“Crispin, Crispin. Why do you doubt so much? God watches over all we do. He cares for us as His children. Can you not put your faith in God, your fate in His hands?”
He shook his head. “I find it impossible to do so.”
“But why? You strive to do good. Look at this holy relic that came into your hands. God is using you through the Crown.”
“I know no such thing.”
“Your deeds will be rewarded. Mark me.”
“No good deed goes unpunished, eh, Father Abbot?” He tried to chuckle, but it came out more like a bark. Crispin thought it was due to his dry throat and he walked to the flagon for a remedy.
Crispin felt the abbot’s eyes on him as he poured himself a goblet of wine. He gestured to the other goblet and Nicholas nodded. Crispin poured another, drank a dose of his own, and handed Nicholas a full cup.
The abbot took a sip and stood thoughtfully with it. “It is no accident that the Crown fell into
Crispin tipped up his goblet. “ ‘It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it.’ ”
“You quote the pagan philosophers well,” said the abbot. Crispin smiled, a genuine one, and saluted with his cup. “But I find it telling, Master Guest, that you would rather quote a pagan than a holy saint.”
“Very well.” Crispin held up his goblet. “ ‘O Lord, help me to be pure . . . but not yet.’ ”
The abbot’s narrowed eyes held no humor in them. “So you know your Augustine. But did the venerable saint not also say: ‘Miracles are not contrary to nature, but only contrary to what we know about nature’?”
Crispin’s smile faded. He looked into the bottom of his goblet and regretfully set it aside. “I am not here to debate theology with you. I must get into the palace again.”
“Crispin, no! That would be foolish, dangerous, and unwise. I must beg you to put it out of your mind.”
“The Crown may be there. The murderer most assuredly is.”
“Then why come to me?”
“This is the best place I knew of to come for a cassock.”
“A disguise?”
“I know of no other way.”
This set the monk’s head wagging again. “Dangerous,” he muttered. “You have no friends there. If Lancaster is implicated as you say by these arrows, then he cannot help you either. Though I cannot believe he is involved.”
“It does concern me.”
“You pledged yourself to him. What if it comes to a matter of him or you?”
Crispin sneered a glance at the discarded goblet. “I made an honorable oath. But not to fall into treason again. If it comes to it, I prefer to side with myself.”
“Distressing,” Nicholas muttered. He eased back to his chair and cupped the goblet’s bowl with both hands. He stared into it thoughtfully. “The Crown of Thorns. These French couriers. It all reminds me of something.”
“Oh?” Crispin wasn’t listening. He pulled out his dagger and toyed with the point of the blade. He was thinking how satisfying it would be to thrust it into Miles’s chest.
“It was a few years back,” said the abbot, “in the early days of King Charles in the French court. I recall two French nobles were killed. Two who supported a treaty with England. Strangely, they were both killed by arrows.”
“Eh? What’s that?”
“Yes. By arrows. I’m afraid it was during the worst part of your difficulties a few years back.”
“You mean when I was losing my knighthood.”
The abbot missed the sarcasm in Crispin’s tone. “An assassin slipped in to the French court, blended in, killed his targets, and slipped away just as easily.”
Crispin leaned forward. “The assassin was never found?”
“No. This would seem to follow the same pattern.”
“Except this one missed. He missed me and the king. Twice.”
“Thanks to you.”
“And he also missed the scullion.”
“The one who thought she killed the Frenchman? The witless one?”
“No. The other. Her sister.”
“Why would an assassin trying to kill the king waste time on a scullion?”
“Because she knows something. Saw something.”
“Yes, I suppose. Poor creatures. We do sometimes think of our servants as expendable. As less important.”
“But if I were killing a mere scullion . . .” Crispin lifted his eyes to look at the abbot. The hearth flames warmed the side of his face. “I wouldn’t waste an arrow. I would slit her throat, something quiet and discreet. I could get as close to her as I wanted. A servant, after all, is only a menial. I can approach them at will. An arrow is a distant weapon. I should have used my dagger or a garrote.”
Nicholas rubbed his neck. “You do travel in odd circles.”
“So why an arrow?”
A knock sounded on the door. Crispin and Nicholas snapped to their feet, looking at one another. It could be Brother Eric, but if it were not, Crispin wanted as few people as possible to know he was there.
With a gesture, he silently told the abbot he would hide behind the window’s drapery. The abbot watched him, poised over his chair. Crispin retreated once again into temporary hiding, pulling the heavy material in front of him. It smelled of incense and smoke. He watched the abbot through a sliver of space where the drapes met. Nicholas sauntered toward Crispin’s goblet and tossed its excess wine into the fire. He set the cup on the sideboard, straightened his cassock, and calmly called, “Come.”
A monk bowed as he entered. His face was hidden beneath his cowl. “There is a boy at the gate, my Lord Abbot. He insists on seeing you.”
“A boy? Who?”
“He gives his name as Jack Tucker. But he is garbed as a beggar, my lord. He claims he is in service to a knight.”
Nicholas cast a shrewd glance toward the drapery. “Send him to me, Brother Walter. I will see him.”
“But my lord—”
“It is all well, Brother.”
The monk bowed and left for the gate. Nicholas turned as Crispin emerged from behind the tapestry. “How did your servant know you were here?”
“I sent a message. Will you loan me that cassock, Father Abbot?”
Nicholas took a deep breath and shook his head. “Crispin, I truly fear for you this time. This is not some scoundrel on the street. This is the King of England. Already he likes you not. He needs little excuse to do you ill.”
“I know. But if this is not done, I will lose everything. And I’ve already lost so much. I can’t afford to lose more.”
“Your life?”
“The least of my worries.”
Nicholas trudged to his chair and wearily sat. “Of course I will give you the cassock. And I pray that all ends well for you.”
Crispin scowled into the fire. “It can’t get much worse.”
They both turned at the knock. Crispin needed no prompting to steal behind the drapes again, but when he heard the apologetic murmurs of Jack Tucker he slipped back out.
“Jack! I’m glad to see you.”
“Oh, Master Crispin! I am pleased to see you alive! I didn’t believe Lenny at first. What are you doing here? You’re not going to become a monk, are you, sir? It ain’t as bad as all that, is it?”
The abbot straightened his shoulders. “Young man—”
“Oh! Beggin’ your pardon, my lord.” He bowed to the abbot and crossed himself, and then quickly turned back
