18
CRISPIN FELL A LONG time, or so it seemed. A belly-churning ride toward the unknown. He did not know whether a grassy square awaited or a stone courtyard. Either way it was a long drop and likely to hurt.
He struck the thorny bushes right away like many sharp knives pricking his skin through the coat. It broke his initial fall, but then he continued his momentum through the cracking branches and pointed twigs. The sounds of snapping wood were only slightly louder than his own grunts.
He hit the ground on his shoulder, heard a crack, and exhaled with a wave of pain. He had a feeling the bone had just dislocated. As much as he wanted to lie on the ground and moan out his suffering, he knew he didn’t have time for it.
Rolling to his feet, he assessed his surroundings. Still within the walls of the palace, he knew he had to get out at once. Oh for a sword! A glance at the walls made his sore shoulder twinge. Never mind the sword. Wings would be better appreciated about now.
Holding his sore arm, he pushed forward and trotted along the wall’s perimeter. With a groan, he knew he’d have to climb.
The palace grounds meandered. It wouldn’t be an easy thing to simply scale the wall and be out into London. Whose courtyard was this beyond the wall? What did it matter? He just needed to rest for a while. He was getting dizzy and slightly dazed. He needed to find someplace safe and quickly. Crispin took a breath and found that the pain in his shoulder made it difficult to draw a deep one. Maybe staying in the palace was the best course. They certainly wouldn’t suspect he’d be fool enough to remain.
A tree near the wall offered a good place to climb, but it wasn’t a nice gnarled oak to give plenty of easy footholds. It was a tall, thin larch with a gangly arm thrown over the wall, a branch barely thick enough for a man’s weight.
No time to debate it.
Crispin hugged the tree and clenched his teeth. His shoulder was definitely misaligned. Nothing he could do about it. It was climb or die. He raised his knees and shimmied carefully up the rough bark. He felt as if he were traveling up an inch at a time. There was no telling when his pursuers would appear and he wanted the chance to get over the wall before they made it to the courtyard. If they didn’t know what direction he’d gone he’d have a better chance to get away clean.
At last. He reached the limb hanging over the wall. He maneuvered toward it and tried to swing his leg over. His shoulder screamed its reluctance. He dug into the bark with his fingernails, tightened his arms around the limb and dragged his body forward, inch by inch, until he could open his eyes through the pain and look down. He would chuckle if he had the strength. “Out on a limb as usual,” he muttered. Below was the gravel, mud, and grass of another courtyard, but it was a long way down. The wall was covered in thick ivy. Their bright green leaves shone silver in the dying light. If he could get to the wall itself, he might be able to slide down the ivy, alleviating a lot of pain. It was worth a try.
He’d have to fall just right.
He stuffed that thought away for another time. If he dwelled on it, he might give up altogether and he certainly wasn’t prepared to do that now.
Crispin drew a long breath and assessed the wall. He wiggled to the edge of the limb, looked down, and let his body peel over the side. His feet hit the wall first and then his knees collapsed under him. He rolled in the wrong direction, tearing off large swaths of ivy, and then managed to right himself and slid down through the foliage, bouncing off the last bit near the ground. He tumbled into the quiet courtyard and saw that it ran along Saint Stephen’s chapel and the palace. He lay propped against the wall. With a shudder, he realized he was in the same pose as the French courier shot with a deadly arrow two days ago, but there was little he could do. He had to get his breath back before he could rise.
He listened. No sound. No shouts or running feet. He was safe for the moment but knew it wouldn’t last.
Crispin pushed himself up the wall and stood, panting. His shoulder was bad. Something would have to be done soon, but first things first. He ran along the long courtyard and finally slowed when he reached another wall. He didn’t think he had the strength to climb another wall. He looked up at the apartments instead, saw a gentle light through the tall windows, and staggered toward them.
IT WAS POSSIBLE CRISPIN slept only a few minutes. It was also possible he slept for a few hours. He wasn’t certain when he opened his eyes. Huddled in a dark corner beneath the shadow of a chessboard, Crispin stared at the darkened window. Shards of moonlight slid across the panes, and these were only visible riding on the brief slant of rain pelting the obsidian-dark glass. The room seemed familiar but his hazy mind would not supply an answer.
The rolling ache in his shoulder told him not to move. His mouth felt dry. He spied a flagon sitting on a tray, its belly lit by a single candle and the glow of embers in the hearth that did little to warm him. His cloak had been left behind in Onslow’s kitchens. He supposed many a day would pass before he could fetch it, if ever he could. He’d have to make due with the short shoulder cape and hood.
A step. He cringed into the darkness. The door opened and a figure entered. Crispin couldn’t tell who it was in the gloom and he waited until the figure approached the fire, picked up a poker, and jammed it into the wood, stirring the coals to flames.
Without a sound Crispin rose and stood behind him. He hated like hell to do it, but he drew his dagger and pressed the tip to the small of the man’s back.
“Don’t turn around.”
The figure tensed. Crispin could tell the man wanted to swing out with his arm. He saw the arm curve, the fingers curl into a fist.
“You’re a dead man,” whispered the man.
“Yes. I’ve lived under a sentence of death for seven years now.”
The man almost turned.
“Don’t!”
And then Crispin noticed too late that familiar profile.
With a gasp, Crispin dropped the hand with the dagger and sheathed the weapon. He stepped back and bowed. “Your grace.”
Lancaster turned and glowered. Crispin slumped or tried to, but his shoulder caused him to yelp and he staggered back.
Lancaster’s glower turned to something else. “You’re hurt.”
“My shoulder. Dislocated it.” He fetched up against the wall.
“I can fix it.”
Crispin’s eyes met his and stayed there. Neither man moved. It was a common enough battle wound for a knight. Tumbled from one’s horse, a knight was lucky to have only dislocated a shoulder joint.
Lancaster’s bearded jaw slid. His teeth gleamed in a grimace below the mustache. No doubt, he liked this situation as much as Crispin.
The pain and dizziness made it difficult for Crispin to go on, and if run he must, he had to fix his shoulder. He nodded to Lancaster and the duke moved forward and took his arm.
“This one?”
Crispin nodded again.
“It’s going to hurt. And might I say, you deserve what you are going to get for putting a knife to my back.”
“Forgive me, my lord.”
Lancaster sneered. “Brace yourself.”
Crispin straightened, forced his back against the wall. Lancaster propped his foot to the plaster wall, took
