Serpent in the Thorns

consciousness—which he did.

28

THEY HAD CRISPIN SITTING up in no time. He was grateful to be back in his own lodgings, though he had no memory of the actual journey. Visitors had come and gone, and he had little recollection of them, though he remembered vaguely Gilbert’s hand patting his, and Eleanor weeping into her apron.

A man had come, too, a man he didn’t know. An older man in a long, black robe, who removed Crispin’s shirt and stuck a needle into the hole in his shoulder. Crispin seemed to remember black thread, a ragged sort of pain, and then the sense that he was drunk, or something like drunkenness without the taste of wine. The man, of course, had been a physician, and he sewed up Crispin’s shoulder like a tailor. A tailor would have been cheaper, but since someone else had paid for the physician’s visit, Crispin didn’t worry. The only thing that made him worry later was discovering that Lancaster had sent the man.

A clean ban dage covered the packing on his shoulder, and a sling wound about that. A blanket covered what was left of Crispin’s modesty, and his coat—the old one recovered from a much relieved Lenny—sat draped over his shoulders. Jack sat on the end of the bed and tried to fill in the gaps in Crispin’s knowledge of events.

“Miles Aleyn told all, as you suspected he would,” said Jack excitedly. “It was him what killed Edward Peale. Didn’t want the arrows to be known as Lancaster’s. But ain’t that why he stole them in the first place, Master?”

“Yes, Jack. But I can see why he would not want the implication now. It would only turn unwanted attention to him. Did he know about the assassination plot?”

“Aye,” said Jack. “Though he didn’t know it was Livith and Grayce. It was his job to detain the couriers so that the assassins could meet with them and that was how they were going to get into court. He never noticed them scullions either, neither in France nor here.” He shook his head before he looked up, beaming. “Oh! And the best of all, he confessed that you had nought to do with it. And that was the last thing they got out of him.”

Crispin sipped red wine from a wooden bowl. He knew this flavor. The Langtons had sent it from the Boar’s Tusk. “Why so?”

Jack smoothed out the blanket in front of him. He didn’t look sorrowful when he said, “The torture killed him, is why. He’s deader than a post, and mourned as much.”

Crispin lay back and rested the wine bowl on his chest. He couldn’t muster a smile, but closed his eyes in satisfaction. Yes. This felt good. Miles had finally gotten his due. Crispin only wished he had been allowed to witness it.

He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. He looked at Jack and found a smile after all. “What of Gilbert and Eleanor? Are they well? Is the sheriff still after them?”

“No. The Lord Sheriff left off after Miles’s confession and that of Livith, that whoring bitch. She survived her torture but it won’t do her no good. They’re set to execute her tomorrow. It should be good and bloody. Want to go?”

Crispin lifted the wine bowl, looked at the blood red wine, and lowered it without drinking. “No. But you may go, if you wish. What of Grayce?”

“Dead. It is rumored that the king of France hired them two. But now I suppose we’ll never know.”

“No,” muttered Crispin. “We’ll never know.”

“That was a close one this time, Master Crispin. I’m beginning to think that a more quiet life would suit me better.”

“Oh? Are you looking for another situation?”

“Ah, I didn’t mean that, Master. It’s just that . . . you ain’t as young as you used to be.”

Crispin narrowed his eyes. “Thank you very much.”

“I worry over you. Like a mother hen.”

“Eleanor does enough of that.”

“I can’t help m’self. I like looking after you. It makes a man feel . . . important.”

“Well, Jack,” said Crispin, settling lower on his pillow. “I know I am in good hands.”

They both turned toward the door at the sound of many feet climbing the stairs. “More visitors?” sighed Crispin. “Please, Jack. Tell them I’m asleep. Tell them I will not see anyone today.”

“Right, Master.” Jack jumped up and skipped to the entry. Before the visitors had a chance to knock, he cast open the door. Nothing happened. He stood in the doorway and said nothing, not moving.

Crispin eased up and tried to look over Jack’s shoulder. “Who is it, for God’s sake?”

Jack turned with a horrified expression. He stepped aside and two men entered, pushing him out of the way. Shiny helms. Arms encased in mail and armor plate. Swords jutting up from scabbards. But worst of all, their surcotes were quartered with red fields of yellow leopards, and blue fields with yellow fleur-de-lis: the ensign of the King of England.

“Crispin Guest,” said one. “You are to come with us.” A camail of linked steel rings ran up either side of his head from his helm and formed a metal mesh like a wimple over his chin. The edges of his mustache flattened under the steel.

Crispin remembered to breathe. “On what charge?”

The other shook his head. “You are to come with us,” he said.

“Where?”

“To court.”

A long pause. Crispin’s gaze rose toward Jack. The boy froze by the door. So, this is it. Crispin cast the blanket aside and eased his naked legs over the edge of the bed. “Jack, help me with my shirt and cotehardie.”

Once Jack helped him dress and shave, Crispin stood and allowed the boy to drape his cloak over his shoulders. He turned to the men who had been watching dispassionately. “Gentlemen, I am now ready.”

The one who originally spoke grunted, and they both waited for Crispin to open the door before they followed him. Jack threw on his mantle and started after, but one of the guards turned. “You stay.”

Jack looked up with frightened eyes at both steely faces. “But I’m Master Crispin’s servant. He needs me!”

“He has no need for you. Get back, boy.” The man drew back his arm as if to strike. Crispin caught it and held it with his one good hand.

“There’s no need for that.” He turned back to the boy whose face shone white with panic. “It’s all well, Jack. I want you out of this, anyway. You’ll be safer here.”

“But I thought this was done with! What do they want with you now, Master Crispin?”

“I don’t know. But you must stay here. If I do not return . . . then go to the Boar’s Tusk. They’ll care for you there.”

Jack grimaced. He wiped his hand across his face spewing sloppy tears.

“Now Jack. I expect better.” He wanted to tell the lad not to worry, to have heart. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to utter the lies. Somehow it had all gone too well, too pat. He had been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Well, now it had. “Farewell, Jack. Be good. And . . . thank you for all you’ve done.”

“Master Crispin!” Jack’s cry was the last he heard before the guards slammed the door in the boy’s face. Crispin sneered at them for their loutishness, and then threw one end of his cloak over his shoulder and proceeded down the stairs.

He had plenty of time to think as they made the long walk to Westminster, they on horse back, he on foot. He spent the time looking at London, at her wharves, her inns, her wretched streets and hovels. When he was a rich