Serpent in the Thorns

25

CRISPIN’S FACE DID NOT change for a heartbeat and then he threw back his head and gave a hearty laugh. “Captured me, did they? How do you know?”

“Well . . .” Jack hugged the edge of the pilaster. “I see a man wearing that cotehardie of yours—”

Crispin continued laughing though it hurt his shoulder and he ceased abruptly. “My decoy has arrived. What are they doing now?”

“They’re ushering him away. Out the other door. Everyone’s going. The hall’s empty.”

Crispin stepped tentatively toward the archway. “Good. We’ll go this way, then. It will save me time.”

“Who was that poor bastard?”

“That was Lenny.”

Jack smiled. “And he agreed to be your decoy?”

“Not exactly. I hinted to him that he might earn a reward at court. Looks like he just got it.”

“Why is he wearing your coat?”

“I needed a way to get across London without being detected. We traded coats.”

“Now, Master Crispin, that wasn’t a very nice thing you done to old Lenny. He won’t appreciate it.”

“I imagine he’s spilling his guts about me now. That will keep everyone busy enough. I hope.”

Crispin checked again to see if anyone remained in the hall and then slipped out onto the stone floor. Heading across the hall was the best shortcut to the courtyard. Miles might be there and Crispin needed to conserve every step.

The tapestry that Crispin climbed in his escape had been removed, leaving an obviously blank space on the wall between more tapestries and banners. The broken rod still hung there by one hanger. Gouges in the plaster pocked the stone wall, reminders where spears had penetrated. The window was covered with boards hastily nailed into place to keep the weather out.

“What happened there?” asked Jack. “Looks like a whirlwind swept through.”

Crispin looked up. “No, only one desperate man.”

Jack turned to stare at Crispin. His jaw slackened and his widening eyes inquired, but he said nothing.

They’d made it halfway across the floor when Crispin stopped. He saw movements in the shadows by the kitchen entrance, the figure of a man and the gleam of a sword pulled from its scabbard.

The figure strode into the light and took a few paces forward. He wagged the sword at Crispin from across the expanse of floor, his gloved hand wound taut around the sword hilt. “Why, Crispin Guest!” Miles said tightly. His voice conveyed a smile even though his face did not. “It’s a miracle. Did I not just see you taken away by the palace guards?”

Crispin stiffened. “No miracle. A trick of the eye, perhaps.”

“So now the king must add sorcery to the charges against you. One wonders how many times and in how many ways you can be executed.”

Crispin raised one edge of his mouth not quite into a grin. “I’ll wager none. It is not my execution that is close at hand, but yours.”

Miles stepped closer. The sword bobbed toward Crispin. “Mine? I think not. For I am not guilty of anything.”

“Do not make the angels weep, Miles.”

Miles’s smile was that of a reptile. “You credit me with far more than my due.”

Crispin backed away from Miles’s advancing blade, running his gaze over the three feet of steel. He raised his voice. “Miles Aleyn, you are under arrest in the name of the king.”

Miles laughed. “And what authority gives you the right—or the gall—to utter such nonsense? Are we talking of the faery kingdom?”

“The sheriff gives me the authority.”

“The sheriff. I wipe my arse with London’s sheriff.”

“We’ve all had enough of your bow work, Miles.” He gestured to his own arm. “Especially me.”

Miles stepped closer, only ten feet from Crispin now. “I wish I can take the credit. But alas, I did not. Besides, I would have rather put an arrow in your heart than your shoulder.”

“Lying to the last.”

Miles chuckled and raised the blade. He stood only a few feet from Crispin.

Crispin eyed the blade again, feeling himself at a distinct disadvantage with no sword and the use of only one arm. “What is your intention, Miles?”

Miles whipped the blade through the space between them. The steel sang in the cold air. “Cut you down to size, perhaps. And pray, what is yours?”

This time, Crispin’s smile was wide. “To beat the shit out of you.”

Miles flicked a dismissive eyelash at Jack and directed his gaze again to Crispin’s bandaged arm and sling. He laughed. “With what?”

“With this.” Before Miles could react, Crispin kicked Miles’s sword hand with all his might. The sword flew across the room.

A surge of hot blood pumped through Crispin’s chest. That had gone better than he hoped.

Miles shook out his gloved hand and looked back at the now distant sword. “Damn you, Guest!”

But Crispin wasn’t done. He slammed his foot to Miles’s kneecap, and the archer went down. Without hesitating, Crispin threw a kick into Miles’s chest. A whoosh of air expelled from the archer’s lungs and he folded, legs splayed.

Crispin panted and stood over him. “Well now. Maybe you will tell me—”

Miles’s fist arced upward and caught Crispin in the gut. Crispin stumbled back a few steps, his good arm pressed to his belly. Miles tried to rise but his buckled knee would not allow him. Instead, he half-limped, half-slid across the floor like a beached whale. He pulled his dagger free.

Crispin gasped, looked up, and saw the knife. He yanked out his own and slashed at Miles. Miles jerked back.

Crispin’s mouth set grimly and he jumped away from Miles’s blade and instead caught the side of the archer’s head with his boot. Miles fell forward and the dagger skidded free across the floor. Jack scrambled to retrieve it and held it aloft, aiming it toward Miles.

Miles leaned on his arms and heaved his shoulders, sucking in air. Blood rimmed his lips and plastered the hair on the side of his head where Crispin kicked him.

Crispin looked down at him, satisfied he’d done sufficient damage. He turned to Jack. “Go get the duke’s men.”

“Right, sir!” Jack saluted with Miles’s dagger, turned on his heel, and ran, feet slapping hard on the floor.

Crispin faced Miles. “Now, you turd. I have a few questions for you.”

“Go to Hell, Guest.”

“I’ve already been there. And I will soon see you there. Save your breath and keep your lying to a minimum. I know all about your association with Lancaster.”

Miles snapped up his head, eyes wide. He slid his jaw but said nothing. A trickle of blood painted a crimson line down his chin.

“Yes, I know. Tell me why you stole those arrows. Trying to make it look as if Lancaster were guilty?”

“Enough, then! I stole the goddamned arrows. But that was seven years ago. You didn’t think I was going to go to France without some proof of Lancaster’s involvement, did you?”

“He could have killed you. He should have.”

“No, instead he exiled me.”

“With money enough to set you up well, I imagine.”

“That was all very well—for a while. But a man gets a hunger for his homeland. So I joined the king’s army.”

“As an archer.”

“Yes, as an archer.”

“And you used that skill for treason, trying to kill the king.”

“No, damn you! How many times must I say?”

“Why do you lie now? You are a dead man already. Lancaster’s men will be here soon. Torture will extract the rest.”

Miles’s brows winged outward. Sweat dotted his face and trickled down. “I tell you I did not try to kill the king. It is impossible.”

“Not for the likes of you. You are a deceiver, an extortionist, a murderer. There is no honor in you. There is nothing but evil and death, and that is what you shall receive.”

Miles tried to rise but Crispin used his foot to kick him back down. “Stay on the ground where you belong, dog!”

“I tell you it is impossible! I did not try to shoot the king!”

“And why is that so impossible?”

Miles grimaced. He glanced back toward the archway where Lancaster’s men would soon emerge. His face shone with sweat, his tunic equally dark with perspiration. Breath trembling, he looked up at Crispin and locked eyes with him. “This is why.” He raised his gloved hand to his face and grasped the leather fingers with his teeth and yanked off one gauntlet and then the other. He tossed the gauntlets at Crispin’s feet.

Crispin looked.

Miles had only a thumb and two small fingers on each hand. The forefingers and middle fingers had been hewn off.