw on the highways? Other knights struck by poverty take to it readily enough.”

“That is not my way.”

“ ‘That is not my way,’ ” she mimicked. “You know there’s no chance in hell I’ll have your sixpence—and now it’s got to a shilling at least. Why do it?”

He had to agree with that. Livith’s meager income could never match his fee, and he lived or starved by that fee. He huffed a breath, watching the cloud of cold air wisp up past his sharp nose. “For the challenge,” he said at last, surprising himself for uttering it.

Livith laughed, hearty and guttural. The kind of laugh a wench might press against your chest in bed. Crispin nudged his cloak open to get a flush of cold air.

“The challenge?” Livith shook her head. “What stupid nonsense! That’s just the sort of rubbish a nobleman might mouth. A man’s got to eat and that’s that.”

“You are clearly not a man.”

She laughed that deep laugh again and nudged him with her elbow. “I hoped you’d notice.”

Crispin raised a brow. “What I mean is, men need a challenge. They need to feel useful, that they fill an important place in the world.”

“And this is yours? Helping poor folk what don’t have a pot to piss in? You’ll never get rich that way.”

“I admit. It isn’t the most sensible of professions. But it is mine.”

“You’re a strange man. But I like you, Crispin Guest.”

He sniffed the cold air. The smells of the Shambles lay far behind them now. They neared Lancaster’s old palace, the Savoy, at least what was left of it after a peasant rabble burnt it to the ground three years ago. The air smelled of the familiarity of court, his old home.

She smiled. A dimple dented one cheek. A pleasant smile, a smile reminding Crispin to keep his warm cloak open. “There’s a lot to you,” she said. “I’ll wager those cockerels at court don’t know the half of it.”

“Nor would they care.”

“And they’d be fools. But you already know that. No, they don’t know what they gave up when they sent you away. I suppose they’ll be sorry one day, eh? You’ll make ’em sorry.”

“I don’t see how.”

“You’ll best ’em, that’s what. Somehow, some way, you’ll best ’em. And they’ll know it. And they’ll be sorry.”

Her face flushed and her eyes stared ahead determinedly. Crispin wondered if this vehemence came from some recent hurt or one of longer ago. “The only one responsible for sending me from court was his Majesty.”

“He just might be sorry, too, someday.”

Crispin caught her eye and offered her a lopsided grin. “Now you’re speaking treason.”

“Am I?” She crossed herself. “Well, God preserve me, though I don’t know why He would. I blaspheme enough, too.”

They spoke no more the rest of the way to Westminster. Nearing the palace, Crispin counted far too many men-at-arms pacing the mouth of the street.

“We’ll never get through,” hissed Livith in his ear. His sentiments, but he didn’t agree aloud.

“Say nothing,” he said. He threw his hood up over his head and dragged it low to cover his eyes, and moved ahead of the women toward the palace courtyard. They were immediately stopped by two soldiers in armor and helms, visors up.

“I said clear off the street!” said one, raising his gauntlet-covered hand to Crispin.

Crispin bowed, and in his best imitation of Jack Tucker, said, “Ow m’lord! We was just returning to the kitchens from a long trip to me ailing aunt. What’s amiss?”

The soldier snorted. “Do you know nothing? There has been an attempt on the king’s life. No one enters here.”

Crispin portrayed the appropriate astonishment and turned to the women. “Did you hear that? Then his Majesty will be wanting his favorite dainties for sure.”

“These are cooks?”

“Ow no m’lord.” Crispin chuckled good-naturedly. “These is scullions. I’m one of the cooks. Just ask Onslow Blunt. He’s the head cook. Go on. Ask him.”

The soldier eyed the women and inspected Crispin with a sneer. For once the absence of a sword served Crispin well. The man stepped aside. “Very well. That way, then. To the kitchens.”

Crispin bowed several times and dragged the women with him. “Thank you, good Master. God bless you, good Master. God save the king.” Out of earshot Crispin straightened. “He’ll need it.”

Livith turned a grin at him. “I didn’t know you did voices.”

