Serpent in the Thorns

“Why there?” asked Jack, pulling at his collar.

“I’ve an old friend at the abbey. He’ll be able to tell us about the Crown, if anyone can.”

They did not enter by the front entrance, but through a side door that led to the cloister. The barred gate might have discouraged a lesser man, but Crispin expected it and pulled down on the bell chain several times, certain the call of the bell would summon someone. Soon it did. A becassocked monk with a black band of hair across his forehead and a shiny tonsure on his skull turned the corner. He walked with eyes lowered and murmured “Peace be with you” and then raised his head. His face, pallid and frozen in an innocuous expression of passivity, came to life. “Crispin Guest! How good it is to see you!”

“Brother Eric. It is good to see you as well. Is the abbot available? I would take a moment to speak with him.”

“Yes, Crispin. For you, there is always time.”

Crispin felt Jack’s gaze on him as he passed through the opened gate. The lad followed haltingly, eyeing the monk who stared back at him with a full amount of scrutiny.

They strode along the cloister walk, steps echoing into the stone vaulting. The air was cold, particularly in the shadows, and seemed to linger within the windowed arches. Braziers dotted the walkway every few feet, crackling with burning logs, sending smoke up into the sooty ceiling vaults.

The three finally came to a large oak door with ornate hinges. Brother Eric knocked but did not wait for a reply before he opened the door.

One young monk sat at a high desk by the window. He looked up with a quill poised in his hand. The other was older, gray with wisps of hair blowing off his now natural tonsure. He stood before a large Bible lying open on its stand and contemplated the text, a finger pressed to his lips. His triangular nose stretched beaklike over his finger. His gray brows hunched low over hooded eyes. Though the gray hair marked him as old, his face did not seem as lined as perhaps it should be. His cheekbones, set high and pronounced, overshadowed a strong chin. He had a face designed more for a knight’s helm than a cowl.

He turned at their step. It took a moment for his eyes to recognize the figures before him but when they did his face dented with smiles. “Crispin Guest!” He opened his arms, strode forward, and enclosed Crispin in a strong embrace. Crispin endured it. The monk pushed him back and held Crispin’s arms in muscular hands. “How long has it been? Look at you. You are looking hale.” He nodded. “I am pleased.”

“And you look no older, my Lord Abbot.”

The abbot waved his hand and stood back. “ ‘My Lord Abbot’? I am Nicholas to you.” He turned his head and looked down at Jack Tucker, who cringed. “And who is this?”

Crispin laid his hand on Jack’s shoulder. The shoulder did not relax. “This is Jack Tucker. He insists on being my servant.” Crispin flashed a sideways smile. “Jack, this is the Abbot of Westminster Abbey, Nicholas de Litlyngton.”

Jack’s wide gaze sped over the abbot and the room with its gold-encased manuscripts, silver candlesticks, and toasty fire. He made an awkward bow. “My lord.”

Crispin jerked his head toward the abbot. “I did a minor task for the abbot some years ago—”

“Minor task!” Nicholas guffawed. He patted Crispin heartily on the back. “I was accused of murder and Crispin here uncovered the truth, exonerating me. Minor task indeed!”

“Sweet Christ!” said Jack, and then slammed his hand over his mouth when both monks turned to stare.

Nicholas chuckled and took Crispin by the shoulders, steering him toward the fire. Brother Eric bowed to the abbot, glanced once more at Jack, and departed.

Crispin tolerated the abbot’s attention. He knew it was the monk’s way. The fire felt good and even smelled good, better than the poor sticks and peat Crispin used for his own hearth.

“Brother Michael,” said Nicholas to the other monk at his desk. “Please serve us some wine.”

The abbot’s room was comfortable, even cozy. Tall arched windows with delicately cut panes of glass cast colored light upon the abbot’s desk and stone floor. A hound, ribs showing through the short fur, lay on the floor by the fire undisturbed by all the comings and goings.

Brother Michael offered a goblet of wine to Crispin but not to Jack. The wine was better than good. Smooth, fragrant. Crispin surmised it was probably the abbot’s better stock from Spain.

