Serpent in the Thorns

“No more, no less than any other.”

“You’re like the sheriff but you ain’t the sheriff. You’re not even the sheriff’s man. It don’t seem right, you on your own.”

“It’s the way I like it.”

She rubbed the ban dage at her side, grunted from pain, and shouldered her bundle again. “You think I don’t know who you are, but I do. There’s not a soul in this part of London who don’t know you—and that you used to be a knight before you committed treason.”

“And?” His voice dropped into a threatening tenor, but he didn’t care. If she wanted to fish this pond she’d better take the consequences.

“And here you are. Working for me. Don’t that gall you?”

He eyed her sidelong, but his lids never raised more than half. “Sometimes.”

That made her smile, slow and easy. “Ah you’re a one, you are. You’re hard to reckon. Why not become an outlaw on the highways? Other knights struck by poverty take to it readily enough.”

“That is not my way.”

“ ‘That is not my way,’ ” she mimicked. “You know there’s no chance in hell I’ll have your sixpence—and now it’s got to a shilling at least. Why do it?”

He had to agree with that. Livith’s meager income could never match his fee, and he lived or starved by that fee. He huffed a breath, watching the cloud of cold air wisp up past his sharp nose. “For the challenge,” he said at last, surprising himself for uttering it.

Livith laughed, hearty and guttural. The kind of laugh a wench might press against your chest in bed. Crispin nudged his cloak open to get a flush of cold air.

“The challenge?” Livith shook her head. “What stupid nonsense! That’s just the sort of rubbish a nobleman might mouth. A man’s got to eat and that’s that.”

“You are clearly not a man.”

She laughed that deep laugh again and nudged him with her elbow. “I hoped you’d notice.”

Crispin raised a brow. “What I mean is, men need a challenge. They need to feel useful, that they fill an important place in the world.”

“And this is yours? Helping poor folk what don’t have a pot to piss in? You’ll never get rich that way.”

“I admit. It isn’t the most sensible of professions. But it is mine.”

“You’re a strange man. But I like you, Crispin Guest.”

He sniffed the cold air. The smells of the Shambles lay far behind them now. They neared Lancaster’s old palace, the Savoy, at least what was left of it after a peasant rabble burnt it to the ground three years ago. The air smelled of the familiarity of court, his old home.

She smiled. A dimple dented one cheek. A pleasant smile, a smile reminding Crispin to keep his warm cloak open. “There’s a lot to you,” she said. “I’ll wager those cockerels at court don’t know the half of it.”

“Nor would they care.”

“And they’d be fools. But you already know that. No, they don’t know what they gave up when they sent you away. I suppose they’ll be sorry one day, eh? You’ll make ’em sorry.”

“I don’t see how.”

“You’ll best ’em, that’s what. Somehow, some way, you’ll best ’em. And they’ll know it. And they’ll be sorry.”

Her face flushed and her eyes stared ahead determinedly. Crispin wondered if this vehemence came from some recent hurt or one of longer ago. “The only one responsible for sending me from court was his Majesty.”

“He just might be sorry, too, someday.”

Crispin caught her eye and offered her a lopsided grin. “Now you’re speaking treason.”

“Am I?” She crossed herself. “Well, God preserve me, though I don’t know why He would. I blaspheme enough, too.”

They spoke no more the rest of the way to Westminster. Nearing the palace, Crispin counted far too many men-at-arms pacing the mouth of the street.

“We’ll never get through,” hissed Livith in his ear. His sentiments, but he didn’t agree aloud.

“Say nothing,” he said. He threw his hood up over his head and dragged it low to cover his eyes, and moved ahead of the women toward the palace courtyard. They were immediately stopped by two soldiers in armor and helms, visors up.

“I said clear off the street!” said one, raising his gauntlet-covered hand to Crispin.

Crispin bowed, and in his best imitation of Jack Tucker, said, “Ow m’lord! We was just returning to the kitchens from a long trip to me ailing aunt. What’s amiss?”

The soldier snorted. “Do you know nothing? There has been an attempt on the king’s life. No one enters here.”

Crispin portrayed the appropriate astonishment and turned to the women. “Did you hear that? Then his Majesty will be wanting his favorite dainties for sure.”

“These are cooks?”

“Ow no m’lord.” Crispin chuckled good-naturedly. “These is scullions. I’m one of the cooks. Just ask Onslow Blunt. He’s the head cook. Go on. Ask him.”

The soldier eyed the women and inspected Crispin with a sneer. For once the absence of a sword served Crispin well. The man stepped aside. “Very well. That way, then. To the kitchens.”

Crispin bowed several times and dragged the women with him. “Thank you, good Master. God bless you, good Master. God save the king.” Out of earshot Crispin straightened. “He’ll need it.”

Livith turned a grin at him. “I didn’t know you did voices.”

He only raised a brow in reply and led them through a long alleyway between the palace walls and the palace itself until he came to another small courtyard where the kitchen outbuildings stood. Standing before a large wooden door, he didn’t bother trying the handle, reckoning that it would be barred. He knocked and waited only a few beats when a scullion boy answered. “Whose knocking?” he asked and then looked up. “Oh! It’s Sir Crispin! What did I say to Master Onslow? I said, ‘This wretched business with the king is just the thing for Crispin Guest. He’s that Tracker and I’ll wager he can find this man with the bow.’ That’s what I said.”

Crispin smiled a grim smile and pushed over the threshold. “And what did Onslow say?”

“He wagered a farthing you wouldn’t come. I’ve won that, I have!”

“So you have.”

Crispin stepped in farther and Livith and Grayce entered. The boy stared at them. “And what is all this, Sir Crispin?”

It was useless to tell the lad not to call him that. “Where is Onslow, Freddy?”

Freddy scratched his mane of brown hair. “He’s at the hearths. I’ll take you.”

Freddy moved ahead but couldn’t help look over his shoulder at the silent women. Livith merely stared ahead of her, but Grayce rolled her eyes, looking at all the new sights.

The aromas of roasting meats and savory pottage billowed toward them. It was warmer as they neared the fires. A tall, strapping man with flaming ginger hair and an equally flaming beard flung his arms over the chaos of the kitchens. Staff scrabbled in all directions trying to keep up with his shouted orders. Kettles bubbled over the fire. Three-legged cauldrons shot steam out from under iron lids. Two young boys, no older than four, took turns turning the gears to a great iron spit roasting three pigs and four goats over one of the larger hearths. There were six hearths in all and a few separate braziers with smaller fowl dripping juices from prongs.

Crispin stood behind him, fists at hips.

“And move, you!” Onslow bellowed. A young boy, face dirty with soot, carried several large platters in his outstretched arms. Crispin feared he would drop them and earn a beating, but the boy had obviously been at this for some years, and moved nimbly past his master.

“You, Onslow, are the very picture of an Egyptian taskmaster.”

Onslow swiveled. His face screwed up in preparation for a barrage of curses . . . when it all loosened into a jovial slant. “Sir Crispin! Mother of God, what are you doing here? It has been many a day!”

“Yes, in the days when I could rightfully be called ‘Sir’ Crispin.”

“Aw now.” Onslow reddened. He grabbed Crispin’s shoulders, but thankfully did not enclose him in a hug. His