Serpent in the Thorns

27

JACK EDGED NEXT TO Crispin and they both watched Lancaster’s men disappear with Miles. “He’s a coward,” said Jack. He said it simply, a pronouncement, like “my soup is too hot.” He raised his chin to look at Crispin, and his bright eyes shone with the flush of pride.

Crispin supposed the pride was for him.

He leaned against Jack and the boy gave a cry. “Oh Master! We must attend to that arm.”

“There isn’t time, Jack. There is still an assassin to stop. Verily, there are at least two.”

“Two? Isn’t Miles one of them?”

“No. He had his own secrets, and they distracted me from seeing what I should have all along.”

Jack slapped his forehead. “Them French couriers!”

Crispin lifted his shoulders in an effort to breathe. “Jack, do what you can to get Lenny out of shackles. Here.” He reached into his pouch and gave a little hiss when he jabbed his finger on the thorn. He pulled it out again along with some coins, and dropped the coins in Jack’s outstretched hand.

“Oi! Master Crispin,” he said pointing to the object in Crispin’s palm. “That looks like one of them thorns.”

Crispin looked at the thorn, and then at his finger. He had so many holes in him now he wondered how he had any blood left. “It is one of those thorns. It fell out of the Crown.”

Jack backed up, hands fanning the air and head shaking. “Christ’s toes! You must return it. Take it away.”

“If only I could. I will give it to the proper authorities when all this is over.”

“Oh!” Jack covered his mouth and then pointed a trembling finger at Crispin. “It’s that power. It’s the thorn protecting you. Jesus mercy.” He hastily crossed himself multiple times.

“Don’t be a little fool. Go now. Rescue Lenny. You still look like a monk. It will put you in good stead. That silver will go even further.”

“Where should I go?”

“The captain of the guard. Or the sheriff, if you must.”

Jack nodded but eyed Crispin warily. He fisted the coins and took off at a trot, looking back at Crispin once before disappearing through an arch.

Crispin took another deep breath. He hoped he had enough strength to go on. But almost the same moment he thought it, a feeling of comforting warmth began in his chest and spread outward like a sunburst. It radiated into his sore shoulder, not exactly dulling the pain, but making it that much more bearable. He felt taller, straighter. He should be feeling exhausted. He should be in too much pain to lift his foot one more step. He should be fainting.

He looked down at the thorn in his hand and slowly shook his head in his refusal to believe. “You can’t be doing this. I don’t believe you can do this.”

The thorn lay in his palm. It looked like any other thorn: black, unimpressive yet somewhat dangerous.

He looked at his finger. Already the pinprick was disappearing.

He swiveled his head to look back at the direction he’d come, to the archway that led back to Lancaster. But thinking of the duke left him cold and desolate. Since his degradation, he and Gaunt had spoken little. The few times they had, Lancaster had used distant tones to protect his good name from association with Crispin’s. His good name. And Crispin had taken it like the properly chastised servant he was, feeling all along he deserved it. Like a fool! Where was the honor in all this? Even Lancaster proved that in order to protect his own interests, he was willing to sacrifice his fiercest supporters. The young knights in the conspiracy had given their lives. And Crispin had given his life, too, in a sense. Was there anything or anyone worth dying for?

He clutched his hands into fists and just as quickly snapped them open again. The sharp thorn still lay in his palm. The words whispered over his lips. “ ‘Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.’ ”

The sheriff had seen the Crown being presented to the king. He hoped Eleanor and Gilbert were safe now. The sheriff would have nothing left to surrender to the king—except Crispin himself, of course.

He sighed and dropped the thorn back in his pouch. Wearily he raised his head and scanned the large and ominously empty hall. How much had these old timbers seen? How much honor? How much degradation? How much death? Crispin shivered and pulled his cloak about him.

Behind him lay Lancaster and the French ambassador, the couriers. But he made no move in that direction. Instead, he headed for the kitchens.

