Serpent in the Thorns

were arranged around the braziers in the center. Everything, of course, piloted the eyes toward the head table on the other side of the room on its raised platform, to Richard.

Crispin had been a guest at the head table many times before, when Richard’s grandfather, Edward of Windsor, was king. He recalled chatting with the ladies and high-ranking men at that table while breaking his meats with them, drinking fine wine, absorbing the entertainments.

No more.

No more because of Miles Aleyn and his seducing lies.

Crispin chuffed a hot breath. He wanted his life back. Killing Miles wouldn’t grant that, but the deed would make his suffering a hell of a lot easier.

He felt the weight of the arrows in his pouch. A smile peeled back his lips. He needed to pay a visit to the king’s fletcher.

He put his hood up and left the hall. The garrison’s courtyard was where the archers congregated. The Master Fletcher would certainly be there.

He headed toward the garrison’s yard as if he had made the journey only yesterday. His feet took him without question in the right direction. He passed under an arch, down the steps, and into the open courtyard.

Men walked freely across the gravel quadrangle. Blacksmith stalls, armorers, and carpenter and wheelwright stalls lined the courtyard’s walls. He turned when he heard the unmistakable whistle and thud of arrows hitting their targets. Two archers, both wearing green chaperon hoods with short liripipe tails, practiced shooting arrows at straw butts. The men wore leather tunics lined with metal plates, but the broad-shouldered one seemed too big for his tunic, thick arms bursting through the tunic’s crenelled cap sleeves. A dark fringe hung below the hood’s brim and small dark eyes like a ferret’s peered out from under bruised lids.

Long sandy hair draped in lackluster strings over the other archer’s brows, and though his eyes were set wide apart in a concentrated stare, he did not look the brighter for it.

Crispin ambled along the wall toward them, leaned his shoulder into a wooden post, and watched the arrows meet the target one after the other. They were fine marksmen, as fine as any of the king’s archers. Good enough to shoot a man in an undercroft at close range.

They ran out of arrows and chatted in an easy camaraderie born of longtime service together. Crispin emerged from the shadows. “I beg pardon, good sirs.” The men turned. The bigger man’s small eyes grew smaller. He clutched his empty bow.

Crispin tried a smile. He wasn’t certain if he succeeded. “Would either of you know the whereabouts of the Master Fletcher, Edward Peale?”

The archers exchanged looks. “Sometimes he’s at yonder booth,” said the sandy-haired one, and gestured with his bow. Crispin turned and examined the empty booth. “But he isn’t there today,” continued the archer. “Try the armory.”

This time Crispin’s smile was more sincere. “Yes. I will do that. Much thanks.” He turned toward the direction of the armory and wondered why the first burly archer’s hand had curled around his arm.

“Say!” said the archer. “Didn’t you used to be somebody?”

Crispin’s face warmed. The urge to snap his arm out of the man’s grasp was strong but he did not move. They recognized him, ruining his plan of stealth. Maybe they wouldn’t recall. Maybe he’d get away after all without humiliation.

“I know who he is,” said the other. “He’s Crispin Guest. The Traitor.”

No getting away today. The word was meant to sting, and sting it did. Crispin leveled an icy glare at the sandy-haired one.

“Now, now, Peter,” said the other. They let Crispin go and stepped back, but only to assess him as one assesses a horse. “That was a long time ago. I hear tell he’s that private sheriff they talk of.” His tone mocked. As an archer, he had been lower in rank than Crispin. There seemed to be no end of men who were below Crispin in rank and who relished rubbing his nose in his change of status.

Peter made a doubtful expression and rested his hand on his dagger. “Why do you suppose he’s here then, Wat? Traitor and all.”

“Maybe he’s inquiring about the attempt on his Majesty.”

“Or maybe,” said Peter, drawing his dagger, “he’s the one who tried to kill the king.”

