Serpent in the Thorns

“The Frenchmen. Are they here?”

The man shot to his feet. “You’re the one.” His finger thrust toward Crispin’s face like a dagger, and when he got close enough to make that finger uncomfortable, Crispin took half a step back and laid his hand on his own weapon. “You’re the one that took my scullions. And I just hired them two. Where are they?”

“They needed to be kept safe.”

“Safe!” He snorted. “After killing that man. Now I’ll never be rid of those foreigners.”

“They are here, then?”

His face squinted. He mashed his lips before spitting at the fire. He missed. “Aye, they’re here.”

“Where?”

“Top of the stairs.” He leaned forward. “Oi. No trouble, mind.”

Crispin showed his teeth. “No trouble.”

He parted the curtain and trotted up the stairs to the gallery. He knocked politely. A rustle. A chair scraped. The door opened a sliver.

Crispin nodded his head in a slight bow. “Mes seigneurs. Bonjour.”

“Ah!” said the man in French. “It is that smart Englishman.”

“Will you allow me in?” continued Crispin in the same language.

The man closed the door in his face. Crispin heard him confer with his companion and then the door opened again. “Come in.” He stepped aside and the other man scowled as Crispin entered.

Crispin assessed the two men, the table with its two beakers of wine, two bowls of half-eaten fare. “You had a fourth companion. Where is he?”

“He is not here,” said the first. His dark hair, lustrous in the firelight, remained brushed away from his wide forehead.

“Any new insight as to why your friend was killed?”

“Gautier had an idea.” Laurent turned to the other man with the dark hair and sour disposition. Crispin raised his face to him.

“Well?”

Gautier shrugged. “I thought I heard him say he saw someone he knew.”

“Where?”

“I do not know. I was preoccupied.”

“With the wench Livith?”

“I do not know her name.”

Crispin looked at the first man. “What of you, Maitre Laurent?”

“I was similarly occupied. I did not notice our companion was missing for quite some time.”

“You were supposed to be guarding this most holy relic for your king. Now your negligence has cost you. And us.”

Gautier hooked his thumbs in his belt. “What’s another battle with England to us? This war goes on without ceasing.”

“This relic was a goodwill gesture,” said Crispin. “It could have meant lasting peace.”

There was a pause, and then both Frenchmen erupted in laughter. Crispin’s solemn face broke into a smile, and then he joined them. The Frenchmen pointed at him and Laurent clapped Crispin on the back.

“Sit,” said Laurent. He pulled a jug from the shelf. “It is English wine, but it at least has spirits.” He poured three cups and handed one each to Crispin and to Gautier. “To peace?” he said, raising his cup.

Crispin stood. “To the King of France.”

The other two stood with cups raised. “To the King of England,” said Laurent. They all chuckled and clanked cups.

They sat and Laurent refilled their cups. “A sensible Englishman. I never thought to find one.”

“Oh, we do exist. Few are at court.”

Gautier leaned forward. The hand clutching his cup had square, flat fingernails. “So. What is your interest in this? You are not the sheriff.”

Crispin kept one eye on the door. It would not do well to have his back to it if their fourth companion returned. “No. It is my vocation to solve riddles. My name is Crispin Guest.”

“You would solve the murderer of a Frenchmen? Why do you care?”

“I care about all crimes. Especially when they have to do with the assassination of my king.”

“Sang Deu! Someone has tried to kill your king?”

“Have you not heard?”

The Frenchmen looked at one another a long moment before Laurent shrugged. “I suppose we have,” he said in heavily accented English.

“So you do understand my language,” said Crispin, also in English.

Gautier rubbed his smooth chin. “When it is convenient.”

Crispin settled in. “I see. Well then. Let us speak plainly. Why did you come to the King’s Head instead of going directly to court?”

“We told you,” said Gautier with a frown. “We were to prepare for the English court.”

“And that ‘preparation’ involved going off in separate directions to get your companion killed and the relic stolen?”

Laurent stared at Crispin. His dark eyes narrowed. “Are we being accused of this?”

“Did you kill Michel Girard?”

Laurent knocked back his chair as he jumped to his feet and drew his blade. “He’s a spy for the crown of England!”

Gautier followed suit. Crispin didn’t move and looked at them both. He leaned on his arm and sipped his wine. “If you only knew how humorous a suggestion that was . . .”

“Get up.” Laurent waved the sword tip near Crispin’s face. Crispin felt it itch his skin and longed to smack it out of the way. He sat nearly immobile instead and drank more.

“I think not. I’m not a spy. I want to get to the bottom of this plot.”

Laurent tightened his grip on the sword. His knuckles whitened and shined with sweat.

Crispin set his cup down and swiveled on his stool to face them both. Two swords aimed at his chest. He kept his breathing steady.

Laurent’s eyes made the barest of flickers toward Gautier. They breathed heavily for a moment more before they both withdrew their swords from Crispin’s chest at the same time and smoothly sheathed them. “Then? Why are you here?”

“For information. Anything that will help me. I find it improbable that you met here to ‘prepare’ for the English court.”

Gautier sucked in his lips while Laurent scowled at the floor.

“Just so. You will not say. Yet your companion is dead and you deny having to do with his murder. Is that correct?”

Without looking at Crispin, they both nodded.

“Mmm. Well, it is lucky for you that I already know the assassin. When did you discover Maitre Girard was dead?”

“Not until the sheriff arrived,” said Laurent. “We were as surprised as anyone else.” And he looked it.

“Why did he kill your friend?” asked Crispin.

Gautier shook his head. “For the relic?”

It was Crispin’s turn to lower his gaze. “Perhaps.”

“Maybe,” offered Laurent, “they knew one another. The killer and Michel. He said he saw someone he recognized.”

Gautier dug his teeth into his bottom lip. “It seems strange, no? That Michel would be killed by someone he knew.”

“On the contrary,” said Crispin. “In my experience, I find that most murders are committed by acquaintances. Mostly in drunken tavern brawls. But this murderer also wanted to kill the king.” He gauged their faces as he said it. There was a flicker in their eyes but he could not tell what it might reveal. “How would Michel have known such a man, an Englishman?”