Serpent in the Thorns

4

“FRENCH COURIER, LORD SHERIFF?” Crispin raised his chilled hands to the fire and tried to inhale the toasty aromas from the spitting logs, but all he got was smoke. “I do not know your meaning?”

Jack Tucker made himself scarce in the shadows.

“Don’t play thick with me.” The sheriff rose. He seemed to enjoy his imposing stature—both in height and rank over Crispin. His dark mustache and beard blended into his dark houppelande with its black fur trim and its long sleeves draping down to the floor.

The sheriff glanced once at the cringing Jack Tucker, dismissed him, and moved to the fire, standing beside Crispin as if comparing his rich garb to Crispin’s shabby attire.

“A French courier was found dead this morning at the King’s Head Inn on Thames Street. A man was seen stealing away from the vicinity with the two women who lived in the room where the corpse was found. A man of medium height, medium build, clean-shaven, black hair, and wearing a disreputable red cotehardie. Sound familiar?”

“It could be anyone.”

The sheriff eyed Crispin’s red coat and black hair. “Yes. Anyone.”

Crispin stared into the bright flames. “Do you accuse this man, my lord?”

“Of murder? I don’t know. But the women certainly have something to do with it. And I would know what that is.”

“It seems you must find these women.”

The sheriff chuckled. “I shall.”

“If I may ask, what was so extraordinary about this courier?”

Wynchecombe sauntered to the sideboard and poured wine into a silver bowl. After a second thought, he poured a splash into another bowl and handed it to Crispin. He gestured toward a chair, inviting Crispin to sit.

Crispin had, by necessity, grown accustomed to wine with a more strident taste, especially the Boar’s Tusk’s vibrant fare. He drank the sheriff’s wine greedily, savoring its refined flavor of dark currants and cherries. He settled into the chair.

The sheriff eyed Crispin like a hawk sizing up a mouse. “Why should I accommodate so readily?” said the sheriff. “Just what might I gain from being so forthcoming?”

Crispin drank, licked his lips, and rested the bowl on his thigh. The satisfaction of hearing your own voice. He chuckled, picturing the sheriff’s expression if he uttered it aloud. “I have, on occasion, helped you with a puzzle or two, Lord Sheriff. Certainly it can’t hurt to divulge a few fragments of information. ‘All men by nature desire knowledge.’ ”

The sheriff made a sound like a growl and settled his arms on the table. He gazed steadily at Crispin. “This Frenchman was transporting a relic from the French court. A loan from the King of France.” The sheriff set his wine bowl aside. “You’ll never guess what that relic is.”

“Don’t keep me waiting.”

“Bless me, Jesu, but it was the Crown of Thorns itself.”

“A crown of thorns?”

“Not a crown of thorns,” said a gleeful Wynchecombe shaking his head. “The Crown of Thorns.”

“Holy Christ!” Crispin blurted it before he could stop himself. He raised his hand and lightly touched his forehead, but he felt no blood, no scarring.

“Just so,” said Wynchecombe. “It was a sort of peace offering from King Charles of France to our King Richard. His Majesty was supposed to take whichever thorn from the Crown he wanted. But now the whole damn thing’s missing.”

“Oh?” Crispin sat back, consoling himself in his bowl of wine.

“Yes. Whoever killed the courier took the relic. Word has reached court and it is said that Richard thinks the affair a deliberate slight. But the French ambassador thinks Richard stole it.”

“It’s been a busy morning.”

“Yes. And it’s going to be a long one as well. I have here a decree from the crown to commence daily archery practice for the kingdom. Immediately.”

“But this is already law. ‘Every man between the ages of sixteen to sixty is required to practice archery on Sundays and feast days.’ ” He looked at Jack as if to confirm such a well-known fact. “That was decreed by the king’s grandfather King Edward of Windsor. But it isn’t Sunday or a feast day.”

“This decree”—Wynchecombe glanced at the document—“says that all men must practice daily.”

Crispin sat up. “Does the king expect an invasion?”

“It’s a possibility. Unless that Crown is returned forthwith.”

Crispin sat back and tipped his bowl, breathing in the vapors. He stretched out his legs and crossed one ankle over the other. “Do you wish to hire me to find it?”

