Serpent in the Thorns

29

CRISPIN SAT ON THE spine of a roof next to his back window and hugged his knees. The last of the day’s golden light had sunk westward an hour ago, swallowed by churning blue-gray rainclouds. His cloak kept him warm enough, but he wondered today if his boots would keep him from slipping down the slick tiles. He further wondered if he cared.

He had either done the most foolish thing in his life or the bravest. Even now he still wasn’t certain which it was. At least this time Richard appeared to the world like a spoiled child and all the court witnessed it. Still, to have been a hairsbreadth from his knighthood. So close to a sword in his hand once more . . .

“Master Crispin! What by God’s wounds are you doing out there? I’ve been searching all over for you!”

Jack leaned out the window. His pale face seemed paler in the dark, and little wonder. The last he saw of Crispin, he was being escorted by two guards to court, and for all the both of them knew, to the gallows.

“Come on out, Jack.”

Jack climbed out onto the sill and with arms outstretched for balance, made his way across the peak and sat next to Crispin.

“What are you doing, Master, if a body may ask?”

“Looking at the city. I think I prefer it at night. It’s not as dark as one thinks.”

His gaze followed along the spiky silhouette of the cityscape, rising and falling against a pocked field of stars so sharp they pierced the veil of night in pinpricks of light.

Jack hugged his knees and rested his chin on them. “I spend many a night like this, Master. You can see candles lit all over the city. It’s never completely asleep, is it? The city, I mean. I used to look at windows glowing with light, wishing—Ah well.”

“Wishing what?”

“Well, that I was inside.”

“Men like us, Jack. We’re never inside.”

Jack fell silent. It was companionable. Until he felt the boy twitching beside him. He cocked his head and Jack’s mouth was taut with thinking.

“Well?” asked Crispin.

“How did Grayce hide her bow anyway? You searched that room at the King’s Head.”

“Not as thoroughly as I should have done. I must confess that I did not expect to find a bow and so I little searched for one. But I suspect it was under the table all along. That was where Livith retrieved her bow in our last encounter.”

Jack nodded and said nothing more. After a while, Crispin felt the boy staring at him. When he turned, Jack’s eyes glittered at him in the darkness. “I heard a fool rumor about you,” said Jack. “It can’t possibly be true, now can it?”

Crispin rubbed his sore shoulder. “Oh? What rumor was that?”

Jack straddled the roof to face Crispin. “Well, the way I heard it, the king offered you your knighthood again, and you threw it back in his face. But that would be a lie, now wouldn’t it?”

“And do you honestly think that the king, a man with little interest in honor or just causes, would champion me and offer me knighthood?”

Crispin flinched and almost slipped off the roof with Jack’s surprisingly vigorous clout. The lad seemed to have forgotten his subservience. Crispin rubbed the offended shoulder.

“You dunderpate! He did! He sarding did! You idiot! And you have to go and turn your nose up at it, because Christ knows you’ve got all the money in the world! What in hell did you do a sarding, stupid thing like that for?”

Crispin offered a lop sided grin. “You truly had to have seen it for yourself.”

Jack burrowed into his knees and mantle, grumbling. “You always tell me I must better m’self, but when you’ve got the chance, that’s another tale.”

“I do want you to better yourself.” Crispin listened to Jack muttering for a time and then chuckled. Jack had none of the advantages Crispin had had, but the boy was very much like Crispin nevertheless. He recognized something of himself in Jack when he was that age. It seemed so long ago now. Eighteen years. A lot can happen to a man in eighteen years. A lot of good . . . or a lot of bad.

Crispin stood and nudged Jack back toward the window. He helped Crispin’s bad side. Once back in the small room, Crispin held his free hand up to the hearth and looked about at the single candle, one chair, and one stool. He considered for a moment, then walked to the coffer, opened it, and took out his writing things. He placed the wax slate and stylus on the table and gestured to the stool. “Jack, how would you like to learn to read and write?”

Jack stood by the hearth and swiveled his head toward Crispin. “Me? You going to teach me?”

“Yes. Why not?”

“I’m just a—I can’t learn no reading or writing.”

“Don’t be a fool. Of course you can. Now sit down.” Jack stood as he was, nailed to the spot. His face was somber and white. Crispin patted the stool as if encouraging some stray dog to approach. After a long moment, Jack seemed to surrender something and shuffled along the floor until he reached the table. Slowly, he lowered to the stool. “We’ll start with Latin. Then French. English, of course. And if you are a quick study, even Greek. Then you can read Aristotle for yourself instead of my quoting him to you.”

Jack’s jaw hadn’t closed since Crispin’s pronouncement. “You can’t mean it. I’m . . . I’m only a cutpurse.”

“You want to be a cutpurse all your life? You’re my servant. And my protégé, if you wish. Don’t you want to be a Tracker, too? To that end, I think it time I pay you a wage—say one farthing for each job I get. How does that sound?”

Jack didn’t move. His face grew solemn. More than that. His mouth curved downward in a sorrowful grimace and suddenly a single tear traveled from his reddening eye down his pale cheek. He raised his hand and slowly opened the laces of his tunic, reached in, and pulled out a pouch fashioned in smooth, oxblood leather. Obviously not Jack’s pouch. He lifted it toward Crispin, hand trembling. “I don’t know who to return it to,” he whispered.

Crispin solemnly took it. “As this is your last—isn’t it?”

“Oh aye, sir.” He crossed himself. “You can be sure of that!”

“Then tomorrow we’ll give it to Abbot Nicholas and you can make your confession to him. Start clean.”

“Aye, Master.”

“Wipe your face and come closer to the candle. Now this is how you write your name in English.” Crispin sounded out each letter as he penned them. “J-A-C-K. And in Latin . . . I-A-C-O-B-U-S and in French . . . J-A-C-Q-U-E-S . . .”

Crispin handed Jack the stylus and allowed himself a smile. Here was something no king could confer or ever take away.