Serpent in the Thorns

keen sense of justice.”

“Aye, I remember. So.” His lips fumbled with a wry smile before his gaze dropped to the three items in Crispin’s hand. “And where did you get these fine specimens, if I may ask?”

“One from a dead man, one from my shoulder—a miss—and the third from a scullion.” He handed them to Peale.

“A dead man, eh? Anyone I know?”

“No. No one I knew either.”

“Yet one you claim was directed toward you.”

“A poor shot when the other was so clean. I wonder if it was meant to merely incapacitate rather than kill me.”

“And the scullion? Dead, too, I suppose.”

“No, barely wounded.”

Peale walked with the fletchings to his candle and turned them over in his hands. He examined the little ridges notched into the shaft near the feathers. “Yes. These are mine right enough.”

“Who were they made for?”

“Hmm.” Peale rubbed his index finger over his marks and stared at the raf ters. “Interesting. I believe—”

“Peale!” A voice shouted from the armory’s entrance. Crispin knew that voice and with one wild glance at Peale, Crispin ducked into the shadows. He slid his back along the wall and slipped into the tight space between a stack of broad axes. A blade’s sharp edge was mere inches from his nose. He tried not to breathe.

Miles’s shadow stretched across the floor. Crispin pressed flatter against the wall.

“Peale,” said Miles, “has anyone come to see you about some arrows?”

Peale was an old man, and old men were often excused from a curt tone or an impolite eye. Peale seemed to take full advantage of his maturity and squinted at the Captain of the Archers. “Everyone comes to see me about arrows, young man. I am a fletcher.” He said the last with careful diction as if speaking to a simpleton.

Miles’s brow arched with irritation. “Of course. I know that. What I meant was did anyone you would not expect come to you? Anyone who has no cause to be here?”

“Who am I to judge who has cause to be here and who does not? Verily, Master Aleyn, you make little sense. I must see about all arrows. Indeed, I must even see to your arrows, Master.”

Crispin threw his hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh.

Miles glowered. “Damn you, Peale. You act like a simpleton when I know you are not!”

“Then don’t treat me like one, Master Aleyn. Say what you mean and have done with it.”

“Very well. I’m looking for that scoundrel Crispin Guest. Surely you remember him.”

“Crispin Guest?” The old man scratched his head, causing his white hair to twist into a sunburst. “I haven’t seen him in years. What would he be doing at court?”

Miles didn’t sound as if he were having any of it. “If he comes to you, inform me immediately. He is trespassing. It should be made known to the king.”

“I will do my best to inform you, Master Aleyn,” said the fletcher with a dismissive bow.

Miles snorted, looked around for a moment, and then swept out of the room. Crispin heard the door close before he rose from his hiding place.

Peale’s eyes seemed to soften when they roved over Crispin again. “He doesn’t seem very fond of you, Master Guest.”

“He never was. And soon, he shan’t be enamored at all. The arrows, Master Peale.”

Peale brought his hand forward. He had hidden the arrow pieces behind his back. He nodded over them and handed them back to Crispin. “These are very special arrows. I made them for my Lord of Gaunt, the duke of Lancaster.”

Crispin’s elation deflated. He drew closer. “Lancaster? Are you certain?”

Peale pointed to his marks. “These are my marks, young man. And these identify the archer. It is the duke. There is no mistaking.”

13

CRISPIN STARED AT THE arrows Peale dropped into his palm. Lancaster.

Peale cocked his head at Crispin. “I take it by your tone that you did not expect that name.”

“No, I did not.”

It had to be a mistake. The blame was on Miles, not Lancaster. Crispin leaned against a stack of spears, didn’t particularly mind when their points dug in his back. “Master Peale, could you be mistaken about this?”

“My mark is my mark, young man.”

“So it is,” he answered absently. He crushed the arrows tight in his hand. Perhaps if he could crush them altogether he might still the thumping of his heart, the pain throbbing there. Lancaster couldn’t be involved in such a plot. Unthinkable. What had Miles to do with Lancaster?

“I thank you, Master Peale.” He looked toward the empty doorway. “For everything,” he added pointedly.

Peale inclined his head and then turned back to his work as if the encounter had never happened.

“Oh. One thing more,” asked Crispin. Peale continued his inventory but never looked up. “Did you have the opportunity to examine the arrow that was directed at the king?”

The fletcher shook his head. “No. The fools. They destroyed it. They aren’t as clever as you.” He turned his head, and Crispin thought he saw him wink.

Crispin thanked him again and left the armory. He dropped the arrow pieces into his pouch and brooded as he walked. Miles was the shooter. Crispin felt it in his bones. When Crispin had examined the roof where the archer had treacherously fired on Crispin, he found light-colored strands of hair—hair that matched the archer’s.

Perhaps Miles had used Lancaster’s arrows. And this would not be so troubling a thing if it weren’t for a rising note of conspiracy. For Miles would have little to gain for killing the king, just as he would have had seven years earlier. Unless he was paid by someone to do it. Someone with enough wealth and influence. Someone who would have something to gain.

Crispin looked up and saw Miles turning a corner and striding in his direction. He slipped back and slammed himself against a wall. He didn’t want Miles to see him just yet. His clear case against him had suddenly become muddied.

Cautiously, Crispin stole into a side passage. He had to get out of the palace. His mind was not on the task. That kind of carelessness might get him killed.

HE MADE HIS WAY back to the kitchens, keeping his hood low over his face and his head down. When he left the kitchens no one remarked on it. No one remarked his passing through the Great Gate and he was safe to make his way through Westminster and back to London. He arrived at his lodgings by late afternoon.

Walking in the door, he inhaled the heady aromas of two hocks of pork roasting over the fire.

Jack turned from his basting and smiled. “Master, what’s the news?”

Crispin took off his cloak and hood, hung them on a peg, and fell into a chair. He sighed. “Much has happened, Jack. I’ve had to move the wenches again.” He related the story.

Jack listened and took one hock. Laying it on a slab of hard bread, he handed it to Crispin and then fetched a bowl from the larder shelf and poured wine into it from the jug. He put the bowl beside Crispin and then prepared his own supper.

Crispin chewed the meat, keeping his eyes on his food.

“So,” said Jack, settling beside Crispin. “When are you going to tell me the rest?”