Serpent in the Thorns (13 page)

Ned shuffled forward and laid a round loaf on the table. Crispin felt his belly rumble at the sight and realized he hadn’t eaten since Jack’s early-morning repast. He tore a hunk from the loaf, clamped a piece in his teeth, and took the bread into his mouth. He chewed and then dipped the edge of a hunk into his wine and sucked up the dripping crumbs.

“Then why don’t you go straight to the sheriff with it?”

“That’s not the direction I intend to go.”

“I don’t understand you, Crispin. You’ve got proof. Let the sheriff do his duty.”

“This is my kill,” he said quietly. Gilbert stared at him strangely and Crispin realized what he’d said. He tried to smile. “What I mean is, I’d rather do it myself.”

Gilbert shook his head and thumbed the rim of his bowl. His lips were slick with wine. “After all you’ve been through, why do you keep trying?”

Crispin knocked back the bowl. He set it down empty and grabbed the jug. His voice was hard. “I want to win.”

“It’s a stark game you play.”

“It’s a never-ending game.” He drank and caught Gilbert’s sorrowful expression. He patted him on the back until the burly man looked up at him. “Don’t worry over me, Gilbert. I can take care of myself.”

“Aye, you keep saying that, yet Eleanor and I keep putting you back together. I’m afraid there will come a time when the king gets ahold of you again and they’ll be no putting you back together.”

Crispin chuckled without mirth. “The king no longer frightens me.”

Gilbert opened his mouth to speak but the rest of his words never made it across the table. He rose halfway to his feet with a stunned expression on his face. He looked past Crispin’s shoulder.

“Gilbert? What—” Crispin followed Gilbert’s gaze and turned to look. He rose abruptly from the bench. The bread dropped from his hand.

Grayce staggered into the tavern’s hall. Her face had collapsed into a grimace of anguish.

Gilbert was at her side first though Crispin was on his heels. “What’s wrong, girl?”

She looked from Gilbert to Crispin. “Oh help us! Good masters, help. Livith!”

She broke down and dropped her head in her hands. Crispin stood at her other elbow. “What of Livith?”

She lifted her head. Her face was streaked with tears. Her lips parted stickily. “Oh Tracker! You must help her! She’s been shot!”

11

“HANDS OFF, IT’S ONLY a light wound!” Livith pushed Crispin’s exploring hands away. The arrow had whizzed past the woman’s waist, tearing a bit of the flesh and pinning the dress to the worktable. Livith had torn the dress and shift to free herself, revealing a gaping hole. Crispin saw more blood than wound, and though it looked bad, he knew from experience it was not.

“Did anyone see anything?” he asked, looking around the small kitchen.

Livith shrugged. “I think I seen someone at the back courtyard door, but there’s always someone coming and going. I can’t be sure.”

Eleanor knelt at Livith’s feet and dabbed the open flesh with a wet cloth. “Now you,” she said to Grayce, talking slowly and carefully, “go get me a slice of moldy bread. Find me a good green one now, that’s a girl. Your sister’ll be right as rain, never you fear.”

Grayce chewed on her fingers and rushed away to comply. Eleanor shook her head. She glanced up at Crispin. “Why should anyone want to hurt this girl, Crispin? Didn’t that scoundrel get what he wanted?”

Crispin frowned. “A good question. What did he want? I thought it was to kill the king. It certainly wasn’t to steal the—” He caught himself and nodded ruefully. His eyes met Livith’s. She kept her mouth shut for once. Good. Maybe she was learning. “Why would you be a target?”

“Maybe the bastard thinks we saw something.”

Crispin nodded. His hand covered his mouth and he tapped his lips with a finger. “Yes, that could be it.
Did
you see anything?”

“I told you. I wasn’t there.”

“But Grayce was. We must get her to tell me what happened.”

Grayce returned and held out the greenish slab of bread. “What you want this for?”

