Serpent in the Thorns

should be feeling exhausted. He should be in too much pain to lift his foot one more step. He should be fainting.

He looked down at the thorn in his hand and slowly shook his head in his refusal to believe. “You can’t be doing this. I don’t believe you can do this.”

The thorn lay in his palm. It looked like any other thorn: black, unimpressive yet somewhat dangerous.

He looked at his finger. Already the pinprick was disappearing.

He swiveled his head to look back at the direction he’d come, to the archway that led back to Lancaster. But thinking of the duke left him cold and desolate. Since his degradation, he and Gaunt had spoken little. The few times they had, Lancaster had used distant tones to protect his good name from association with Crispin’s. His good name. And Crispin had taken it like the properly chastised servant he was, feeling all along he deserved it. Like a fool! Where was the honor in all this? Even Lancaster proved that in order to protect his own interests, he was willing to sacrifice his fiercest supporters. The young knights in the conspiracy had given their lives. And Crispin had given his life, too, in a sense. Was there anything or anyone worth dying for?

He clutched his hands into fists and just as quickly snapped them open again. The sharp thorn still lay in his palm. The words whispered over his lips. “ ‘Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.’ ”

The sheriff had seen the Crown being presented to the king. He hoped Eleanor and Gilbert were safe now. The sheriff would have nothing left to surrender to the king—except Crispin himself, of course.

He sighed and dropped the thorn back in his pouch. Wearily he raised his head and scanned the large and ominously empty hall. How much had these old timbers seen? How much honor? How much degradation? How much death? Crispin shivered and pulled his cloak about him.

Behind him lay Lancaster and the French ambassador, the couriers. But he made no move in that direction. Instead, he headed for the kitchens.

He strode beneath the shadow of the arch and opened the door. He trod down the stairs and was struck by the warmth blasting up the stairwell, the aromas, the sounds of iron pans and brass kettles clanking. But it did not comfort today. At the bottom of the stairs he simply stood, watching the many lives move about him, going about their tasks with their own cares tucked neatly behind their caps and wimples. What did people like these think about? Probably much as he thought about these days: Was there going to be enough money to last the winter? Was there enough to tuck away for the eldest daughter’s dowry? What would happen to their families if sickness came to them? Mundane thoughts. Mundane cares.

But he knew from experience that some harbored other thoughts, not so mundane. Greedy thoughts. Illicit. Dangerous. And these thoughts came from every level of society, whether king or beggar. But only a king could make such men act on their evil thoughts, because only a king had the power and money to use at his will. And the others, the lowly ones, fell easily to the temptation. Was it their fault, to be enticed by the Devil as they were? Adam and Eve were so enticed. Free will can be a dangerous thing. On one hand is Heaven, but on the other sin and damnation.

Crispin glanced at the faces; hard faces, lined, dark from smoke. But he did not see the faces he sought. He saw the other door, the one to the small storeroom that lay in shadow, went to it, opened it.

No one was there. He pulled a stool from its place at the table, sat, and waited.

IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN an hour until Livith stepped through the door and shut it. She flinched when she noticed Crispin sitting in the dark.

“Well!” she cried, her hand on her heart. “God bless me! You startled me, you did. I wondered where you’d gone. That arm can’t be doing too well.”

“Well enough.” He painted a design on the table with his finger and slowly lifted his gaze.

She smiled and flew to him. She threw her arms about his neck and settled in his lap. “Now,” she said, lips caressing his. “Where were we?”

He grasped her arm and pushed her back. She stood back unsteadily and stared at him. Her face and eyes registered their puzzlement.

“There’s no time for this now,” said Crispin. “It’s time for answers.”

She stared at him. Her head was cocked to one side. Her angular features were shadowed by the uncertain flicker of a single candle. But those faery eyes studied him like a fox hiding in the brake. “What nonsense is this?” Her hand went to her hip and her whole body swayed into it; all the curves and undulations of Woman. “Don’t you want to finish what we started?” she said softly. Her tongue peeked from between her lips and traveled over them in one slow, gliding meander, leaving a path of moisture glistening on that small but succulent mouth.

“The time for games is over, Livith. Where’s the bow?”

Her eyes widened slightly but her lashes swept down and covered anything that might have been revealed by her eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“The bow. I’m certain you each possess one. One is lost, of course, but there must be another.”

The luscious s of her body straightened and she crossed her arms over her chest. She shook her head and a smile sprouted on that tart mouth. “I knew you was too clever. I told myself not to trust you.”

“So where is it?”

“How the hell did you discover us?”

He blinked for a moment then flicked his gaze down to her feet. “Your shoes.”

“My what? My sarding shoes?”

“Those wooden clogs. They are a French design. They are not made quite the same way in London. That is how I knew you had been to France. And you spoke French to me. Did you realize?” He could see she didn’t, but it made little difference. “There was no possible reason for your being in France except as clever executioners. After all, what is more invisible than a couple of scullions?”

“A couple of women scullions, that’s what.”

“Just so. So where is it?”

Livith gave a chuckle, a low rumble in her throat. “Oh Crispin, why are we arguing? We had the makings of a splendid time together.”

“Why hire me if you only intended to kill me?”

She threw back her head and sighed. “I didn’t hire you, remember? I had no choice. Not with the famed ‘Tracker’ sniffing about.”

“So Grayce did kill the courier.”

Livith slid her foot forward and sauntered toward the table, her hips rocking. “Aye. He must have recognized her from the French court. It was the only thing she could think to do.” She meandered all the way around the table and back toward Crispin. She dropped her fingers lightly to the back of Crispin’s hand, trailing up his skin to his wrist. He jerked it away. Frowning, she stood back, looking down her nose at him. “After she’d done it, she didn’t know what else to do and I wasn’t there to tell her. She got confused as she is wont to do. So the idiot went to you. She never thought it out. She can’t.”

“If you had been there instead of Grayce no one would have ever known.”

“Aye. And the king would be dead by now and I’d be fifty pounds richer. And, of course,” she smiled, “you wouldn’t be dead.”

“But I’m not dead.”

She smiled, revealing one chipped tooth. “Not yet. But you will be. That’s twice I struck your shoulder with an arrow. And that’s twice I hadn’t wanted to kill you. If I had, you’d’ve been dead long ago.”

“Why didn’t you?”

She smiled. “I didn’t want to. But your messing about at court made me a might anxious. I shot you here to lay you low. And to play.” She licked her lips. “A man who’s a little helpless . . . well, it’s a bit of merriment, ain’t it? And you were enjoying it right well as I recall.”

Crispin turned away from her leering grin. “And the attempt on the king in the garden? Missed on purpose, did you?”

Her smile faded. “Sarding servant. He saw me. Gave the king the warning. I shot him instead to teach him a lesson. It wasn’t easy reaching over that wall.”

“How did you escape detection?”