Serpent in the Thorns

28

THEY HAD CRISPIN SITTING up in no time. He was grateful to be back in his own lodgings, though he had no memory of the actual journey. Visitors had come and gone, and he had little recollection of them, though he remembered vaguely Gilbert’s hand patting his, and Eleanor weeping into her apron.

A man had come, too, a man he didn’t know. An older man in a long, black robe, who removed Crispin’s shirt and stuck a needle into the hole in his shoulder. Crispin seemed to remember black thread, a ragged sort of pain, and then the sense that he was drunk, or something like drunkenness without the taste of wine. The man, of course, had been a physician, and he sewed up Crispin’s shoulder like a tailor. A tailor would have been cheaper, but since someone else had paid for the physician’s visit, Crispin didn’t worry. The only thing that made him worry later was discovering that Lancaster had sent the man.

A clean ban dage covered the packing on his shoulder, and a sling wound about that. A blanket covered what was left of Crispin’s modesty, and his coat—the old one recovered from a much relieved Lenny—sat draped over his shoulders. Jack sat on the end of the bed and tried to fill in the gaps in Crispin’s knowledge of events.

“Miles Aleyn told all, as you suspected he would,” said Jack excitedly. “It was him what killed Edward Peale. Didn’t want the arrows to be known as Lancaster’s. But ain’t that why he stole them in the first place, Master?”

“Yes, Jack. But I can see why he would not want the implication now. It would only turn unwanted attention to him. Did he know about the assassination plot?”

“Aye,” said Jack. “Though he didn’t know it was Livith and Grayce. It was his job to detain the couriers so that the assassins could meet with them and that was how they were going to get into court. He never noticed them scullions either, neither in France nor here.” He shook his head before he looked up, beaming. “Oh! And the best of all, he confessed that you had nought to do with it. And that was the last thing they got out of him.”

Crispin sipped red wine from a wooden bowl. He knew this flavor. The Langtons had sent it from the Boar’s Tusk. “Why so?”

Jack smoothed out the blanket in front of him. He didn’t look sorrowful when he said, “The torture killed him, is why. He’s deader than a post, and mourned as much.”

Crispin lay back and rested the wine bowl on his chest. He couldn’t muster a smile, but closed his eyes in satisfaction. Yes. This felt good. Miles had finally gotten his due. Crispin only wished he had been allowed to witness it.

He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. He looked at Jack and found a smile after all. “What of Gilbert and Eleanor? Are they well? Is the sheriff still after them?”

“No. The Lord Sheriff left off after Miles’s confession and that of Livith, that whoring bitch. She survived her torture but it won’t do her no good. They’re set to execute her tomorrow. It should be good and bloody. Want to go?”

Crispin lifted the wine bowl, looked at the blood red wine, and lowered it without drinking. “No. But you may go, if you wish. What of Grayce?”

“Dead. It is rumored that the king of France hired them two. But now I suppose we’ll never know.”

“No,” muttered Crispin. “We’ll never know.”

“That was a close one this time, Master Crispin. I’m beginning to think that a more quiet life would suit me better.”

“Oh? Are you looking for another situation?”

“Ah, I didn’t mean that, Master. It’s just that . . . you ain’t as young as you used to be.”

Crispin narrowed his eyes. “Thank you very much.”

“I worry over you. Like a mother hen.”

“Eleanor does enough of that.”

“I can’t help m’self. I like looking after you. It makes a man feel . . . important.”

“Well, Jack,” said Crispin, settling lower on his pillow. “I know I am in good hands.”

They both turned toward the door at the sound of many feet climbing the stairs. “More visitors?” sighed Crispin. “Please, Jack. Tell them I’m asleep. Tell them I will not see anyone today.”

“Right, Master.” Jack jumped up and skipped to the entry. Before the visitors had a chance to knock, he cast open the door. Nothing happened. He stood in the doorway and said nothing, not moving.

Crispin eased up and tried to look over Jack’s shoulder. “Who is it, for God’s sake?”

Jack turned with a horrified expression. He stepped aside and two men entered, pushing him out of the way. Shiny helms. Arms encased in mail and armor plate. Swords jutting up from scabbards. But worst of all, their surcotes were quartered with red fields of yellow leopards, and blue fields with yellow fleur-de-lis: the ensign of the King of England.

“Crispin Guest,” said one. “You are to come with us.” A camail of linked steel rings ran up either side of his head from his helm and formed a metal mesh like a wimple over his chin. The edges of his mustache flattened under the steel.