Wynchecombe laughed. “You are the damnedest man I have ever met, Guest. Is there no opportunity you won’t exploit?”

“I merely assumed—”

Wynchecombe stopped laughing. “I didn’t summon you. Why did you come?”

Crispin offered a lopsided grin. “I came here to report a dead man. At the King’s Head.”

Wynchecombe shot to his feet. “I knew it!” He jabbed a long finger at Crispin. “I knew you were involved. Tell me you weren’t the man stealing away with those women.”

Crispin stared at the bottom of the empty wine bowl with a frown and set the cup aside. “Do I need to say it?”

“You are in quite a kettle!” crowed the sheriff. He laughed and slapped his hands together and rubbed them. “Now then. Tell me all you know.”

Crispin’s gaze rose languidly. “There’s not much to tell. The women found the dead man in their room and came to me.”

“Why?”

“Because I find things, remember? Murderers, lost items. I am paid for many feats of intellect, my Lord Sheriff. I know you wouldn’t understand such.”

Crispin expected it, braced for it, and wasn’t disappointed when the sheriff grabbed his shoulder cape and hauled him to his feet. Nose to nose, the sheriff glared into Crispin’s face, blowing hot breath on him. “I’ve had about enough of you and your mockery, Guest. You are my servant. I am not yours. Remember that.” He shook him with each statement then threw him back down into his chair.

Crispin resettled to a sitting position and straightened his clothes.

The sheriff yanked his dagger free and slapped it on the table. “I ask a question. For each wrong answer—you lose something.”

Crispin eyed the blade, the brass crosspiece, and the jeweled pommel. “ ‘Something’?”

“An ear, a finger.” His lips peeled back. “Something.”

Crispin looked back at Jack. “You’re not making this conversation very appealing.”

“It’s not meant to be.”

“And here I came to you in good faith telling you of a body—”

“That I already knew about. Come, come, Guest. I await your answer.”

“What was the question?”

Wynchecombe snatched the knife and held the side of the blade to Crispin’s throat. “Dammit, Guest! Do you mock me?”

The metal felt cool against his neck. “They say ‘wit is educated insolence.’ ”

The sheriff held the blade to Crispin’s skin a moment more before withdrawing it. “Your Aristotle again?”

“Yes, my lord.” Crispin eased back, but not altogether relaxed. He rubbed his neck. “I commend him to you. He has an aphorism for all occasions.”

“Why read him”—Wynchecombe did not sheath the blade, but toyed with the sharp tip instead—“when you are too fond of quoting him to me?”

Crispin closed his eyes and nodded. “Just so.”

“But you delay the inevitable.” Wynchecombe tapped the flat of the blade into his palm. “Tell me about the women and what you found in that room. And be careful of your answer.”

Casually, Crispin wiped sweat from his upper lip. He spared Jack a glance. The boy cringed in the corner. It looked like a good idea. “The women feared they would be blamed for the man’s death, so they hired me to discover the murderer.”

The blade tapped dully on Wynchecombe’s naked palm. Crispin watched it. “So? Where are the women now?” Crispin opened his mouth and took a breath, but Wynchecombe interrupted. He waggled the blade at Crispin’s face. “Be careful how you answer.”

“As careful as I can be, my lord. They are . . . secured. Somewhere safe.”

Wynchecombe leaned forward, the knife pointed at Crispin’s nose. “Where?”

Crispin stared at the knife’s tip and blew out a sigh, wondering how he’d look without a nose. He swallowed. “That I cannot tell you, my lord. They hired me also for protection.”

Wynchecombe rose and sauntered behind Crispin’s chair. Crispin felt his presence like a spider crawling up his leg, ready to bite. He dared not move.

“That is not an answer.”

“I know, my lord. But what would you have me do? Betray a confidence?”

Wynchecombe’s low chuckle raised the hairs on Crispin’s neck. “Never that, Master Guest.”

The sound of steel sliding back into its leather sheath hissed at his ear. Crispin blew out a sigh.

“Let us go to the place of the crime,” said Wynchecombe, “and we can discuss it there.”