Serpent in the Thorns Page 4

  “What nonsense. I am perfectly well. I’m just on my way to the sheriff. Must tell him about a dead body.”

  “ ’Strooth! You seem awful cheery about it.”

  “Well, it isn’t an ordinary dead body.”

  “What’s so extraordinary about it that it lightens your mood so? One of your enemies?”

  “No.” Crispin studied Jack’s frowning features and wondered at the lad’s sudden concern. He stared at Jack’s blue coat, its crisp colors seeming to fade before his eyes. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. No. Jack’s coat looked as it always had. His eyes turned to the street, following the rhythmic strides of two Franciscan friars in gray gowns with black hoods, walking side by side. Men stopped and bowed to the clerics before moving on. It was an ordinary scene, something he saw every day. He raised his chin and sniffed the air. Before, the street had smelled like the preparations in a kitchen, warm, inviting, with meat ready for the spit. But now, it smelled more like a charnel house.

  The lighthearted feelings glowing in his chest chilled. He found himself wondering why he had challenged a man in the street for no reason but for the desire to do so, and nearly gotten into a knife fight for it.

  He looked back toward his own lodgings though he could no longer see them beyond the curve of the road and the uneven magpie colors of shop fronts and houses. He touched the wounds on his forehead, but they no longer bled. His body suddenly felt heavy. He used to feel that way after a battle once his high blood was spent.

  Taking a deep breath he could barely find the strength to face Jack. The boy stared at him with mouth gaping. “Why do you look at me like that?” Crispin asked.

  Jack clamped his mouth shut and shook his head. His thick ginger hair jostled. “I ain’t looking at you with aught. If you must needs go to the sheriff then let us go and get it done with. You know how I dislike Newgate.”

  Crispin nodded, rolled his shoulders, and shook off the odd feeling. He looked back one last time, and gestured for Jack to follow.

  He said nothing as he continued up the lane to where it became Newgate Market. These were the same shops and houses, the same gray faces that greeted him every day. Why had it seemed so different only moments ago?

  He looked ahead. Newgate prison lay before him at the end of the row; a gate in the great wall that surrounded most of London. Jack shivered beside him as Crispin nodded to the guard and passed under Newgate’s arch with its toothy portcullis.

  At Crispin’s urging, Jack followed him up the stairs to Sheriff Simon Wynchecombe’s tower chamber. Newgate conjured unpleasant memories for both of them, but Crispin had learned over the years to ignore his discomfort.

  The sheriff’s clerk waved the pair by without looking up, familiar with Crispin’s comings and goings. They entered the sheriff’s shadowy chamber, and Crispin moved directly in front of the hot fire before Wynchecombe could look up from his table and stop him.

  Too late. The sheriff lifted his eyes from his documents and scowled upon resting his gaze on Crispin. “Ha!” he snorted. “I thought I’d see you here ere long. You must have something to do with this dead French courier.”

  Crispin sighed. Good news traveled fast, and bad news even faster.

  4

  “FRENCH COURIER, LORD SHERIFF?” Crispin raised his chilled hands to the fire and tried to inhale the toasty aromas from the spitting logs, but all he got was smoke. “I do not know your meaning?”

  Jack Tucker made himself scarce in the shadows.

  “Don’t play thick with me.” The sheriff rose. He seemed to enjoy his imposing stature—both in height and rank over Crispin. His dark mustache and beard blended into his dark houppelande with its black fur trim and its long sleeves draping down to the floor.

  The sheriff glanced once at the cringing Jack Tucker, dismissed him, and moved to the fire, standing beside Crispin as if comparing his rich garb to Crispin’s shabby attire.

  “A French courier was found dead this morning at the King’s Head Inn on Thames Street. A man was seen stealing away from the vicinity with the two women who lived in the room where the corpse was found. A man of medium height, medium build, clean-shaven, black hair, and wearing a disreputable red cotehardie. Sound familiar?”

  “It could be anyone.”

  The sheriff eyed Crispin’s red coat and black hair. “Yes. Anyone.”

  Crispin stared into the bright flames. “Do you accuse this man, my lord?”

  “Of murder? I don’t know. But the women certainly have something to do with it. And I would know what that is.”

  “It seems you must find these women.”

  The sheriff chuckled. “I shall.”

  “If I may ask, what was so extraordinary about this courier?”

  Wynchecombe sauntered to the sideboard and poured wine into a silver bowl. After a second thought, he poured a splash into another bowl and handed it to Crispin. He gestured toward a chair, inviting Crispin to sit.

  Crispin had, by necessity, grown accustomed to wine with a more strident taste, especially the Boar’s Tusk’s vibrant fare. He drank the sheriff’s wine greedily, savoring its refined flavor of dark currants and cherries. He settled into the chair.

  The sheriff eyed Crispin like a hawk sizing up a mouse. “Why should I accommodate so readily?” said the sheriff. “Just what might I gain from being so forthcoming?”

