Serpent in the Thorns

to Crispin. “Master Crispin, I’m here at your service, sir. What would you have me do?”

“You are going to get me into the palace.”

Jack cut his gaze toward the abbot. “He’s mad. How many times have I said it? He’s barking mad.”

“Jack, I may be foolhardy, but I am not mad. Tell me about the Frenchmen. Where are they?”

Jack ran his hand up into his floppy mane of ginger hair. “I followed them to court.”

“Do you know if they have the Crown?”

“I don’t know. But they was carrying an important bundle. At least they took great care with it.”

Crispin sat heavily on the chair, his hands hanging over his thighs.

“I know, sir. Master Gilbert and Mistress Eleanor. Won’t the sheriff be reasonable? Can’t he see you had no choice in the matter?”

Crispin hung his head. “I don’t know, Jack. I was greedy about the Crown myself. How can I blame the sheriff for the same sin?”

“Then if you would go to court again, I’m your man. Let’s do it as quick as possible. Before I change me mind.”

DRESSED IN A BLACK cassock and cowl, Crispin hurried across the lane to Westminster. Jack, too, was dressed like a monk—much to his protestations.

“I don’t like it,” Jack muttered for the thousandth time. “It’s blasphemy, that’s what it is.”

“Be still. This is only to get us into the palace. Do you want to be arrested?”

“No, but what are we to do once inside?”

“You locate Miles and I’ll find the French couriers.”

“Oh, as simple as that. And just how am I supposed to find the Captain of the Archers?”

“You could ask.”

“And get caught?”

“No one knows you, remember? It’s me they’re after.”

Jack tugged on his cincture and straightened. “That’s right. The tables are turned, eh? They ain’t after me for a change.”

“Yes. It must be a unique experience for you.”

They reached the gate and both fell silent. The guards had been doubled since the last time Crispin was here—less than twenty-four hours ago.

Crispin approached the gate with head down. He raised a benediction to the guard who approached. “My brother,” drawled Crispin. “My Lord Abbot of Westminster bid us come to the palace and offer what succor we may.”

The guard looked them over and, without further question, allowed them through.

That was a little too easy. Crispin looked back, but the guard did not follow. The palace seemed eerily quiet, none of the usual sounds of merrymaking or chatter; no raucous laughter and drunken challenges. It was as if everyone had crawled into their shells to await the coming tempest.

“It’s quiet here,” said Jack.

“Yes, I was thinking that very thing. You’d better be on your way, Jack.”

“Where shall we meet again?”

In Heaven? “When all is finished, the abbey seems the safest place. Off to it.”

Jack nodded unsteadily and Crispin stopped him by touching his arm.

“Good luck, Jack.”

“God’s blessings on you, sir.”

Crispin watched the becassocked Jack amble down the corridor and finally disappear around a corner.

“Now, if I were a French courier who had recovered my lost package, where would I go?” Crispin smiled. The French ambassador, of course.

He cast a glance down the corridor. The rooms along the Thames were generally where they put foreign dignitaries. At least that was so in Crispin’s day. He pulled his cowl down to shadow his face, and headed down the passage.

He looked behind to make certain no one followed, turned a corner, and nearly slammed into an entourage. They chattered in French, calling him an oaf with one side of their mouths and asking for forgiveness with the other. Crispin looked up and saw the two French couriers Laurent and Gautier beside another man, older, wearing a long gown and a long gray beard. The French ambassador. He fussed with a bag slung over Laurent’s shoulder.

Two guards were also with them, their bland expressions hidden beneath mail coifs and helms.

The man whom Crispin took as the French ambassador turned to Crispin and said in French, “Our apologies, Brother. But it seems this encounter is the wheel of fortune turning in our favor. We must have you bless this happy event.”

“Of course,” replied Crispin, disguising his voice.

But instead of allowing Crispin to gesture a benediction over them and mumble some Latin, the ambassador said, “Come. We go to see the king.”

The entourage moved forward, but Crispin hung back.

One of the guards turned. “Well? Let us go, Brother.”

He watched the backs of the couriers, the ambassador, the guards, and raised his eyes to Heaven.

Crispin recognized the way. They were heading toward the great hall. Richard will be there and doubtless, I will be out of the pan and into the fire. I hope I don’t bleed too much on Abbot Nicholas’s cassock.

When they reached the archway, Crispin could tell by the rumbling conversation that there were more present than Richard. Many courtiers were there, including Richard’s cadre, the queen, and Lancaster. Among the milling knights and courtiers stood the sheriff, the reliquary at his feet. The scowl on his face told Crispin that he was none too happy. In any case, the proceedings should prove to Wynchecombe that Crispin had nothing to do with any trickery. At least, not yet.

He scanned the room, looking for Miles. No surprise he was nowhere to be found.

The ambassador and his entourage placed themselves before King Richard, who was standing on the dais. The crowd hushed.

“Your most gracious Majesty,” said the ambassador with a flourishing bow. “At last, we have recovered the sacred relic. I am charged by my sovereign, the gracious King Charles of all France, with presenting this sacred Crown into your safekeeping.”

He turned and reached into the bag over Laurent’s shoulder. Slowly, and Crispin thought with a great deal of theatricality, he drew forth the Crown of Thorns and held it up as if he were the archbishop on coronation day.

Then he looked at Crispin.

My cue. Crispin walked in a slow, careful amble—the kind of walk he expected a monk to make—and stood between the ambassador and the king. He eyed Richard out of the corner of his cowl while keeping his head low. He raised his hand and made the sign of the cross over the Crown. Everyone followed suit. Under his breath, Crispin intoned, “Putresco in inferni, o taeter rex.”

Richard hadn’t heard him but the ambassador glanced at him sideways, an uncertain glint in his eye.

Crispin ducked his head and made the sign of the cross again. “In nomine Patri, et Filio, et Spiritu Sancte. Amen.”

Richard’s face showed little emotion, though Crispin and all of London knew his devotions were sincere. Oddly, he looked as if he would rather be anywhere but there. Crispin supposed that two attempts on his life were getting the better of him. No wonder this ceremony was conducted in haste and inside palace walls.

Richard dutifully stretched out his hands to receive the Crown, bowed to the French ambassador who bowed back to Richard, then handed the Crown to a page, who raised a velvet pillow to receive it.

It was done. The Crown was now safely in Richard’s hands for the moment. But until the Crown was returned again to France, no one in England would breathe any sighs of relief.

The men and women of the court moved forward, hailing Richard. Servants arrived from all directions to offer celebratory wine. Crispin took this moment to fade into the crowd, backing away, especially from Wynchecombe. He aimed for the kitchens, hopeful he might retrieve his cloak. He walked backward, bowing to any who happened to look his way, though most did not. He was forgotten, just as he wanted to be.

The kitchens lay at the opposite end from the king’s dais, making a large expanse of floor to traverse. But he