He only raised a brow in reply and led them through a long alleyway between the palace walls and the palace itself until he came to another small courtyard where the kitchen outbuildings stood. Standing before a large wooden door, he didn’t bother trying the handle, reckoning that it would be barred. He knocked and waited only a few beats when a scullion boy answered. “Whose knocking?” he asked and then looked up. “Oh! It’s Sir Crispin! What did I say to Master Onslow? I said, ‘This wretched business with the king is just the thing for Crispin Guest. He’s that Tracker and I’ll wager he can find this man with the bow.’ That’s what I said.”

Crispin smiled a grim smile and pushed over the threshold. “And what did Onslow say?”

“He wagered a farthing you wouldn’t come. I’ve won that, I have!”

“So you have.”

Crispin stepped in farther and Livith and Grayce entered. The boy stared at them. “And what is all this, Sir Crispin?”

It was useless to tell the lad not to call him that. “Where is Onslow, Freddy?”

Freddy scratched his mane of brown hair. “He’s at the hearths. I’ll take you.”

Freddy moved ahead but couldn’t help look over his shoulder at the silent women. Livith merely stared ahead of her, but Grayce rolled her eyes, looking at all the new sights.

The aromas of roasting meats and savory pottage billowed toward them. It was warmer as they neared the fires. A tall, strapping man with flaming ginger hair and an equally flaming beard flung his arms over the chaos of the kitchens. Staff scrabbled in all directions trying to keep up with his shouted orders. Kettles bubbled over the fire. Three-legged cauldrons shot steam out from under iron lids. Two young boys, no older than four, took turns turning the gears to a great iron spit roasting three pigs and four goats over one of the larger hearths. There were six hearths in all and a few separate braziers with smaller fowl dripping juices from prongs.

Crispin stood behind him, fists at hips.

“And move, you!” Onslow bellowed. A young boy, face dirty with soot, carried several large platters in his outstretched arms. Crispin feared he would drop them and earn a beating, but the boy had obviously been at this for some years, and moved nimbly past his master.

“You, Onslow, are the very picture of an Egyptian taskmaster.”

Onslow swiveled. His face screwed up in preparation for a barrage of curses . . . when it all loosened into a jovial slant. “Sir Crispin! Mother of God, what are you doing here? It has been many a day!”

“Yes, in the days when I could rightfully be called ‘Sir’ Crispin.”

“Aw now.” Onslow reddened. He grabbed Crispin’s shoulders, but thankfully did not enclose him in a hug. His apron looked too greasy for that. “You’re not here for what I think you’re here for?”

“And what do you think I’m here for?”

He sidled up to Crispin and spoke in low tones. “You know. The king? Someone tried to put him out of his misery.”

“I thought you did that every day with your cooking.”

He smacked Crispin’s shoulder affably, but the wallop nearly sent Crispin reeling. Onslow’s hands were as large as some of his platters. He laughed but stopped and drew on a serious expression. “That’s not a funny jest, Sir Crispin. I could be dragged into prison for suspicions like that.”

“You haven’t yet,” he said.

“You never said as much when you sampled my food before taking them to his grace the duke.”

“No, admittedly, I was better behaved then.” Crispin’s smile turned grave. “Now I have a favor to ask. These women”—he thumbed behind him—“they need work.”

Onslow’s face brightened. “You’ve come to the right place. We always need extra hands.”

Crispin spoke in quiet tones. “They need a private place to sleep. Away from the others. No cots in the great hall, nor may they clean in the hall. Let them work only in the kitchens, nowhere else. Understand?”

Onslow didn’t, but Crispin had known him a long time and he counted on that. Onslow’s eyes worked it out and he gave a final nod in agreement. “I’ll get Freddy to show them their place. I suppose you’ll tell me all about it over a beaker at the Boar’s Tusk.”

“Soon. Livith. Grayce. This is Master Onslow, the best royal cook of all time.”

“Any friends of Sir Crispin’s—” He urged them forward and then gave a whistle for Freddy, who remarkably heard it above the clatter. “Join me in a cup now, Sir Crispin?” Onslow asked over his shoulder.

Crispin shook his head. “That would cheer me greatly, but there’s no time now. If I may, I would like to look about.”