Eleanor took it. “It’s for the wound, dear. It helps it heal.” She pressed the oval piece to the open sore. Livith hissed through her teeth.

Grayce shook her fists and stared at her sister. “Oh Livith!”

“I’m well, I tell you. I’ll be fine. Sit down.”

Grayce rattled her head and sat as ordered. Crispin stood beside her, wondering how to squeeze information from her any more successfully than in their first encounter. He squatted to be at eye level and smiled. “Grayce, Livith will be well, as she said. I need to talk to you about that day. The day you found the dead man.”

Grayce sniffed and looked up. Her wet eyes searched his face, stopped a moment on his smile, another on his eyes, and then wandered aimlessly again.

He took her hand lying in her lap.
Jesu mercy!
“Grayce, listen to me. You must tell me everything about that day, from the moment you rose to when you think you killed the Frenchman.”

Her wide eyes cracked with red veins. She looked at Livith who looked back at her with unblinking eyes.

“I got up as I usually do, before Livith,” she said. She looked down at Crispin’s hand clasping hers and brought up a trembling smile. “I washed me face and hands, like Livith always told me to. Then I had a bit of ale and bread. I went to the privy and when I come back Livith was gone.”

Crispin turned to Livith. Eleanor patted the ban dage she just finished tying around the girl’s waist. Livith pulled the remnants of the dress back over it. “Where did you go?” he asked.

“I went to get more ale for the jug. Master lets us get some from the kitchens.”

“How long were you gone?”

“My Master was up and he set me to work right away. I didn’t come back.”

“What sort of work?”

“Not the kind you think.”

Crispin made an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry for that. That was out of place.”

Livith thrust her shoulders back before she winced from the wound. “That’s all well,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. Eleanor helped her pin the gap in her gown. “The Master had me sweeping out the hearth in the hall. That took some time taking out the ashes and fixing up the fire. I had to scrub m’self good afterwards and that’s when I come in.”

Crispin nodded and turned back to Grayce. “Once you’d eaten, then what?”

“I was fixin’ to go up to the tavern and off to the kitchens before the Master got angry. He was always powerful angry in the mornings, especially if he’d been drinking the night before. Ain’t that right, Livith?”

“Aye, he has a right temper, he does.”

“Aye,” said Grayce. She smoothed out her skirt and cocked her head to look at it. “I didn’t want no trouble.”

“When did you see the Frenchman? Did you see him come in?”

Grayce’s brows wrinkled outward. She lifted her eyes toward Livith. Her lips parted in her dull-witted way, but she said nothing.

“Grayce.” Crispin shook her hand but it failed to bring her back. “Grayce! When did you see the man come in?”

She eyed Crispin again, frowned, and pulled her hand from his. “I don’t remember!”

“You must! You saw what happened to him.”

“I killed him!”

Eleanor gasped and drew back into Gilbert’s arms.

Crispin clutched Grayce’s shoulders. “You little fool! You didn’t! Can’t you remember what happened?”

Livith’s hand grasped Crispin’s shoulder like a hawk’s talons and pushed him back. “Stop it! She can’t remember. Not anymore.”

He expelled a long breath and stood. “No. I see she doesn’t.” Livith clutched her side but when she noticed Crispin looking she withdrew her hand. “That hurts you more than you like to admit,” he said softly.

“It don’t.”

He took her shoulder. “Let’s take you to your bed. Where is it?”

“Crispin,” said Gilbert. His brows lowered over worried eyes, eyes that darted toward Grayce who rocked herself and moaned in soothing tones.

“In a moment, Gilbert.”

Livith looked over her shoulder at Crispin. “Master Gilbert gave us a bed in the mews. Our things are down there.”

“I’ll take you, then.”

“No you won’t.” Livith pulled away or tried to, but Crispin’s grip tightened.

“No knight in shining armor, but I still remember how to act like a knight,” he said.

She cocked her head and smiled, an easy slow one. She leaned into him. He didn’t mind the feel of it. “If you will,” she conceded and he led her to the stairs.

