Serpent in the Thorns

17

AS CRISPIN SAW IT, there were only two choices: he could stay as he was and get captured and executed for a crime he didn’t commit—or he could run.

He chose the latter.

He threw himself forward into a knot of women. Screams filled his ears, but at least the women had no weapons. He felt the cascade of silk and satin on his hands, smelled their perfumes and sweat, and pushed ahead, crisscrossing amid the tight throng. All at once, he burst free of the crowd. Men with swords approached from one side, guards with guisarmes from another. The crowd of people shrank back.

He looked at the short bow still in his hand and cast it away. At his back, a tapestry and a solid wall.

This was not good.

His eyes searched, mind churning. Escape. There had to be a way. There was always a way.

He looked behind him at the tapestry, up to its stern iron rod, to the windows above.

The men were coming, murder in their eyes. He was done for. No trial. No gaol. Just a bloody death right here in the great hall.

Crispin spun. He grabbed the edge of the tapestry with both fists and pulled himself up, hand over hand. A spear whistled past his ear, moving his hair. He stopped only long enough to stare wide-eyed at the quivering shaft imbedded in the plaster before he threw his strength into reaching higher.

The iron rod. He felt his hand curl around it and then the other hand. Now he dared look up and saw the window. It was farther than he thought.

Another spear clanged against the wall just below his right thigh. He swung his leg up and his boot managed to just grab the rod. He’d have to stand on it to reach the window.

He felt a tug on the tapestry and looked down. Two guards climbed up below him.

No time to think. He pulled his other leg up and crouched on the rod like a frog, both sweaty hands clutching the rod between his feet. He walked his hands up the wall until he stood.

He lurched. Why was the rod suddenly leaning? At his left, the rod hung precariously from its hanger imbedded in the plaster-covered stone. The damned thing was pulling away from the wall! Too much weight.

A bit of plaster fell from the hanger. The rod lurched again as it slipped farther.

“Better and better,” he muttered, shaking his head.

He looked up at the window. There was a sill but it wasn’t very wide, only enough for his feet. He reached up to grab it.

Too far.

He heard a grunt and told himself not to look down, but in the tense state his mind was in, he didn’t listen very well to himself. One of the guards climbing the tapestry had almost reached him. He thought of kicking him in the face but a better idea occurred to him.

The man stretched his hand forward and gripped the rod. The whole tapestry shifted again. The man raised his head and looked over at the unstable hanger. His expression opened into fear. It was a good fifteen feet to the floor. He looked up at Crispin and whitened his knuckles on the rod.

Crispin smiled and slid along the rod toward him. The man’s features changed to one of horror as he saw what Crispin was about to do, though he misunderstood the reason.

Crispin raised his foot, but instead of kicking the man’s face, he stepped up onto his head. Crispin’s boot slid on the man’s hair and the human stepping-stone heaped a set of fine old curses upon Crispin, questioning his paternity as well as his sexual practices.

Crispin ignored it. Now tall enough, he reached up and grabbed the sill. He pushed away from the man’s head to get a good grip. That was also enough to dislodge the guard. The man lost his hold, tried to regain it, and tumbled down. He knocked the other guard free and landed on a knot of men gathered below. Then the entire rod let loose from the wall. The men below scrambled out of the way before the rod and tapestry clanged heavily to the floor.

Crispin dangled like a plucked goose from the windowsill. Halberd heads clanked against the wall in an attempt to reach his feet. If he couldn’t swing up to the window, he was as good as a dead goose.

He grit his teeth and swung his foot, missed, swung again.

Got it! He pulled his body up on the narrow ledge. For once grateful at his meager diet, he stood, facing the window. Unable to resist, he turned his head and got his first look at the hall.

Chaos. All its inhabitants glared up at him, curses on their lips. Spears shook, swords flashed. They wanted his blood, that much was certain.

With his chest pressed to the glass he felt the window with his fingers, the edges of glass, the lead dividers, looking for a latch or hinge.

Then his heart burst with a shot of warmth. The window didn’t open. He was a dead man.

He looked back down and wondered who he should land on for the best effect. It would be the last choice he ever made so he wanted it to be a good one.

He saw it like a story woven into a tapestry. The man below cocked back his arm and took aim at Crispin. The spear released in a long and graceful arc, straight at him. If he didn’t move it would surely pierce him, and he wondered in the few heartbeats it took for the spear to leave the guard’s hand, if he shouldn’t let it do its work. The aim was good and would, no doubt, do great damage to his chest. All he had to do was stand as he was and make no attempt to move. A simple thing. Better than the death Richard would choose this time. Crispin ruminated on the possibilities—on who would mourn him, where his miserable body might be buried if allowed such an ennobling thing as burial. But then his instincts took over, made the decision, and forced him to lean to the side just as the lethal missile slid past him. The spear crashed through the window in a barrage of broken glass and twisted lead.

Crispin windmilled his arms, trying to keep his balance. He stared at the window’s suddenly gaping hole. That would do.

He closed his eyes, gave in to faith, and hurled himself through.