He strode beneath the shadow of the arch and opened the door. He trod down the stairs and was struck by the warmth blasting up the stairwell, the aromas, the sounds of iron pans and brass kettles clanking. But it did not comfort today. At the bottom of the stairs he simply stood, watching the many lives move about him, going about their tasks with their own cares tucked neatly behind their caps and wimples. What did people like these think about? Probably much as he thought about these days: Was there going to be enough money to last the winter? Was there enough to tuck away for the eldest daughter’s dowry? What would happen to their families if sickness came to them? Mundane thoughts. Mundane cares.

But he knew from experience that some harbored other thoughts, not so mundane. Greedy thoughts. Illicit. Dangerous. And these thoughts came from every level of society, whether king or beggar. But only a king could make such men act on their evil thoughts, because only a king had the power and money to use at his will. And the others, the lowly ones, fell easily to the temptation. Was it their fault, to be enticed by the Devil as they were? Adam and Eve were so enticed. Free will can be a dangerous thing. On one hand is Heaven, but on the other sin and damnation.

Crispin glanced at the faces; hard faces, lined, dark from smoke. But he did not see the faces he sought. He saw the other door, the one to the small storeroom that lay in shadow, went to it, opened it.

No one was there. He pulled a stool from its place at the table, sat, and waited.

IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN an hour until Livith stepped through the door and shut it. She flinched when she noticed Crispin sitting in the dark.

“Well!” she cried, her hand on her heart. “God bless me! You startled me, you did. I wondered where you’d gone. That arm can’t be doing too well.”

“Well enough.” He painted a design on the table with his finger and slowly lifted his gaze.

She smiled and flew to him. She threw her arms about his neck and settled in his lap. “Now,” she said, lips caressing his. “Where were we?”

He grasped her arm and pushed her back. She stood back unsteadily and stared at him. Her face and eyes registered their puzzlement.

“There’s no time for this now,” said Crispin. “It’s time for answers.”

She stared at him. Her head was cocked to one side. Her angular features were shadowed by the uncertain flicker of a single candle. But those faery eyes studied him like a fox hiding in the brake. “What nonsense is this?” Her hand went to her hip and her whole body swayed into it; all the curves and undulations of Woman. “Don’t you want to finish what we started?” she said softly. Her tongue peeked from between her lips and traveled over them in one slow, gliding meander, leaving a path of moisture glistening on that small but succulent mouth.

“The time for games is over, Livith. Where’s the bow?”

Her eyes widened slightly but her lashes swept down and covered anything that might have been revealed by her eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“The bow. I’m certain you each possess one. One is lost, of course, but there must be another.”

The luscious s of her body straightened and she crossed her arms over her chest. She shook her head and a smile sprouted on that tart mouth. “I knew you was too clever. I told myself not to trust you.”

“So where is it?”

“How the hell did you discover us?”

He blinked for a moment then flicked his gaze down to her feet. “Your shoes.”

“My what? My sarding shoes?”

“Those wooden clogs. They are a French design. They are not made quite the same way in London. That is how I knew you had been to France. And you spoke French to me. Did you realize?” He could see she didn’t, but it made little difference. “There was no possible reason for your being in France except as clever executioners. After all, what is more invisible than a couple of scullions?”

“A couple of women scullions, that’s what.”

“Just so. So where is it?”

Livith gave a chuckle, a low rumble in her throat. “Oh Crispin, why are we arguing? We had the makings of a splendid time together.”

“Why hire me if you only intended to kill me?”

She threw back her head and sighed. “I didn’t hire you, remember? I had no choice. Not with the famed ‘Tracker’ sniffing about.”

“So Grayce did kill the courier.”

Livith slid her foot forward and sauntered toward the table, her hips rocking. “Aye. He must have recognized her from the French court. It was the only thing she could think to do.” She meandered all the way around the table and back toward Crispin. She dropped her fingers lightly to the back of Crispin’s hand, trailing up his skin to his wrist. He jerked it away. Frowning, she stood back, looking down her nose at him. “After she’d done it, she didn’t know what else to do and I wasn’t there to tell her. She got confused as she is wont to do. So the idiot went to you. She never thought it out. She can’t.”

“If you had been there instead of Grayce no one would have ever known.”

“Aye. And the king would be dead by now and I’d be fifty pounds richer. And, of course,” she smiled, “you wouldn’t be dead.”

“But I’m not dead.”