Crispin remembered to breathe. “On what charge?”

The other shook his head. “You are to come with us,” he said.

“Where?”

“To court.”

A long pause. Crispin’s gaze rose toward Jack. The boy froze by the door. So, this is it. Crispin cast the blanket aside and eased his naked legs over the edge of the bed. “Jack, help me with my shirt and cotehardie.”

Once Jack helped him dress and shave, Crispin stood and allowed the boy to drape his cloak over his shoulders. He turned to the men who had been watching dispassionately. “Gentlemen, I am now ready.”

The one who originally spoke grunted, and they both waited for Crispin to open the door before they followed him. Jack threw on his mantle and started after, but one of the guards turned. “You stay.”

Jack looked up with frightened eyes at both steely faces. “But I’m Master Crispin’s servant. He needs me!”

“He has no need for you. Get back, boy.” The man drew back his arm as if to strike. Crispin caught it and held it with his one good hand.

“There’s no need for that.” He turned back to the boy whose face shone white with panic. “It’s all well, Jack. I want you out of this, anyway. You’ll be safer here.”

“But I thought this was done with! What do they want with you now, Master Crispin?”

“I don’t know. But you must stay here. If I do not return . . . then go to the Boar’s Tusk. They’ll care for you there.”

Jack grimaced. He wiped his hand across his face spewing sloppy tears.

“Now Jack. I expect better.” He wanted to tell the lad not to worry, to have heart. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to utter the lies. Somehow it had all gone too well, too pat. He had been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Well, now it had. “Farewell, Jack. Be good. And . . . thank you for all you’ve done.”

“Master Crispin!” Jack’s cry was the last he heard before the guards slammed the door in the boy’s face. Crispin sneered at them for their loutishness, and then threw one end of his cloak over his shoulder and proceeded down the stairs.

He had plenty of time to think as they made the long walk to Westminster, they on horse back, he on foot. He spent the time looking at London, at her wharves, her inns, her wretched streets and hovels. When he was a rich lord, Crispin had always taken London for granted. The city was there to supply his needs, both physical and spiritual. Many of his household servants had come from London. He himself was born in London, though he spent his early childhood on his family estates in Sheen. But he knew, as indeed every Englishman knew, that there was nothing to compare throughout the rest of the country with London’s markets and shops. No country village possessed the same visceral stench of London, her streets teeming with workers, beggars, thieves, whores, and brigands; but also with nobility and kings, queens and ladies. London was England in miniature, as certainly as Onslow Blunt’s spun sugar creation had been.

They reached Charing Cross. The spires of Westminster Abbey and the palace were finally visible. Crispin’s heart began a drumbeat. Not that he wasn’t ready for the inevitable. He had been ready for a long time. He supposed it had been overdue. But he had set his sights elsewhere, on other things. There was Jack Tucker, for one. The boy had blown into Crispin’s life like a whirlwind. He had been just another thief on the streets, with a life sure to end on the gallows. But after only a few short months, he had become smooth like a river stone, doing his best to fit into a world Crispin barely felt comfortable in. He had much he wanted to teach Jack. Now there would be no time.

Gilbert and Eleanor had been good to him, too. There had been no advantage in it. He was no lordling to grant favors. He was even incapable of paying them on time, and he still owed a great deal to them for food—but mostly drink. It seemed they made a friend of him simply because they had wanted to, and this, to Crispin, was a novelty. Was this the advantage in a lack of pedigree? Had he learned this secret only at the end of his life?

He fully expected to enter the palace by the stables or the prisoner’s gate, and was slightly surprised to be entering by the grand entrance of the great hall.

Crispin’s heart pounded in his ears, so much so, that he could hear very little else.

The hall brimmed with light and people. The rustle of gowns, the buzz of low voices. His recently laundered coat clung to him with sweat.

The crowd parted for him and the hum of conversation died away in whispering echoes. His gaze darted uncertainly from face to face, very few he recognized.

The guards directed him to the dais with Richard’s throne, and Crispin inhaled sharply. Richard was there, leaning on his throne, flanked on one side by Michael de la Pole and Robert de Vere, and on the other by John of Gaunt.

