Serpent in the Thorns

But to feel the weight of a sword at his hip again; to tell the sheriff to go to Hell; to eat decent food and drink fine wine. What was it worth? A few moments on his knees? A few words that meant little? What was the price of a man’s soul?

He flicked his gaze toward Lancaster. Had the duke sold his soul to discover his friends from his foes? He had surrendered the lives of honorable men, including Crispin’s. Lancaster had viewed it as a tactical move. And maybe that’s all it was. If Crispin had retained his knighthood and status, might he have resorted to the same “tactical” move one day to discover his enemies?

He knew he had to say something. Should he make a speech, or just sink to his knees? In the end, only one thing occurred to him. His voice felt coarse and low. “ ‘Fire is the test of gold; adversity of strong men.’ ”

Richard frowned. “What did you say? Do you think you’ve been tested? You, who committed high treason?” The pleasant facade gave way to Richard’s ire. He clenched his teeth. “We give you back your life. All you have to do is beg. Beg!”

And in that one word, the decision was made. Crispin clamped his lips shut, and lifted his chin.

The silence that followed cut through the crowd with painful intensity.

Richard reddened. He threw down the sword. The weapon clanged at his feet and skidded down two steps. “You whoreson! And that is precisely why you shall never regain your knighthood. You stubborn, arrogant bastard! We will never, ever trust you. Never.” He panted and backed up to the throne. When the back of his knees hit the seat he fell into it. The feel of it under him seemed to have a calming effect and he wiped his disarrayed hair out of his face. He straightened his shoulders. “Yes, your own man, I see.” He gave a hollow laugh and turned to de Vere. “A martyr to the last. Saint Crispin. No shoemaker you. You make armor of old tunics, and swords of your words. A shabby knight without holdings. Is that what you are? Sir Crispin of the Gutter? Then we so dub you.” He spat. It hit Crispin’s cheek. Crispin slowly raised his hand and wiped the royal spittle away. “Still,” said Richard, voice calm but face red, “you do deserve some reward for your altruistic actions.” De Vere handed him a pouch. The king took it and tossed it forward. It arced over the steps and landed with the loud clink of coins at Crispin’s feet. He had no doubt that there was a fine sum within. “Payment in full,” said Richard.

Crispin looked down at the bulging pouch. Gold. He was certain of it. Enough to buy a string of tinker shops and maybe an inn or two. Enough to set himself up well for the rest of his days. Enough in the Shambles sense, at any rate.

He raised his head and looked at the king. Richard wore a self-satisfied sneer, and he turned his face toward his favorites, who smiled in complicity at their monarch. What else could they do?

Indeed. Crispin looked at the money pouch again. He saw his future receding, saw a life of relative ease decaying to dust. Sir Crispin of the Gutter, eh? For seven years it was so. Well, and why not?

“I saved the life of the king not for gold, your Majesty,” he said in a clear tenor. “But in recompense for my faults. And because . . . England needs a king.”

Richard fixed his eyes on Crispin. The royal lips were pressed tightly together.

Crispin gave one last wistful look at the pouch, bowed low to Richard, and turned on his heel.

He heard Richard jump to his feet behind him and the commotion of men and women whispering.

“Guest! You dishonorable bastard! You dare turn your back on your king? Guest!” Crispin was tempted to look back like Lot’s wife, but he had no desire to turn to a pillar of salt. “Don’t ever show your face at court again, Guest! Do you hear me? NEVER RETURN TO COURT!”

Crispin walked unimpeded all the way through the great hall’s arch before he dared draw a breath.

29

CRISPIN SAT ON THE spine of a roof next to his back window and hugged his knees. The last of the day’s golden light had sunk westward an hour ago, swallowed by churning blue-gray rainclouds. His cloak kept him warm enough, but he wondered today if his boots would keep him from slipping down the slick tiles. He further wondered if he cared.

He had either done the most foolish thing in his life or the bravest. Even now he still wasn’t certain which it was. At least this time Richard appeared to the world like a spoiled child and all the court witnessed it. Still, to have been a hairsbreadth from his knighthood. So close to a sword in his hand once more . . .

“Master Crispin! What by God’s wounds are you doing out there? I’ve been searching all over for you!”

Jack leaned out the window. His pale face seemed paler in the dark, and little wonder. The last he saw of Crispin, he was being escorted by two guards to court, and for all the both of them knew, to the gallows.

“Come on out, Jack.”

Jack climbed out onto the sill and with arms outstretched for balance, made his way across the peak and sat next to Crispin.

“What are you doing, Master, if a body may ask?”

“Looking at the city. I think I prefer it at night. It’s not as dark as one thinks.”

His gaze followed along the spiky silhouette of the cityscape, rising and falling against a pocked field of stars so sharp they pierced the veil of night in pinpricks of light.

Jack hugged his knees and rested his chin on them. “I spend many a night like this, Master. You can see candles lit all over the city. It’s never completely asleep, is it? The city, I mean. I used to look at windows glowing with light, wishing—Ah well.”

“Wishing what?”

“Well, that I was inside.”

“Men like us, Jack. We’re never inside.”

Jack fell silent. It was companionable. Until he felt the boy twitching beside him. He cocked his head and Jack’s mouth was taut with thinking.

“Well?” asked Crispin.

“How did Grayce hide her bow anyway? You searched that room at the King’s Head.”

“Not as thoroughly as I should have done. I must confess that I did not expect to find a bow and so I little searched for one. But I suspect it was under the table all along. That was where Livith retrieved her bow in our last encounter.”

Jack nodded and said nothing more. After a while, Crispin felt the boy staring at him. When he turned, Jack’s eyes glittered at him in the darkness. “I heard a fool rumor about you,” said Jack. “It can’t possibly be true, now can it?”

Crispin rubbed his sore shoulder. “Oh? What rumor was that?”

Jack straddled the roof to face Crispin. “Well, the way I heard it, the king offered you your knighthood again, and you threw it back in his face. But that would be a lie, now wouldn’t it?”

“And do you honestly think that the king, a man with little interest in honor or just causes, would champion me and offer me knighthood?”

Crispin flinched and almost slipped off the roof with Jack’s surprisingly vigorous clout. The lad seemed to have forgotten his subservience. Crispin rubbed the offended shoulder.

“You dunderpate! He did! He sarding did! You idiot! And you have to go and turn your nose up at it, because Christ knows you’ve got all the money in the world! What in hell did you do a sarding, stupid thing like that for?”

Crispin offered a lop sided grin. “You truly had to have seen it for yourself.”

Jack burrowed into his knees and mantle, grumbling. “You always tell me I must better m’self, but when you’ve got the chance, that’s another tale.”