She smiled, revealing one chipped tooth. “Not yet. But you will be. That’s twice I struck your shoulder with an arrow. And that’s twice I hadn’t wanted to kill you. If I had, you’d’ve been dead long ago.”

“Why didn’t you?”

She smiled. “I didn’t want to. But your messing about at court made me a might anxious. I shot you here to lay you low. And to play.” She licked her lips. “A man who’s a little helpless . . . well, it’s a bit of merriment, ain’t it? And you were enjoying it right well as I recall.”

Crispin turned away from her leering grin. “And the attempt on the king in the garden? Missed on purpose, did you?”

Her smile faded. “Sarding servant. He saw me. Gave the king the warning. I shot him instead to teach him a lesson. It wasn’t easy reaching over that wall.”

“How did you escape detection?”

“I told you. No one looks twice at a woman servant. My bow is small enough to easily hide under me cloak.”

“I find it incredible that a woman knows how to shoot at all. Though you did say your father was an archer. . . .”

“And a damn good one, too. But without sons, there was no one to teach but us girls. And we learned right well.”

He eyed her pointedly. “Your Southwark speech sounds authentic. You are English, then?” She nodded. “And this is how you earn your keep? Only pretending to be scullions so that you may kill for money? If I were not so disgusted I might very well admire your audacity. But as it is, I find the waste of talent pathetic.”

“I don’t need your judgment. I get me gold. And that’s good enough. I make more wages than you do, to be sure.” She laughed. “I’d even consider paying you in full. But I don’t see what good it will do you now.”

“Then that performance at the Boar’s Tusk. The clothes strewn about the storeroom. The arrow strike you took. Staged?”

“Didn’t want you getting too suspicious. Grayce shot me. I told her to. I’m afraid it truly rattled what she’s got left of a brain. But we had to get out of there. It was just good luck you got us into exactly the place we needed to be: court.”

“What about Miles Aleyn?”

“That peacock? He’s more talk than show. He had but one task, and could he accomplish even that? No! Nearly fouled it all with his carelessness with them couriers. It ain’t Grayce’s fault she didn’t know what to do. She can only stick to the plan when I’m there to tell her.” She shook her head as if it were merely a bit of burnt toast she was worrying over. “Found Miles Aleyn at first strutting about the French court. My employer knew him well. Thought it a merry idea to use foreign arrows for a job I done several years ago.”

“The French noblemen, you mean?”

She shone her teeth in a guffaw, and slapped her thighs. “You are a one, ain’t you? How’d you know about that?”

“And you happened to have a few good English arrows left to take to England?”

“Aye. My employer seemed to know a thing or two about them arrows. Thought it amusing to use them. Do you happen to know why? You know everything else.”

“Yes. Because Miles stole them from the duke of Lancaster and they can be identified as his.”

She put her hand over her mouth and laughed into it. “That’s a pretty notion, that. Someone’s trying to be especially naughty.”

“Indeed. About that ‘someone.’ Just who is your employer?”

She put up one finger to her pursed lips. “Oh no. Mustn’t tell. Especially to the likes of you.”

“You know I am being blamed for this.”

“Aye. That’s the funniest part of all.”

Crispin made a grimace. “Strange. I don’t find it amusing whatsoever.”

Her taut shoulders drooped. She edged closer to him, leading with her hips. “Come, Crispin. Let us put our differences aside. Let us recapture the moment. Who would know? I’ll leave off killing the wretched king and disappear, if that’s what you want, and you can go about your business none the wiser and no one else hurt.”

“I would never soil my hands with you again.”

She stopped. Livith’s face soured. Her eyes narrowed “Very well,” she rasped. “Have it your way.”

Crispin was waiting for a move, but he didn’t expect her fist. She punched hard into his shoulder just at the point of injury; rapid punches, three, four times. It took his breath away, the pain so intense, so penetrating. He gurgled a protest, went rigid, and fell backward to the floor.

Livith cast the table into the air, upending it. She snatched the short-bow from its hiding place on the underside of the table and slammed an arrow to it. She straddled him, aimed the point of the arrow right between his eyes, and pulled back the string.