The mews were dark. Only one candle in a wall sconce burned. Crispin took it and lit the rest of the way down the steps, but at the bottom of the stairs the light fell on something white and misshapen.

“What’s that?” she whispered.

“It looks like a blanket.”

He pushed the candle forward. A bowl, upturned and near the casks. A spoon lying in a distant corner. Stockings torn apart and lying flayed on the stone floor darkening from a puddle of wine.

Livith made a noise of surprise in her throat and Crispin instinctively pushed her behind him.

He raised the candle. All of Livith and Grayce’s belongings lay scattered, torn, or broken across the cellar floor.

Crispin’s lips pressed tight and he flared his nostrils with a breath. “You’re not staying here.”

12

“I DON’T LIKE THIS, Crispin,” said Gilbert, looking back down the darkened stairwell. Crispin left the sisters below to gather what remained of their goods. “This Grayce says she killed a man.”

“She’s like a child, Gilbert. She doesn’t know what she is saying.”

“All the same—”

“All the same I must get them someplace safe until I can reckon why the killer wishes to eliminate them.”

“What safer place could there be than court?” said Livith, her tone, as always, as mocking as her posture. She stood at the top of the stairs and clutched her shredded bag over her shoulder.

Crispin stared at her. Her expression was filled with scorn, always seemed to be. Determination, too, set her eyes like gray quartz, translucent yet hard and milky. They were eyes that knew how to keep secrets, and for a moment, Crispin allowed himself the luxury of wondering about her, where she came from, what her life had been like caring for a dull-witted sister. He never used to wonder such things when he was a lord. Creatures like her could only be found in the bowels of his manor, never seen, seldom heard, but necessary to the smooth running of a large household. She was like one of many who had cooked his food and cleaned his floors. He never thought twice about them before except in the casual way of a lordling about his people. But Lancaster’s household had been different. Crispin had gotten to know the cooks and valets to serve his lord better. Even at Westminster Palace he had made friends in the kitchens, though little help they could offer once he was cast out of the place.

What did Livith think of him when she heard him speak with his court accent and worldly expressions? Did she see him as a lord in rags, or as merely the man who would save her and her sister?

But Livith’s words caught up to him at last and he considered their worth. Court, eh? Court was a busy place, like a maze. People milling in all directions. The back stairs was busiest of all. And didn’t he have to find a way to see Edward Peale, the king’s fletcher? What better excuse to get into court than under the guise of a kitchen worker. If the guards are looking for an assassin, they will not suspect a man and a couple of scullions.

He smiled. “In truth, that is a good idea.”

“What?” cried Livith. “I was only jesting. Are you completely mad?” She looked at Gilbert for confirmation.

“Aye,” said Gilbert. “He is mad.”

“No. It’s an excellent idea. The killer would never think to look for you at court. What is more invisible than a couple of scullions?”

He dragged her past the stairs, through the tavern, and over the threshold with one hand and Grayce with the other. He made a backward nod of thanks to Gilbert. “It’s closed up secure with extra guards,” he assured. “The killer won’t be looking for you in the kitchens, not at court, at any rate. He’ll be concentrating on the king.”

“But if it’s closed up so tight how will we get in?”

Crispin stepped into the street. He pulled up short and yanked them both back when a cart rumbled swiftly by, kicking up clods of mud. “I have acquaintances in many places. Perhaps no longer in the finer halls of court, but I do have loyal friends in the scullery.”

“Ain’t you full of surprises.”

He said nothing to that. When the way was clear, he herded the women into the street, thinking about how he was to accomplish the impossible. He chuckled to himself. Impossible feats were his specialty. After all, surviving treason had been an impossible feat and here he was.

He dodged an arrogant-looking man on a fine white stallion. Pulling both women clear of the horse’s heavily shod hooves, he bowed low. The man never once looked his way.

Yes, here he was.

