Serpent in the Thorns

lord, Crispin had always taken London for granted. The city was there to supply his needs, both physical and spiritual. Many of his household servants had come from London. He himself was born in London, though he spent his early childhood on his family estates in Sheen. But he knew, as indeed every Englishman knew, that there was nothing to compare throughout the rest of the country with London’s markets and shops. No country village possessed the same visceral stench of London, her streets teeming with workers, beggars, thieves, whores, and brigands; but also with nobility and kings, queens and ladies. London was England in miniature, as certainly as Onslow Blunt’s spun sugar creation had been.

They reached Charing Cross. The spires of Westminster Abbey and the palace were finally visible. Crispin’s heart began a drumbeat. Not that he wasn’t ready for the inevitable. He had been ready for a long time. He supposed it had been overdue. But he had set his sights elsewhere, on other things. There was Jack Tucker, for one. The boy had blown into Crispin’s life like a whirlwind. He had been just another thief on the streets, with a life sure to end on the gallows. But after only a few short months, he had become smooth like a river stone, doing his best to fit into a world Crispin barely felt comfortable in. He had much he wanted to teach Jack. Now there would be no time.

Gilbert and Eleanor had been good to him, too. There had been no advantage in it. He was no lordling to grant favors. He was even incapable of paying them on time, and he still owed a great deal to them for food—but mostly drink. It seemed they made a friend of him simply because they had wanted to, and this, to Crispin, was a novelty. Was this the advantage in a lack of pedigree? Had he learned this secret only at the end of his life?

He fully expected to enter the palace by the stables or the prisoner’s gate, and was slightly surprised to be entering by the grand entrance of the great hall.

Crispin’s heart pounded in his ears, so much so, that he could hear very little else.

The hall brimmed with light and people. The rustle of gowns, the buzz of low voices. His recently laundered coat clung to him with sweat.

The crowd parted for him and the hum of conversation died away in whispering echoes. His gaze darted uncertainly from face to face, very few he recognized.

The guards directed him to the dais with Richard’s throne, and Crispin inhaled sharply. Richard was there, leaning on his throne, flanked on one side by Michael de la Pole and Robert de Vere, and on the other by John of Gaunt.

Crispin finally stopped before the dais and bowed low to Richard. The king raised his languid lids and studied Crispin. He wore an ermine-trimmed gown covered in gold netting. His hair was neatly trimmed and curled just above his shoulders. His sparse goatee and mustache looked enhanced by a brush of darker powder. He inclined his head—not so much to acknowledge Crispin’s obeisance, but to hear the proceedings. The gold crown—a substantial ornament with gems and points—gleamed.

Crispin waited. What was supposed to take place now? Was he to throw himself on the floor and beg for mercy? Richard can wait till Doomsday.

The king glared at him. He leaned his chin on a bejeweled hand. “You saved our life,” he said.

Crispin almost fell to the floor anyway. With a steady voice and another bow, he said, “Your Majesty.”

Richard edged forward. His small eyes studied Crispin. “When was the last time we spoke, Guest? Eh? I was quite young then. Just a boy.”

Steady, Crispin. “Seven years, your grace.”

Richard sat back. “That’s right,” he purred. A smile curled the edges of his lips, as careful a couture as his hair. “Seven years. We were newly crowned. Fresh from Westminster Abbey. They brought you before me, remember? In chains. We wanted to look at you; to see the man who would have deposed us for our uncle.” He turned his face toward Gaunt who didn’t so much as quiver a lash. Richard snorted at his uncle, and turned back to Crispin. “We knew who you were, of course,” Richard went on. “You were always polite but . . . unfriendly. We never liked you before, and we certainly did not like you that day. No, indeed.” He leaned forward, hands on his knees. “Ever wonder why we never executed you?”

The hall seemed to hold its collective breath. Crispin made certain he kept his gaze riveted to the king. In his head drummed the litany: Don’t look at Gaunt, don’t look at Gaunt . . .

“Many a time, sire,” he said aloud.

Richard smiled. It was practiced this time. He clearly enjoyed hearing Crispin’s words. “ ‘Many a time,’ ” he echoed. “It was something you said once. I was quite young, but I remembered it. You said, ‘It would be worse for a nobleman to lose all than to lose his life, for all was his life.’ Do you recall saying such a thing?”

“Not in so many words.”

“But certainly your philosophy, eh?”

“It . . . sounds like me, your grace.”

The king smiled again. He toyed with a gold chain around his neck. Crispin noted the width and design of the chain and considered that the proceeds from the sale of one link of this decoration could feed Crispin for an entire year. “Today, Guest, you stand before us a different man. Though, by God’s wounds, I think you were wearing the same clothes!” The courtiers laughed politely at that, and just as quickly quieted.

“No matter. Today, we are here to recognize the fact that you saved the life of your monarch. Certainly this calls for a reward. What sort of a reward would suit you, Guest? You saved the life of a king. You have saved England. What would be suitable?” He put his finger to his lips in mock speculation.

Crispin dared a glance at Lancaster. Gaunt’s face was tight, his lips pressed so firmly they paled.

“I know!” Richard stood. He took a step forward and looked down on Crispin. “Shall we restore your knighthood? Is that your desire?”

The room fell to silence.

Crispin’s eyes widened. He swallowed and licked his lips. What goes on here? His gaze cut to the other courtiers, but they were just as perplexed as he was. With a suddenly hoarse voice, he softly replied, “As it pleases your Majesty.”

“Not as it pleases us, surely,” Richard said a little too loudly. “As it pleases you, Guest. Shall we do it now?” He turned toward his uncle and whipped out Lancaster’s sword from his scabbard but Lancaster was so surprised he tried to reach for the blade before he seemed to realize what was happening and staggered back, surrendering it.

The king’s sword hung from the royal hip. Clearly, it wasn’t good enough for his purposes.

Richard brandished Lancaster’s sword. “Shall we dub you now?”

Crispin stared at the blade. The light from the candles ran like golden beads along its shiny length. So much time had passed. Not just in moments, but in years. Richard was no longer the young boy he had been. He was a young man, able to properly wield a sword, ready to go to war. It wouldn’t be long before he didn’t need a steward and declared his majority. It wouldn’t be long at all.

Richard lowered the sword to his thigh. “But before we do so . . . there is one thing.” He slowly raised the blade until its point aimed directly at Crispin’s chest. “We want to hear you ask for it. Go on, Guest. Ask for your knighthood. And we will grant it.”

Lancaster closed his eyes. The king’s favorites standing on the other side of his throne looked distinctly uncomfortable, staring at their feet or hands.

Crispin said nothing. He would not drop his gaze from the king.

“Did you hear me, Guest? Your knighthood. And not only that! For what good is a title with no lands and wealth to back it up? Lands and title, that, too, will we restore. All of them. And you will be yourself again, eh? And all you need do is get down on your knees . . . and ask. Well, Guest?”

Crispin felt them all waiting for his reply. He felt their eyes on him, their anxiety as thick as smoke.

All you have to do is drop to your knees, Crispin. Just swallow your damned pride and do it! Have everything you want again. What the hell’s the matter with you?

He looked at the floor. Was it only a week ago that Miles laid at his feet begging for mercy? Miles, the man who did not know the first thing about honor?

Crispin wanted to kick himself. Jesu. Honor. Gilbert was right. Honor had become the bane of Crispin’s existence. It seemed he couldn’t take a piss without considering the nobility of the effort. Was honor a lost art? Was Crispin a relic of his own past? If that were so, then perhaps being a courtier wasn’t all it used to be.