Crispin finally stopped before the dais and bowed low to Richard. The king raised his languid lids and studied Crispin. He wore an ermine-trimmed gown covered in gold netting. His hair was neatly trimmed and curled just above his shoulders. His sparse goatee and mustache looked enhanced by a brush of darker powder. He inclined his head—not so much to acknowledge Crispin’s obeisance, but to hear the proceedings. The gold crown—a substantial ornament with gems and points—gleamed.

Crispin waited. What was supposed to take place now? Was he to throw himself on the floor and beg for mercy? Richard can wait till Doomsday.

The king glared at him. He leaned his chin on a bejeweled hand. “You saved our life,” he said.

Crispin almost fell to the floor anyway. With a steady voice and another bow, he said, “Your Majesty.”

Richard edged forward. His small eyes studied Crispin. “When was the last time we spoke, Guest? Eh? I was quite young then. Just a boy.”

Steady, Crispin. “Seven years, your grace.”

Richard sat back. “That’s right,” he purred. A smile curled the edges of his lips, as careful a couture as his hair. “Seven years. We were newly crowned. Fresh from Westminster Abbey. They brought you before me, remember? In chains. We wanted to look at you; to see the man who would have deposed us for our uncle.” He turned his face toward Gaunt who didn’t so much as quiver a lash. Richard snorted at his uncle, and turned back to Crispin. “We knew who you were, of course,” Richard went on. “You were always polite but . . . unfriendly. We never liked you before, and we certainly did not like you that day. No, indeed.” He leaned forward, hands on his knees. “Ever wonder why we never executed you?”

The hall seemed to hold its collective breath. Crispin made certain he kept his gaze riveted to the king. In his head drummed the litany: Don’t look at Gaunt, don’t look at Gaunt . . .

“Many a time, sire,” he said aloud.

Richard smiled. It was practiced this time. He clearly enjoyed hearing Crispin’s words. “ ‘Many a time,’ ” he echoed. “It was something you said once. I was quite young, but I remembered it. You said, ‘It would be worse for a nobleman to lose all than to lose his life, for all was his life.’ Do you recall saying such a thing?”

“Not in so many words.”

“But certainly your philosophy, eh?”

“It . . . sounds like me, your grace.”

The king smiled again. He toyed with a gold chain around his neck. Crispin noted the width and design of the chain and considered that the proceeds from the sale of one link of this decoration could feed Crispin for an entire year. “Today, Guest, you stand before us a different man. Though, by God’s wounds, I think you were wearing the same clothes!” The courtiers laughed politely at that, and just as quickly quieted.

“No matter. Today, we are here to recognize the fact that you saved the life of your monarch. Certainly this calls for a reward. What sort of a reward would suit you, Guest? You saved the life of a king. You have saved England. What would be suitable?” He put his finger to his lips in mock speculation.

Crispin dared a glance at Lancaster. Gaunt’s face was tight, his lips pressed so firmly they paled.

“I know!” Richard stood. He took a step forward and looked down on Crispin. “Shall we restore your knighthood? Is that your desire?”

The room fell to silence.

Crispin’s eyes widened. He swallowed and licked his lips. What goes on here? His gaze cut to the other courtiers, but they were just as perplexed as he was. With a suddenly hoarse voice, he softly replied, “As it pleases your Majesty.”

“Not as it pleases us, surely,” Richard said a little too loudly. “As it pleases you, Guest. Shall we do it now?” He turned toward his uncle and whipped out Lancaster’s sword from his scabbard but Lancaster was so surprised he tried to reach for the blade before he seemed to realize what was happening and staggered back, surrendering it.

The king’s sword hung from the royal hip. Clearly, it wasn’t good enough for his purposes.

Richard brandished Lancaster’s sword. “Shall we dub you now?”

Crispin stared at the blade. The light from the candles ran like golden beads along its shiny length. So much time had passed. Not just in moments, but in years. Richard was no longer the young boy he had been. He was a young man, able to properly wield a sword, ready to go to war. It wouldn’t be long before he didn’t need a steward and declared his majority. It wouldn’t be long at all.

Richard lowered the sword to his thigh. “But before we do so . . . there is one thing.” He slowly raised the blade until its point aimed directly at Crispin’s chest. “We want to hear you ask for it. Go on, Guest. Ask for your knighthood. And we will grant it.”

Lancaster closed his eyes. The king’s favorites standing on the other side of his throne looked distinctly uncomfortable, staring at their feet or hands.

Crispin said nothing. He would not drop his gaze from the king.