  Crispin drank, licked his lips, and rested the bowl on his thigh. The satisfaction of hearing your own voice. He chuckled, picturing the sheriff’s expression if he uttered it aloud. “I have, on occasion, helped you with a puzzle or two, Lord Sheriff. Certainly it can’t hurt to divulge a few fragments of information. ‘All men by nature desire knowledge.’ ”

  The sheriff made a sound like a growl and settled his arms on the table. He gazed steadily at Crispin. “This Frenchman was transporting a relic from the French court. A loan from the King of France.” The sheriff set his wine bowl aside. “You’ll never guess what that relic is.”

  “Don’t keep me waiting.”

  “Bless me, Jesu, but it was the Crown of Thorns itself.”

  “A crown of thorns?”

  “Not a crown of thorns,” said a gleeful Wynchecombe shaking his head. “The Crown of Thorns.”

  “Holy Christ!” Crispin blurted it before he could stop himself. He raised his hand and lightly touched his forehead, but he felt no blood, no scarring.

  “Just so,” said Wynchecombe. “It was a sort of peace offering from King Charles of France to our King Richard. His Majesty was supposed to take whichever thorn from the Crown he wanted. But now the whole damn thing’s missing.”

  “Oh?” Crispin sat back, consoling himself in his bowl of wine.

  “Yes. Whoever killed the courier took the relic. Word has reached court and it is said that Richard thinks the affair a deliberate slight. But the French ambassador thinks Richard stole it.”

  “It’s been a busy morning.”

  “Yes. And it’s going to be a long one as well. I have here a decree from the crown to commence daily archery practice for the kingdom. Immediately.”

  “But this is already law. ‘Every man between the ages of sixteen to sixty is required to practice archery on Sundays and feast days.’ ” He looked at Jack as if to confirm such a well-known fact. “That was decreed by the king’s grandfather King Edward of Windsor. But it isn’t Sunday or a feast day.”

  “This decree”—Wynchecombe glanced at the document—“says that all men must practice daily.”

  Crispin sat up. “Does the king expect an invasion?”

  “It’s a possibility. Unless that Crown is returned forthwith.”

  Crispin sat back and tipped his bowl, breathing in the vapors. He stretched out his legs and crossed one ankle over the other. “Do you wish to hire me to find it?”

  Wynchecombe laughed. “You are the damnedest man I have ever met, Guest. Is there no opportunity you won’t exploit?”

  “I merely assumed—”


  Wynchecombe stopped laughing. “I didn’t summon you. Why did you come?”

  Crispin offered a lopsided grin. “I came here to report a dead man. At the King’s Head.”

  Wynchecombe shot to his feet. “I knew it!” He jabbed a long finger at Crispin. “I knew you were involved. Tell me you weren’t the man stealing away with those women.”

  Crispin stared at the bottom of the empty wine bowl with a frown and set the cup aside. “Do I need to say it?”

  “You are in quite a kettle!” crowed the sheriff. He laughed and slapped his hands together and rubbed them. “Now then. Tell me all you know.”

  Crispin’s gaze rose languidly. “There’s not much to tell. The women found the dead man in their room and came to me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I find things, remember? Murderers, lost items. I am paid for many feats of intellect, my Lord Sheriff. I know you wouldn’t understand such.”

  Crispin expected it, braced for it, and wasn’t disappointed when the sheriff grabbed his shoulder cape and hauled him to his feet. Nose to nose, the sheriff glared into Crispin’s face, blowing hot breath on him. “I’ve had about enough of you and your mockery, Guest. You are my servant. I am not yours. Remember that.” He shook him with each statement then threw him back down into his chair.

  Crispin resettled to a sitting position and straightened his clothes.

  The sheriff yanked his dagger free and slapped it on the table. “I ask a question. For each wrong answer—you lose something.”

  Crispin eyed the blade, the brass crosspiece, and the jeweled pommel. “ ‘Something’?”

  “An ear, a finger.” His lips peeled back. “Something.”

  Crispin looked back at Jack. “You’re not making this conversation very appealing.”

  “It’s not meant to be.”

  “And here I came to you in good faith telling you of a body—”

  “That I already knew about. Come, come, Guest. I await your answer.”

  “What was the question?”

  Wynchecombe snatched the knife and held the side of the blade to Crispin’s throat. “Dammit, Guest! Do you mock me?”

  The metal felt cool against his neck. “They say ‘wit is educated insolence.’ ”

  The sheriff held the blade to Crispin’s skin a moment more before withdrawing it. “Your Aristotle again?”

  “Yes, my lord.” Crispin eased back, but not altogether relaxed. He rubbed his neck. “I commend him to you. He has an aphorism for all occasions.”

  “Why read him”—Wynchecombe did not sheath the blade, but toyed with the sharp tip instead—“when you are too fond of quoting him to me?”

  Crispin closed his eyes and nodded. “Just so.”

  “But you delay the inevitable.” Wynchecombe tapped the flat of the blade into his palm. “Tell me about the women and what you found in that room. And be careful of your answer.”