“Gentlemen.” Crispin stared at the dagger pointed at him. Wat also drew his and the two archers maneuvered to block off his escape. Crispin quickly measured the courtyard. Open avenues there and there. He could outrun the big man Wat, but the lanky Peter he doubted he could outmaneuver. Crispin lifted his empty palms and took a step back. He used the only weapon left to him: his inbred nobility. “I am here to investigate. But I have an urgent need to speak with Master Peale. If you have a dispute with me—” With two fingers he lifted his dagger from its sheath, flipped it up into his hand, and postured. His smooth and practiced movements were obvious even to the archers, and they hesitated. “Then let us meet our troubles here head on.” He took a step forward and smiled when they took a step back. Two against one and they were still frightened of him. He wanted to laugh but didn’t want to spoil the mood. Instead, he slammed his knife back into its scabbard. “But if there is nothing more . . .” He backed away, eyeing the men with their bobbing blades. They made no more provocative moves, and when Crispin turned, he heard Wat say, “Peter, you best go find Master Miles.”

Crispin decided to hurry.

The armory was left unguarded, possibly because men were constantly entering and leaving it. Crispin blended in and became just one more man among many. He passed row on row of spears, halberds, axes, unstrung bows, and arrows, bundles of them, all piled impossibly high. And seeming to inventory every one of them, an old man bent over a wax slate with a candle attached to it. He was grayer than Crispin remembered. Perhaps a little more unsteady of hand, but there was no mistaking the king’s fletcher.

Crispin thought about the reaction of the archers, but there was little to be done. “Master Peale.”

The man didn’t turn from his work. “Eh? What is it? Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“Master Peale. I need your help.”

The fletcher stopped and raised his head. “I know that voice.” When he turned, his yellowed eyes looked Crispin over. His lids drooped with extra folds; skin leathery as arrow quivers, lips chalky and flat, revealing long, discolored teeth. “Crispin Guest?” He said it slowly, running the unfamiliar syllables off his tongue as if speaking a foreign language. His lips didn’t seem to believe his words and they murmured an old man’s soundless echo.

Crispin stepped closer into the candle’s circle of light. “Yes, it’s me.”

Peale crossed himself. “Saint Sebastian preserve us.” He looked Crispin up and down again and set aside the wax slate. “What brings you here to court, Crispin Guest?” His voice slid from faint fear to suspicion. His bushy eyebrows lowered over his eyes.

“I know it has been a long time.” Crispin looked at the ground and stood one leg forward, the other back, foot gracefully turned outward. It was a practiced, courtly stance, something Lancaster’s tutors had hammered into him over the many years that he lived in the duke’s household. “How do you expect to be a proper courtier, Master Crispin?” Master Edan would say, correcting Crispin for the thousandth time on his deportment on the dance floor. Master Edan taught Crispin all the dances and courtly courtesy befitting a child of his station, lessons his parents would have shouldered had they lived.

“By my wits,” Crispin had answered. A child’s voice mouthing a child’s youthful sentiments. He didn’t, couldn’t realize then how true those words would become.

Crispin touched the pouch hanging from his belt. “I have here three fletchings from arrows of your design, Master Peale. And I would have you identify for whom they were made.”

“Would you now?” He rubbed his gnarled fingers over his white stubbled chin. His gaze darted past Crispin’s shoulder. Crispin, too, looked back. No one was there. “Everyone is very interested in arrows of late.”

“No doubt.” Crispin produced the arrows from his pouch.

Peale didn’t look at them. His gaze centered on Crispin. “It has been many a day since you have been to court, if I am not mistaken. In fact, I am fairly certain the king is still of the same opinion about you, no?”

Crispin said nothing. Let the old man think what he will. It wouldn’t matter once he got his proof about Miles.

“Still stubborn, eh? Isn’t that what got you into your troubles in the first place?”

“And the sin of pride, Master Peale. But besides my sins, I have been given many gifts. The gift of wit and a