But Onslow’s lighthearted expression turned somber. “Er . . . Sir Crispin.” He looked around and motioned Crispin aside. “It has been many a year, true. And for the last four years you have been well known, honest as the day is long. But sir . . . you were cast from court because . . . because . . .”

“I would have seen the king deposed,” Crispin said quietly.

“Aye, you see the point. Deposed or . . .” He leaned closer and whispered, “Or dead.”

Crispin nodded. “I see the difficulty. Perhaps this is why I am here, eh? To finish the job begun seven years ago?”

“Never jest about it! It could mean our heads.” His eyes darted this way and that but no one was close enough within the noise of the kitchens to overhear them. “But I have known you since you were a page in Lancaster’s household. Treason or no, you are a man of character. And if you swear to me by our Lady that you will do no harm to the king, then I will believe you.”

Crispin steadied his gaze on Onslow’s gray eyes. He placed his hand upon his own breast. “I solemnly swear to you, Master Onslow, on the soul of our dear Lady, that I will do the king no harm. I am here to protect him.”

Onslow let out a long breath and his cheeks rosied again. “There now. That assures me better than any priest’s oath.” He gestured toward the stairway leading to the great hall. “You know the way.”

Onslow didn’t stop to observe Crispin depart. He returned to shouting orders to his army of cooks at the hearths and cooking pots.

Freddy ushered the women away to their third lodgings in two days. Crispin’s thoughts could now concentrate on a crowd of images. Miles Aleyn, for one. But he also gave a thought or two to the French couriers. Where were they now? Did they make it to court? Return to France? He’d have to make inquiries.

Miles knew something about the women and pursued them to the Boar’s Tusk. If he thought Grayce had seen him, why did he not try to kill Grayce? If only she would speak! If he could only get her to say what she saw. Alas. He’d be just as likely to get a mule to speak, though a mule was bound to be wiser! Poor Grayce. Poor Livith. He gave the sinewy sister an extra thought and turned back to catch a glimpse of her in the clutter and scrambling of Onslow’s cooks and scullions, but she was lost amid the rabble and savory steam.

He made the short walk across a courtyard and then up some steps that took him from the kitchens to the great hall. An army of servants hustled there almost as much as they did in the kitchens. There were trestle tables to set up, benches to put in place. The trestles whined as they scraped across the stone floor. Servants with linens were carefully draping them over the tables, smoothing the wrinkles away with clean hands. Men on ladders were fitting large wax candles into candelabras as big as saplings, while their assistants were scrambling about bringing more candles. Still others worked tirelessly with brooms at the perimeters, sweeping away the dust and dirt.

No one took notice of Crispin.

And so. Richard wanted his feast to show the court he was not afraid. “But he should be,” Crispin muttered. The killer was not through.

Crispin looked out across the huge room with its high ceilings of open timber arches supported by two rows of pillars. Large, arched windows, with reticulated clear glass, lined both long walls north to south. Raised steps with Richard’s marble throne stood at one end and heraldic drapery of banners and tapestries hanging from iron rods ran along both sides down the length of the hall, some flat against the wall and others protruding like banners before a battle.

He wondered where Miles might be. Was he quartered in the palace or with the garrison? He couldn’t very well ask. But he still wanted to know. He wanted to know so many things. Why did he wish to kill the king? Was the old plot unfolding all over again? But if killing the king was his only objective, why waste time slaying a French courier?

He looked again at the throne, and like a moth drawn to a flame Crispin walked with slow steps toward the chair.

No guards. Stupid. Reckless. But so was Richard. He was seventeen now. Though no longer considered a child, it would be four more years before he was considered in his full majority. He made decisions for the realm relying at first on his uncle Lancaster. And though Parliament refused to make him regent, Lancaster continued to counsel the boy and hence ruled the realm, though from what Crispin heard, the king’s former tutor Simon Burley and Richard’s Chancellor, Michael de la Pole, had taken over those duties. That surely did not sit well with the duke. Rumors from court suggested that the nobles felt shut out of the king’s decisions. Richard more and more used the counsel of his friends over that of the nobles. That sat well with no one.