Supine, Crispin looked up at Livith’s eye taking aim down the arrow shaft. No time to think. He swung his legs up behind her and clasped them around her waist. The arrow shot forward, skimming the top of his bare head. He yanked his legs down, pulling Livith backward.

The same moment he released her, he rolled to the side. He managed to get to his knees just in time to feel the crack of the bow against his head. Stars, flashing light and dark. Pain bursting in his head. He sunk down, but knew if he succumbed he’d be a dead man.

She swung the bow from the other direction, and Crispin raised his good arm to block it. At least it used to be his good arm. He spun his leg outward and tripped her. She fell hard to the floor on her backside and swore.

Crispin was down on his knees again, trying to breathe, trying to get a fix on what was up and what down. His head was light. Loss of blood, a blow to the head—all of it was taking its toll. Wish I’d told Jack where I was going to be. Funny how that seemed to matter more and more these days. What Jack thought. Where Jack was. Maybe Eleanor was right. Jack was more to him than a servant, but it was too late to do anything about it now. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t think he was going to make it. Defeated by a woman! That was especially galling.

Crispin groped for his dagger and yanked it out. He fisted it tightly. That was all he had left. He hadn’t the strength for any more punches, no more kicks. Just the weapon. If she knocked it out of his hand, then he’d only have time for about half an Ave Maria, then all would be over.

Crispin heard a noise and realized that it was Livith, sobbing. “That hurt, you bastard! Me bum. You broke it.” Out of the corner of his eye he watched helplessly as she struggled to her feet. She rubbed her backside and drew her hand over a sloppy, wet nose. “I am going to take an arrow and burrow it deep in that hole in your shoulder. That should feel right good, eh Crispin? That’ll be like the fires of Hell, I should think.” She kicked his hand, and the dagger flew. Sorrowfully, he watched it go. She limped to where it lay against the wall and picked it up. She turned it in her hand. “Nice. A fair piece, this. I think I’ll cut off your ear first. Then the other. Then a few cuts to the neck—not the artery, mind. I want you to linger. I want you to see your blood flowing away.”

“After all we’ve been to one another,” he said.

She chuckled, deep and smooth.

Crispin watched her approach and forgot to pray. His mind was full of blasphemies instead, and he licked his lips to utter a few choice ones aloud.

Just then the door flung open. Livith turned. That’s all Crispin needed. He projected all his strength, all his weight forward and head-butted Livith in the belly. She flew backward into the arms of Grayce.

Crispin fell to the side, trying to roll to a sitting or crouching position. Livith lay on her back. Her knees jerked up like a dying crab. Crispin saw the knife across the room on the floor. So did Grayce. She was a slow thinker most of the time, but she had no trouble reckoning this situation. She dove for it the same time Crispin did.

Her fingers reached it first, but Crispin closed his hand over hers, trying to wrench it from her. He was weaker than he thought. He wasn’t getting anywhere. They rolled along the floor, Crispin doing his best to get the knife. He slammed her hands against the stone floor, once, twice. She leaned forward and dug her teeth into his wrist.

He cried out, but knew he couldn’t let her go. He gritted his teeth, sucked in a breath of icy air, and rolled again, this time slamming her head to the floor. That loosened her, and he did it again. She released the knife and he had no trouble rearing up and punching his fist into her face. Now there was blood on his hands, and it wasn’t his for a change. For good measure he took her head in both hands and slammed it hard into the floor. Twice. He heard a crack and then a blossom of blood oozed under her head. Her wild hair partially covered her cheek, and strands lodged in her slightly opened mouth and glaring eyes. If she were alive she’d move that hair off of her tongue and teeth. He had a feeling she wouldn’t be moving it.

A scream behind him. Livith had risen and stared at the specter of her dead sister. She raised her hands to her head and shrieked again. Then she focused her eyes on Crispin. The pain in her eyes turned to fury and she opened her mouth to emit an animal scream. She picked up the heaviest object within reach—the stool—and raised it over her head, ready to cudgel him.

He wasn’t entirely certain what happened next, but the stool seemed to be frozen in midflight, and many hands closed over Livith and dragged her backward. The stool hit the floor and cracked.

Crispin swayed for a moment. Not much left for him to do. Might as well fall to the floor and lose consciousness—which he did.