Serpent in the Thorns

Lancaster explained how to get to it, how to avoid the guards. Crispin understood.

“Can you make it from here?”

“Yes.”

“Then go.”

Crispin turned to leave.

Lancaster took a step, hesitated, stopped. “I hope you can prove your innocence. It’s going to take a great deal.”

“I will throw the assassin at the king’s feet myself.”

Lancaster raised a brow. “Indeed. It will take that. Are you up to it?”

Crispin nodded but didn’t look at Lancaster. He couldn’t afford to. “Whatever it takes.”

Crispin stared out the window he had pried open, out to the rain-wet courtyard. He squeezed himself through over the sill and dropped with a splatter onto the muddy grass and stayed in a crouched position, which did nothing for the state of his shoulder. When all seemed clear, he dashed for the bushes along the palace walls and made his way to the west corner. Lancaster said there was a secret door in the garden wall that led to a long passage that let out to the wharves.

Crispin hoped it was true.

The rain steadied, drumming his head until his hair hung like moss to his scalp. He dared not obscure his view by raising his hood. After slogging through the muddy yard and sodden foliage, he neared the place Lancaster said he should explore and he thrust his hands forward searching for the wall. The darkness had fallen suddenly, like a cord cut in the heavens. He swore an oath when his fingers smashed against the hard stone. His hands searched, muddy, slimy from the walls and God-knows-what. Then he felt the edges, found the secret latch, and sent up a quick prayer of thanks when it soundlessly opened.

He slipped through and trotted a long way down an extended passageway. The smell of the wharves gave away his location and he stepped out into a back alley. The odor of rotting fish and sewage assailed him, but he thought it never smelled as sweet.

Crispin ducked into the street and jogged down the slick cobblestones. He saw the Thames ripple through flashes of torchlight and slanted rain, and he hurried along the river back to London. He only hoped he could make it there before the king’s men.

19

“JACK!” CRISPIN THREW OPEN the door. The room was dark except for the faint glow of the peat embers in the hearth. “Jack.” He heard a yawn and fell on the sleepy boy in the hay. “Jack. You’re still here.”

“Aye, Master. ’Course I am. What’s amiss?”

“You’ve got to get up now. We’re going to the Boar’s Tusk.”

“I ain’t thirsty, Master. I’m just weary.” He tried to lay back down but Crispin yanked him to his feet.

“I said get up! There’s no time to waste. It’s not safe here.”

“Not safe? ’Slud. What you got yourself into, Master?”

Crispin started to light a candle but then thought better of it. “I went to Westminster Palace to try to stop an attempt on the king’s life.”

“And did you?” Jack was fully awake now and pulled on his cloak.

“Well . . . in a manner of speaking. I mean, I did stop it, but—”

Jack grabbed the sore arm and Crispin winced. “You’re hurt. What’s happened?”

“I got myself accused of the assassination attempt. And now I’m on the run. So if you don’t mind, make haste!”

Jack threw his arm across the doorway to block Crispin. “Wait. You mean to tell me you got yourself blamed for trying to kill the king? Did anyone see you?”

Crispin tried not to look at Jack. “Did anyone see me? Only all of court.” Crispin made a halfhearted attempt at a laugh. “It doesn’t look good, Jack. We must leave.”

Jack raised his hands and made a plaintive plea to the heavens. “I leave you alone for a few hours—”

“We must go!”

“Wait! What about the Crown o’ Thorns?”

Crispin’s glance darted toward the corner. “God’s blood!” He stomped to the hay pile and freed the wooden box. He cast open the lid, pulled out the gold box and opened it. His fingers touched the Crown and he yanked it out and looked at it. “Where was your invincibility tonight?” he accused. He stood with it a moment, clutching it in his hands. What was the purpose of holding on to this any longer? Well, it would certainly do Crispin no good anymore, but there was always Jack. If Jack took this to court, perhaps he would get a reward. No, no. Better he take it to the sheriff when he could. The sheriff would surely realize that Jack was no marksman with a bow. Wynchecombe might have the bollocks to defend the boy, but then again . . . Crispin ran a hand up his face. He couldn’t think. His shoulder still pained him, still muddled his mind. Only one thing was clear. He had to keep the Crown safe until he could let someone know where it was.

He glanced at the hearth and strode to it. He leaned down and, braced against the heat, he reached up inside the chimney as high as he could and tucked it on the smoke shelf.

Done, he made for the door.

“What of the boxes?” Jack pointed to the courier boxes in the hay.

“Cover them up again and hope for the best. Then come on.”

He didn’t wait for Jack. He knew the boy would catch up. Crispin rambled down the steps and onto the street. It was past curfew but it didn’t matter. His long strides took him quickly to Gutter Lane and even as he turned the corner Jack drew up beside him. He expected a smile on the boy’s normally cheerful face, but those ginger brows were instead wrinkled over worried eyes.

Crispin knocked on the tavern’s door and a sleepy Ned answered. “Master Crispin, it’s far past curfew.”

“I know it, Ned, but we need to come in. I must talk with Gilbert.”

Ned had already shuffled out of the way, his hair more disarrayed than usual. Crispin didn’t know if the boy was heading for Gilbert’s room or not, so he pushed him out of the way and began shouting. “Gilbert Langton! Awake!”

Crispin turned at a sound and saw Gilbert, wearing only his knee-length chemise, leaning in a doorway. Gilbert was rubbing his tosseled head. “What’s the matter? Crispin? For the love of the Virgin, what are you doing here at this hour?”

Now that sanctuary seemed close at hand Crispin was ready to crumble. He needed rest. Food could wait. “Gilbert.” It felt good to drape his hand on his friend’s shoulder. He really wanted to drop into his arms. “There’s a lot to explain, but simply put, the king’s men are after me. I need a place to hide out for a few days until I can get out of London.”

“Out of London?” Gilbert was now fully awake. He dragged Crispin by the arm and hurried him down the stairs into the wine mews. Ned followed with a candle. It barely lit the big bellies of sweating casks, a stone floor, a table, two chairs, and a cot the scullion sisters recently shared. “Crispin! What have you done?”

“I’ve done nothing but try to save the king, and it’s got me only trials and evils!” He slammed his fist to the wall. “I saved him! And now I am blamed for trying to kill him myself!”

Gilbert looked at Jack, whose pale face had nothing to offer. “We need wine.” Gilbert found a jug and put it under a spigot. “No need for straws, lads. Jack, fetch the bowls. One for each of us.”

Crispin sank to the chair and put his head in his hands. Ned stood warily next to the other chair as Gilbert sat. Jack offered the bowls and Gilbert filled them, Crispin’s first. They all drank silently until Crispin shook his head and grasped the bowl with both hands. “I’ve gotten myself into a right fix this time. I truly do not know how I am to