They traveled through London’s gates without exchanging any words and crossed the Fleet, making the long walk to Temple Barr into a descending fog. Westminster was still a good walk hence, giving him plenty of time to think. Why had Miles run from court just to find the scullions? There must be some greater plan afoot. It was easy enough for Miles to come and go. It made Crispin grind his teeth at the audacity.

He adjusted the arrows in his belt—three now with the one that nearly speared Livith. She must have noticed, for she grabbed one of the arrows and pulled it out. “What you doing with these?”

He stopped, took it out of her hand, and thrust it back in his belt. “They are the arrows the killer used. I know the maker and he can identify for whom he made them by the marks on the shafts.”

She whistled. “ ’Slud! So you don’t know who the killer is.”

“I’m afraid I do. But I would have solid evidence.”

“Who then?”

He looked at her heavy brows, dark near her nose’s juncture. They tapered outward, ending in a slight upturn, echoing the angle of her long lashes. They were faeries’ eyes, almond-shaped, impish. Her angular cheekbones caught the spilled light from an open shutter and directed his gaze downward toward her small mouth, the top lip with its two sharp points, and its bottom sister, round, pouting, as if some passionate stranger bit it.

“I suppose you have a right to know. It is the king’s own Captain of the Archers.”

“Christ’s bloody hands! Does the king know?”

“Not yet. You see now why I must have absolute proof?” He placed his hand on the three arrows. “That is why I need to take these to Master Edward Peale. He is the king’s fletcher. He will know.”

“You can’t go into court with arrows in your belt. Especially looking like the ones what shot the king.”

His fingers teased the hawk feathers. “You may be right.” He yanked them from his belt and broke them over his knee. He tossed the pointed ends into the gutter and stuffed the remaining fletched portions into his empty money pouch. “Let us go, then.”

Grayce stopped. “You’re going to leave them arrowheads in the gutter?”

“Come on, Grayce.” Livith grabbed her arm and glanced up at the surrounding rooftops slowly disappearing in the gray-white fog. “Make haste, now, Master Crispin. I don’t like being out in the open.”

They walked in silence for a time, just another set of travelers along London’s streets. Crispin felt Livith looking at him and after her long scrutiny, he turned toward her curious expression. Her face did not exactly inquire but hid more than it told in the slight smile that turned up those appealing lips.

She pushed a strand of blond hair out of her eyes. “What sort of man is a ‘Tracker’? It’s a strange-sounding profession.”

“No more, no less than any other.”

“You’re like the sheriff but you ain’t the sheriff. You’re not even the sheriff’s man. It don’t seem right, you on your own.”

“It’s the way I like it.”

She rubbed the ban dage at her side, grunted from pain, and shouldered her bundle again. “You think I don’t know who you are, but I do. There’s not a soul in this part of London who don’t know you—and that you used to be a knight before you committed treason.”

“And?” His voice dropped into a threatening tenor, but he didn’t care. If she wanted to fish this pond she’d better take the consequences.

“And here you are. Working for
me
. Don’t that gall you?”

He eyed her sidelong, but his lids never raised more than half. “Sometimes.”

That made her smile, slow and easy. “Ah you’re a one, you are. You’re hard to reckon. Why not become an outlaw on the highways? Other knights struck by poverty take to it readily enough.”

“That is not my way.”

“ ‘
That is not my way
,’ ” she mimicked. “You know there’s no chance in hell I’ll have your sixpence—and now it’s got to a shilling at least. Why do it?”

He had to agree with that. Livith’s meager income could never match his fee, and he lived or starved by that fee. He huffed a breath, watching the cloud of cold air wisp up past his sharp nose. “For the challenge,” he said at last, surprising himself for uttering it.

Livith laughed, hearty and guttural. The kind of laugh a wench might press against your chest in bed. Crispin nudged his cloak open to get a flush of cold air.