Crispin drank and realized that it had been a year since he last visited the abbot. He cast a glance into a far corner between bookshelves and a prie-dieu, and smiled to see the chessboard still in place. He narrowed his eyes at it and walked forward. If he were not mistaken, none of the pieces had been disturbed since their last meeting.

He looked up at Nicholas. “Our game?”

“Yes,” said Nicholas. “And I believe it’s your move.”

Crispin examined the board. He’d already captured Nicholas’s queen and a few other pieces. He picked up the black knight and moved it forward. “Your king is endangered by my knight.”

Nicholas frowned and examined the pieces. “Hmm,” he said, resting a finger on his lips. He glanced up at Crispin. “So he is. After so many months, I hoped you would not notice. But there is little that escapes your notice, is there, Crispin?” The abbot reached for a piece, paused, and then drew his hand back. “I shall have to mull this over. But in the meantime. . . .” He gestured to the chairs by the fire. The abbot settled in a chair with a blanket made of fox pelts cast across the chair’s arms and back. He urged Crispin to take another beside it. Jack positioned himself behind Crispin’s chair and grasped its carved back with white fingers. Nicholas bent down to scratch the hound’s head. The dog made no move except to raise his tail, thump it a few times on the floor, and drop it again. “Tell me why you are here. I doubt it is purely a social call. As much as that would please me.”

“To my regret, Nicholas. I wonder if you could tell me about a particular relic.”

“Oh, indeed.” He smiled and turned to Brother Michael, who stood by with the flagon. “I have great facility with relics. My chaplain, Brother Michael, has accompanied me on many a quest to see such venerable objects.”

“Then you can easily tell me of the Crown of Thorns.”

“The Crown of Thorns?” The jovial lines of the abbot’s face fell. He shifted forward over his thighs. “Why would you wish to know of that particular relic?”

Crispin made a half smile and ran his finger absently around the lip of the goblet. He did not look up, but studied the glittering amber of the wine swirling in the bowl. “It seems to be on my mind of late.”

Nicholas took a deep breath. “The Crown of Thorns.” He said it slowly, thoughtfully. “Of course, this was the very same that the cursed Roman soldiers placed on our Lord’s head. We do not know its early history—who took it from the place of His glorious death and kept it safe. But I do know from the writings of a monk—who was that?” He rose, went to the bookshelf, and pulled down a large tome. He laid it over the Bible on its stand and thumbed through the pages. “Ah!” He leaned forward and read. “A Brother Bernard. Some five hundred years ago. He says the Crown resided in a church on Mount Sion in Jerusalem. And two hundred years after that, it was transferred to Byzantium.” He looked up. Crispin at first thought he searched for another book, but the monk was looking farther than that. His eyes glazed as his memory took hold. “ ‘Behold the thorny crown, which was only set upon the head of Our Redeemer in order that all the thorns of the world might be gathered together and broken.’ ” His lidded eyes looked at Crispin. “The Eastern Holy Emperors presented individual thorns to various Christian monarchs. I know of one such thorn sent to our own ancient King Athelstan—in the old times,” he said to Jack, who didn’t seem to understand what the old abbot was talking about, “and that very thorn still resides at Malmesbury Abbey.” He closed the book, replaced it on the shelf and sat again. He took a sip of his wine and cocked his head thoughtfully but directed his next words back toward Crispin. “As you surely know, one hundred years ago and more, the empire of Constantinople began to crumble, and in a desperate attempt for support—and money—Emperor Baldwin II sought the friendship of King Louis of France. He offered him the Crown of Thorns, though he needed to pay for its return from the pestilent Venetians. They kept it as surety for a loan. Italians!” he muttered. “They certainly understand the business of usury. Disgraceful. At any rate, the Crown of Thorns was soon redeemed and it was sent off to France where Louis built the magnificent Sainte-Chappelle for it. It is there still.”

“What does the Crown look like? Can you tell me?”

“Oh yes. I have seen it myself. As you might imagine, there are few thorns left after having been divided amongst the many emperors and kings over the years. It is now a circlet of woven rushes, a weave of decorative design no doubt created by careful fingers. Thrust amongst the rushes are the remaining thorns.”