“Did you hear me, Guest? Your knighthood. And not only that! For what good is a title with no lands and wealth to back it up? Lands and title, that, too, will we restore. All of them. And you will be yourself again, eh? And all you need do is get down on your knees . . . and ask. Well, Guest?”

Crispin felt them all waiting for his reply. He felt their eyes on him, their anxiety as thick as smoke.

All you have to do is drop to your knees, Crispin. Just swallow your damned pride and do it! Have everything you want again. What the hell’s the matter with you?

He looked at the floor. Was it only a week ago that Miles laid at his feet begging for mercy? Miles, the man who did not know the first thing about honor?

Crispin wanted to kick himself. Jesu. Honor. Gilbert was right. Honor had become the bane of Crispin’s existence. It seemed he couldn’t take a piss without considering the nobility of the effort. Was honor a lost art? Was Crispin a relic of his own past? If that were so, then perhaps being a courtier wasn’t all it used to be.

But to feel the weight of a sword at his hip again; to tell the sheriff to go to Hell; to eat decent food and drink fine wine. What was it worth? A few moments on his knees? A few words that meant little? What was the price of a man’s soul?

He flicked his gaze toward Lancaster. Had the duke sold his soul to discover his friends from his foes? He had surrendered the lives of honorable men, including Crispin’s. Lancaster had viewed it as a tactical move. And maybe that’s all it was. If Crispin had retained his knighthood and status, might he have resorted to the same “tactical” move one day to discover his enemies?

He knew he had to say something. Should he make a speech, or just sink to his knees? In the end, only one thing occurred to him. His voice felt coarse and low. “ ‘Fire is the test of gold; adversity of strong men.’ ”

Richard frowned. “What did you say? Do you think you’ve been tested? You, who committed high treason?” The pleasant façade gave way to Richard’s ire. He clenched his teeth. “We give you back your life. All you have to do is beg. Beg!”

And in that one word, the decision was made. Crispin clamped his lips shut, and lifted his chin.

The silence that followed cut through the crowd with painful intensity.

Richard reddened. He threw down the sword. The weapon clanged at his feet and skidded down two steps. “You whoreson! And that is precisely why you shall never regain your knighthood. You stubborn, arrogant bastard! We will never, ever trust you. Never.” He panted and backed up to the throne. When the back of his knees hit the seat he fell into it. The feel of it under him seemed to have a calming effect and he wiped his disarrayed hair out of his face. He straightened his shoulders. “Yes, your own man, I see.” He gave a hollow laugh and turned to de Vere. “A martyr to the last. Saint Crispin. No shoemaker you. You make armor of old tunics, and swords of your words. A shabby knight without holdings. Is that what you are? Sir Crispin of the Gutter? Then we so dub you.” He spat. It hit Crispin’s cheek. Crispin slowly raised his hand and wiped the royal spittle away. “Still,” said Richard, voice calm but face red, “you do deserve some reward for your altruistic actions.” De Vere handed him a pouch. The king took it and tossed it forward. It arced over the steps and landed with the loud clink of coins at Crispin’s feet. He had no doubt that there was a fine sum within. “Payment in full,” said Richard.

Crispin looked down at the bulging pouch. Gold. He was certain of it. Enough to buy a string of tinker shops and maybe an inn or two. Enough to set himself up well for the rest of his days. Enough in the Shambles sense, at any rate.

He raised his head and looked at the king. Richard wore a self-satisfied sneer, and he turned his face toward his favorites, who smiled in complicity at their monarch. What else could they do?

Indeed. Crispin looked at the money pouch again. He saw his future receding, saw a life of relative ease decaying to dust. Sir Crispin of the Gutter, eh? For seven years it was so. Well, and why not?

“I saved the life of the king not for gold, your Majesty,” he said in a clear tenor. “But in recompense for my faults. And because . . . England needs a king.”

Richard fixed his eyes on Crispin. The royal lips were pressed tightly together.

Crispin gave one last wistful look at the pouch, bowed low to Richard, and turned on his heel.

He heard Richard jump to his feet behind him and the commotion of men and women whispering.

“Guest! You dishonorable bastard! You dare turn your back on your king? Guest!” Crispin was tempted to look back like Lot’s wife, but he had no desire to turn to a pillar of salt. “Don’t ever show your face at court again, Guest! Do you hear me? NEVER RETURN TO COURT!”

Crispin walked unimpeded all the way through the great hall’s arch before he dared draw a breath.