Serpent in the Thorns

strode onward.

Jack followed at some distance, silent and sullen. After a time he trotted up beside Crispin, head hanging, feet dragging. “It ain’t like I ain’t tryin’,” he said quietly.

“Try harder.”

“Aye. I will.” He said the words like a schoolboy after a brief round with a switch. Crispin almost felt sorry for him. Jack quickly changed the subject.

“Crown o’ Thorns,” muttered Jack. “If you know where this Crown o’ Thorns is why don’t you give it to the sheriff? Would you be the cause of war? That’s what the sheriff said.”

“It won’t come to that despite this show,” he said, nodding toward the march of men. “I have played the game of politics before, remember?”

“But that was when they called you ‘sir.’ ”

Crispin grumbled. “One never forgets the game, and it hasn’t changed. Even after seven years.”

“As you say. But I would not see the cursed French set foot in London.”

“Never fear that.”

Jack was momentarily distracted by the flitting of a chaffinch from hedge to hedge. The houses lining the road soon gave way to open country. Mounds of green rolled into the distance like a verdant sea. “Then why not give the Crown to the sheriff?” said Jack, pulling his cloak about him when the wind swirled up from the low-lying grasslands. “Let him dispatch it.”

“Because, Jack, this might be my path back into the king’s good graces.”

“I thought you didn’t give a damn about the king,” he said quietly, mindful of others along the rutted path.

Crispin set his jaw. He would be just as happy to see a sword chop King Richard to pieces, or even to watch him die from a lingering disease. “God’s blood! I weary of living like this,” he growled, not truly meaning to say it aloud, but it was good to give it breath, to snarl it. “If I return the Crown to court, then I will be the hero, not Wynchecombe. I weary of scraping to him. I weary of living in one room on a stinking street. And I weary of—”

“Me?”

He glanced at Jack’s anxious face, smooth with youth. Crispin took a breath and smiled an easy grin. “No, not of you. But I do weary of your stealing.”

Jack’s mouth set in a grim line. “I heard you the first time, Master.”

They arrived at the butts where the target mounds stood at the other end of the field, some sixty yards away. Some still sported wreath rings as smaller targets on their grassy faces. A low ditch ran before them where broken arrows still resided, like the quills of a hedgehog.

The green plains opened up and spread like a river to the distant darkness of the trees. The target mounds across the field stood mutely, their green turf waiting to be jabbed with arrows. Men and boys took their usual places, though there appeared to be more men than Crispin had seen practice in a long time. Little wonder with the king’s soldiers breathing down their necks. The presence of so many people shied a few sheep grazing in the meadow and they scurried off onto a narrow path leading away from the butts.

Jack stood close to Crispin as men gathered at the field’s edge, queuing up in a roughly straight line, facing the targets, and either hitching their quivers over their shoulders, or sticking their arrows into the turf at their feet. No one began as yet, making certain that no stragglers strayed onto the field between archer and target. Many began stringing their bows.

With so many men crammed together, Jack dropped to a whisper. “With this relic, do you think the king will forgive and forget, and bring you back to court?”

Crispin sighed. Wind lifted his hair and whipped the ends against his cheeks. “I don’t know. But I’ve got to try.”

A layer of autumn mist hovered just over the grass and disappeared into the woods smelling of wet field and sheep dung. Back over his shoulder stood London, reaching into the gray sky with spires and pitched roofs of slate, lead, and red tile. A dull layer of smoke drifted over its uneven landscape, climbing over the rooftops like a thief in the night. His city. His home.

With all these men parading into the field, it reminded Crispin of a fair day, only there was little amusing about it. A man, possibly a baker, taught his son how to hold a long bow. An old man showed a younger how to nock an arrow into a compact hunting bow, the younger man’s expression showing his frustration.

Crispin didn’t care that he didn’t own a bow. It was far down on his list of necessities. And since he could borrow one from his landlord Martin Kemp, the idea of owning the weapon disappeared completely.

Even as he thought it he spied Martin standing at their usual place trying to string the bow. Crispin moved toward him, unconcerned with the activity around him. The back of his mind toyed with the murder of the French courier and why Grayce thought she killed him. What great sin had stolen her mind, forcing her to conclude that she was a murderess?

He waved to Martin Kemp who was thrusting arrows into the soft earth and leaning his unstrung bow awkwardly against his leg. But Martin looked up and frowned upon seeing Crispin, and it was only then that Crispin realized why the tinker’s face was so sour. Jesu mercy. I forgot about Matilda. He stopped short. “Master Martin,” he said in solemn greeting.

“Crispin.” Martin Kemp said the one word with a clipped and formal tone, and clamped his lips tight. Martin’s expression jumped from anger to disappointment and even slipped into fear. He postured with one foot forward and clenched the weapon. “I must ask you a question I do not wish to ask.”

Crispin bent his head. Now that he faced Kemp he felt a wash of shame. “You do not need to speak, Martin. If you refer to my rudeness to your daughter, then I fear it is the truth.”

Martin shook his head, his shoulders following suit. “Saint Loy, Crispin! You know how she is; how my wife is! You shouldn’t have said—”

“I know. And I do apologize. I was out of sorts and—I beg your pardon. Humbly.”

“That won’t satisfy the wife. Crispin, I don’t like reminding you that we took you in when no one would. I do not charge the rent I should for your lodgings. Not as much as my wife would have me do. And then this—” He flailed his bow toward the silent Jack. “You know she does not approve of him! Nor do I, should he continue to cause trouble.”

“I’m trying to improve m’self, Master Kemp,” Jack said. He dragged his torn cloak dramatically over his chest.

Crispin pushed back his pride another notch. “If I must, I shall apologize to Matilda and Alice. Will that suffice?”

Martin rocked his head, thinking. Finally, reluctantly, he nodded. He looked behind with the expectation that his wife would swoop down like a harpy from above. “Have better care in the future, Crispin. I know Matilda is no prize, but she’s all I have, God help me.”

Crispin put on his best contrite expression. Mollified, Martin nodded and settled back into their uneasy alliance.

Martin raised his bow, tucked one end of it in the grass at the arch of his foot, and struggled to string it. He still wore his leather apron and tight-fitting leather cap, whose strings swung in tandem with each bend of the stubborn bow. He looked pitifully out of his element.

Martin managed to string the weapon and watched the others aim toward the targets. Over his shoulder he whispered, “What’s all this about anyway, Crispin? Is there to be war?”

“There may be. It’s complicated.”

“Politics always is. But of course, you would know best.”

Crispin made a sound in his throat, one that almost echoed Jack’s.

A shout across the field of “Loose arrows!” announced to one and all to commence shooting.

“Well,” said Martin, raising his bow. “Here’s to it.”

He pulled back the string and loosed the arrow. Sloppily, the arrow shot away with a discordant strum and sailed over the target.

“Try again,” said Crispin. How a man could practice such a thing for so many years and still prove incompetent, he’d never know. “Pull it farther. Farther! All the way to your ear.” Crispin shook his head with a grunt and positioned himself behind Martin. He placed his fingers over Martin’s and pulled back the bowstring. Crispin felt