“The challenge?” Livith shook her head. “What stupid nonsense! That’s just the sort of rubbish a nobleman might mouth. A man’s got to eat and that’s that.”

“You are clearly not a man.”

She laughed that deep laugh again and nudged him with her elbow. “I hoped you’d notice.”

Crispin raised a brow. “What I mean is, men need a challenge. They need to feel useful, that they fill an important place in the world.”

“And this is yours? Helping poor folk what don’t have a pot to piss in? You’ll never get rich that way.”

“I admit. It isn’t the most sensible of professions. But it is mine.”

“You’re a strange man. But I like you, Crispin Guest.”

He sniffed the cold air. The smells of the Shambles lay far behind them now. They neared Lancaster’s old palace, the Savoy, at least what was left of it after a peasant rabble burnt it to the ground three years ago. The air smelled of the familiarity of court, his old home.

She smiled. A dimple dented one cheek. A pleasant smile, a smile reminding Crispin to keep his warm cloak open. “There’s a lot to you,” she said. “I’ll wager those cockerels at court don’t know the half of it.”

“Nor would they care.”

“And they’d be fools. But you already know that. No, they don’t know what they gave up when they sent you away. I suppose they’ll be sorry one day, eh? You’ll make ’em sorry.”

“I don’t see how.”

“You’ll best ’em, that’s what. Somehow, some way, you’ll best ’em. And they’ll know it. And they’ll be sorry.”

Her face flushed and her eyes stared ahead determinedly. Crispin wondered if this vehemence came from some recent hurt or one of longer ago. “The only one responsible for sending me from court was his Majesty.”

“He just might be sorry, too, someday.”

Crispin caught her eye and offered her a lopsided grin. “Now
you’re
speaking treason.”

“Am I?” She crossed herself. “Well, God preserve me, though I don’t know why He would. I blaspheme enough, too.”

They spoke no more the rest of the way to Westminster. Nearing the palace, Crispin counted far too many men-at-arms pacing the mouth of the street.

“We’ll never get through,” hissed Livith in his ear. His sentiments, but he didn’t agree aloud.

“Say nothing,” he said. He threw his hood up over his head and dragged it low to cover his eyes, and moved ahead of the women toward the palace courtyard. They were immediately stopped by two soldiers in armor and helms, visors up.

“I said clear off the street!” said one, raising his gauntlet-covered hand to Crispin.

Crispin bowed, and in his best imitation of Jack Tucker, said, “Ow m’lord! We was just returning to the kitchens from a long trip to me ailing aunt. What’s amiss?”

The soldier snorted. “Do you know nothing? There has been an attempt on the king’s life. No one enters here.”

Crispin portrayed the appropriate astonishment and turned to the women. “Did you hear that? Then his Majesty will be wanting his favorite dainties for sure.”

“These are cooks?”

“Ow no m’lord.” Crispin chuckled good-naturedly. “These is scullions.
I’m
one of the cooks. Just ask Onslow Blunt. He’s the head cook. Go on. Ask him.”

The soldier eyed the women and inspected Crispin with a sneer. For once the absence of a sword served Crispin well. The man stepped aside. “Very well. That way, then. To the kitchens.”

Crispin bowed several times and dragged the women with him. “Thank you, good Master. God bless you, good Master. God save the king.” Out of earshot Crispin straightened. “He’ll need it.”

Livith turned a grin at him. “I didn’t know you did voices.”

He only raised a brow in reply and led them through a long alleyway between the palace walls and the palace itself until he came to another small courtyard where the kitchen outbuildings stood. Standing before a large wooden door, he didn’t bother trying the handle, reckoning that it would be barred. He knocked and waited only a few beats when a scullion boy answered. “Whose knocking?” he asked and then looked up. “Oh! It’s Sir Crispin! What did I say to Master Onslow? I said, ‘This wretched business with the king is just the thing for Crispin Guest. He’s that Tracker and I’ll wager he can find this man with the bow.’ That’s what I said.”