Serpent in the Thorns

his shoulders, cradled him, and lifted him enough to drink. He thirstily drank the bowl dry. “There. That will be good for the blood.” She helped him back down and sat beside him on the straw.

“Livith, thank you again. Did you see what happened?”

“I saw you tumble down the stairs at me feet with an arrow stuck in you. That’s all I saw.”

“Damn Miles. The audacity of him. I must stop him before he harms the king.” Crispin tried to rise and made no argument when Livith pushed him back.

“You’ll not get up today. You didn’t lose a lot of blood but it’s still a shock to the body.”

“I’ve been wounded before.”

“Aye.” She slid the cloak down revealing his naked chest and torso. Her finger traced the many sword and knife scars. “There’s probably the whole map of France here.”

He inhaled, careful not to jar his shoulder. “You may be right.”

“But this—” She pulled the cloak down farther and ran her finger over the old burns just below his rib cage. “This is not from war. Who did this to you?”

Crispin gazed at Livith’s clouded eyes. They narrowed with scorn but it was not directed toward him. “That was the king’s men trying to extract a confession.”

Her face hardened but she did not take her hand away. “I’d’a thought you’d want King Richard dead.”

“Not by the hand of an assassin. He is still my king.”

She raised a brow. “And did you think so when you was committing treason?”

“That was then. This is now.”

She made that low laugh deep in her throat. Crispin felt it somewhat lower.

He tried to survey the room, but all was too dark. He got the vague impression of shelves and barrels, but that was all. “You shouldn’t be alone with me here,” he said. “I feel you are safer back with the kitchen staff.”

“No one will trouble us here.”

“But the killer was after you, too.”

“I tell you no one has troubled us.”

She hadn’t replaced the cloak. Instead, her fingers slowly ran up his breast, combing through his dark chest hair. She talked softly as she stroked, though at this point her words sounded more like the sighing of wind in the trees, or the soft sibilance of a waterfall. Maybe it was the wooziness in his head or the stabbing pain in his shoulder and arm, but he found himself intrigued with her mouth; that tart moue spouting all sorts of blasphemies and brash statements. He thought of her thighs tightening about his hips when she ministered to him earlier and it was suddenly impossible to concentrate at all on what she was saying. He reached up and clasped his fingers to the back of her neck and brought her face down. He covered those taut lips, thinking to silence her, but she moaned her pleasure into his mouth, opened her lips, and mashed her nose against his.

She slithered atop him and straddled him again, yanking his cloak completely away and tossing it aside.

“Are you extracting another arrow from me?” he gasped when she pulled her lips from his.

She smiled. Her eyes became slits, those faery eyes. “I am looking for a shaft,” she said, then grasped his braies and tugged them down.

“I should protest,” he said mildly, lifting his hips to accommodate.

She looked down. “I don’t see any objections.” She chuckled and raised herself.

Crispin closed his eyes and allowed her to do her will on him. A small portion of his mind warned him, but he ignored it, much as he ignored the pain of the hole in his shoulder.

She rocked over him, a soft moan escaping her lips. And then she leaned forward, mouth taunting his, teasing with feather touches. “Mon peche,” she breathed before she licked his open lips.

He heard a cry, but it wasn’t the one he expected. He snapped open his eyes and turned. Grayce stood in the doorway, her apron hem brought up to her mouth to stifle another scream. She shook her head, wild eyes glaring at Livith, and then she sprinted back into the shadows, feet slapping the stone floor.

“Mary’s dugs!” cried Livith, and rolled off him. Crispin caught the sight of white buttocks before her skirt fell back into place. She stared at the archway and then glanced back at Crispin with an apologetic smile. She hoisted his braies back into place. “Sorry, love. I must discover where she’s got to. Explain it to her.” She leaned over and kissed Crispin once, shook her head and made what he could only describe as a half-growl, half-purr, and lit off after Grayce.

Crispin threw his head back. Damn! But the creeping cold of the room did much to sober him. Livith had replaced his braies but not the cloak. He rolled to his good side and slowly edged into a sitting position. He found his cast-away cloak, and slid off the pallet to retrieve it. He decided to get his shirt on, even as bloodied and torn as it was. Better than nothing. She had conveniently torn away the left sleeve, so he shrugged into the right sleeve, eased it up his shoulder, and let the rags drape over the sling. He slung the cloak over his shoulders, and then slipped the shoulder cape and hood over his head. This proved more difficult, for the leather chaperon hood was fashioned to fit the body, and his sling got in the way of the cape sitting properly on his shoulders.

He swayed from weakness and pain. “I wish she’d brought more wine.” He needed warmth. He needed to get out of the palace. He needed Jack Tucker.

He stared at the door and made his way to it, then rested against the wood. Opening it a crack, he peered up the dark stairway and trudged up the stairs.

When he reached the top landing, he looked about. He could hear the sounds of the kitchen staff nearby. He opened a door and found the kitchen. Leaning heavily in the doorway, he watched the servants scurry, no doubt under Onslow’s direction. They carried platters, pots, and baskets, crossing and recrossing the wide expanse of the cavernous kitchen. But the perfected madrigal of servants dodging between each other was suddenly interrupted. Several servants near the great hall’s archway fell forward, colliding with others until the whole arrangement fell into disarray. Crispin soon saw why. Spear points danced above the crowd. Guards. And they were heading toward him. Someone had called the alarm. Grayce!

Crispin darted forward, forgetting for a split second the pain of his shoulder. He tumbled, remembering it, and fetched up against a table.

The guards tromped forward and Crispin peeled back. There had to be another way out. A door! He staggered toward it, hauled it open, and found himself out in a courtyard. Bloodied tree stumps served as butchering blocks. Empty barrels, feathers, and other refuse littered the yard. He looked for weapons. At least his knife was still in its scabbard on his hip, but it wouldn’t be enough to fend off a garrison. He passed through a door in the wall and hopped another low wall, ran a few yards, and felt a disturbing sense of familiarity when he looked up and found the window he’d crawled into before. Lancaster’s. Dare he try the duke’s patience a second time?

He looked back and heard the scramble of men and the clack of spears. They found the door and would soon be upon him. No choice, then.

Crispin climbed to the window and looked inside. The duke was there before a bright and appetizing fire. A short monk was talking to him.

No. Not a monk. Crispin froze in disbelief. It was Jack Tucker still in his borrowed cassock, but his slight frame drowned within the large, black gown. The boy shivered, head low between his shoulders in a half-bow of obeisance and fear, and he spoke in hurried sentences.

“Who are you?” cried the duke. “How did you get in here?”

“I am Master Crispin’s servant, m’lord.” He peeled back the cowl. “Jack Tucker.”

“Crispin’s servant?” Lancaster took a step back. He looked toward the doorway but no one was there. “Who allowed you in here?”

“That doesn’t matter now, m’lord. What matters is Master Crispin.”

“Did he send you?”

“Oh no, m’lord! He’d flog me good if he knew I was troubling you.”

Lancaster frowned. “Away with you. I haven’t time for this.”

“M’lord, please. I beg of you. You must help him. He’s in powerful trouble. He’s trying to help so many people and all he gets is vexation in return. You must know he didn’t try to kill the king. You must know it!”

“I said get out. Must I use my sword on you?”

Jack dropped to his knees and tore open the cassock, baring his chest. “Do with me what you will. But I won’t stop begging for help.”