Crispin stood at the bottom of the steps to the raised platform. The last time he stood so close was on that day, seven years ago. A presence emanated from the throne like some malevolent creature pitched out of Hell.

Richard. Crispin’s ire for him was more marked today than seven years earlier, when all he had wanted was his mentor on the throne. Was Abbot Nicholas right about Crispin? Did Crispin keep tidings of Miles to himself not to appear the hero but to let him kill the king?

He didn’t like that feeling creeping into his veins, the feeling of culpability. Was he responsible for setting in motion again the very treason that cast him out of his place at court? A sneer curled his lip. No. That kind of thinking could freeze a man solid. And there was nothing static about Crispin.

He rested his foot on the lowest step and leaned on his thigh. The throne—marble, cushioned. So much more than merely a chair. Some men coveted such a thing. Maybe even some of the men caught up in the conspiracy. Maybe some of them fancied themselves covered in ermine and wearing a crown, and Lancaster was only the tool to get them there.

He made a disgusted snort. What did it really matter now? Few men could change the tide of history. He was certainly not one of them. Might have been once, but not now. But Lancaster was such a man. He headed armies and won and lost the day many a time. The son of a king, he was always destined for greatness and he achieved it. It was on Lancaster’s shoulders that the tide of history turned, not on the shoulders of underlings, for though Crispin’s rank had been high, his personal ambitions had never achieved the status of such as Lancaster or his ilk, nor was it designed to.

If Richard lived or died, what possible difference would it make to Crispin’s life now?

But suppose Richard did die. He’d been married little over a year and the queen was not yet with child. What if she never was? Who then would be the heir? Would it be Lancaster after all?

Crispin closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Such thoughts bordered again on treason. He would not allow himself to dwell. Better to protect the throne, whoever sat atop it.

Two servants scraped a trestle table across the floor and Crispin snapped open his lids. The many tables were arranged around the braziers in the center. Everything, of course, piloted the eyes toward the head table on the other side of the room on its raised platform, to Richard.

Crispin had been a guest at the head table many times before, when Richard’s grandfather, Edward of Windsor, was king. He recalled chatting with the ladies and high-ranking men at that table while breaking his meats with them, drinking fine wine, absorbing the entertainments.

No more.

No more because of Miles Aleyn and his seducing lies.

Crispin chuffed a hot breath. He wanted his life back. Killing Miles wouldn’t grant that, but the deed would make his suffering a hell of a lot easier.

He felt the weight of the arrows in his pouch. A smile peeled back his lips. He needed to pay a visit to the king’s fletcher.

He put his hood up and left the hall. The garrison’s courtyard was where the archers congregated. The Master Fletcher would certainly be there.

He headed toward the garrison’s yard as if he had made the journey only yesterday. His feet took him without question in the right direction. He passed under an arch, down the steps, and into the open courtyard.

Men walked freely across the gravel quadrangle. Blacksmith stalls, armorers, and carpenter and wheelwright stalls lined the courtyard’s walls. He turned when he heard the unmistakable whistle and thud of arrows hitting their targets. Two archers, both wearing green chaperon hoods with short liripipe tails, practiced shooting arrows at straw butts. The men wore leather tunics lined with metal plates, but the broad-shouldered one seemed too big for his tunic, thick arms bursting through the tunic’s crenelled cap sleeves. A dark fringe hung below the hood’s brim and small dark eyes like a ferret’s peered out from under bruised lids.

Long sandy hair draped in lackluster strings over the other archer’s brows, and though his eyes were set wide apart in a concentrated stare, he did not look the brighter for it.

Crispin ambled along the wall toward them, leaned his shoulder into a wooden post, and watched the arrows meet the target one after the other. They were fine marksmen, as fine as any of the king’s archers. Good enough to shoot a man in an undercroft at close range.

They ran out of arrows and chatted in an easy camaraderie born of longtime service together. Crispin emerged from the shadows. “I beg pardon, good sirs.” The men turned. The bigger man’s small eyes grew smaller. He clutched his empty bow.

Crispin tried a smile. He wasn’t certain if he succeeded. “Would either of you know the whereabouts of the Master Fletcher, Edward Peale?”

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.”