  Casually, Crispin wiped sweat from his upper lip. He spared Jack a glance. The boy cringed in the corner. It looked like a good idea. “The women feared they would be blamed for the man’s death, so they hired me to discover the murderer.”

  The blade tapped dully on Wynchecombe’s naked palm. Crispin watched it. “So? Where are the women now?” Crispin opened his mouth and took a breath, but Wynchecombe interrupted. He waggled the blade at Crispin’s face. “Be careful how you answer.”

  “As careful as I can be, my lord. They are . . . secured. Somewhere safe.”

  Wynchecombe leaned forward, the knife pointed at Crispin’s nose. “Where?”

  Crispin stared at the knife’s tip and blew out a sigh, wondering how he’d look without a nose. He swallowed. “That I cannot tell you, my lord. They hired me also for protection.”

  Wynchecombe rose and sauntered behind Crispin’s chair. Crispin felt his presence like a spider crawling up his leg, ready to bite. He dared not move.

  “That is not an answer.”

  “I know, my lord. But what would you have me do? Betray a confidence?”

  Wynchecombe’s low chuckle raised the hairs on Crispin’s neck. “Never that, Master Guest.”

  The sound of steel sliding back into its leather sheath hissed at his ear. Crispin blew out a sigh.

  “Let us go to the place of the crime,” said Wynchecombe, “and we can discuss it there.”

  5

  CRISPIN STOOD AGAIN IN the room at the King’s Head that the sisters shared, and noted what had changed and what had not. Jack mumbled his complaints about dead bodies and asked Crispin if he could wait outside with the sheriff’s men-at-arms. Crispin nodded to him vaguely and Jack looked at the room with a little grimace on his lips before departing like a shadow.

  The dead man had been laid out on a straw-covered pallet. Two Frenchmen wearing the same livery as the dead man—a quartered houppelande with the French fleur-de-lis—stood over him.

  Crispin eyed their slightly pink complexions and their severely coifed hair. Where were these two when the man was killed?

  “The French ambassador ordered them to court,” Wynchecombe whispered to Crispin, “but no one here speaks French with any facilty.” He looked at his clerk standing beside him, but the man shook his head.

  “Mes seigneurs, un mot avec vous,” said Crispin to the men.

  The man with dark hair combed long over his forehead turned. “Oh oui. Enfin, un anglais qui vaut la peine.”

  “You three traveled together?” continued Crispin in French. The men nodded. “Did you see what happened?”

  The dark-haired man shrugged. “We were . . . occupied.”

  “I see. And he did not favor such ‘occupation’?”

  “We know not. I think he spied his own conquest. Perhaps he followed her here.”

  “I understand the French ambassador wishes for you to appear at the English court.”

  The man spit on the floor. “He wants to imprison us for our carelessness. We have no desire to play into his hands.”

  “If you came to England for the purpose of going to Westminster Palace, then why did you dally here, in this low place?”

  He exchanged looks with his fair-haired companion. “We . . . had business here. We were to . . . to prepare for the English court.”

  “Here?” Crispin asked skeptically.

  Wynchecombe elbowed him. “What did he say?”

  Crispin held up a hand to the sheriff. “Am I to tell the Lord Sheriff this . . . story?”

  The man sneered. “Tell him what you like. We have another companion looking for the relic. We don’t need your help.”

  Crispin turned to an impatient Wynchecombe. “They refuse to go to court. They feel it is a trap.”

  “Damn these French,” muttered Wynchecombe. “Ask them their names.”

  Crispin turned back to them. “My Lord Sheriff wishes to know your names.”

  The dark-haired man bowed. “Gautier Le Breton. And this”—he said gesturing to his companion—“is Laurent Lefèvre. Our friend here”—he crossed himself—“is . . . was . . . Michel Girard.”

  Wynchecombe nodded to his clerk. “Did you get that?” The clerk nodded and busily scribbled on a wax slate with a quill. The sheriff clucked his tongue and turned his attention away from the clerk and the couriers and studied the dead man. The arrow still lay deeply imbedded in his chest. “How about this arrow?” he said to Crispin. “Does it tell you anything?”

  Crispin bowed to the couriers and left them in the middle of the room to stand at Wynchecombe’s side. “A nobleman’s arrow. Hawk fletching is more expensive than the more common goose feather.”

  “I agree. Where was he when he was shot?”

  Crispin strode across the dirt floor and pointed to the spot. There was still a puddle of blood mixed with dirt and now scattered footprints around it. “Here, my lord.”

  Wynchecombe joined him and stared at the spot. “No struggle?”

  “His weapon was still sheathed.”

  “How about that shot?” He
looked up at the window. “It would be an easy effort to shoot from that window to down below.”

  “Look at the angle of the arrow. The Frenchman would have to have been lying flat on his back to be shot from that window.”

  “What?” Wynchecombe marched back to the dead man and leaned over him. He fingered the arrow and snorted. “So. The angle is not right.”

  “As I said, my lord.”

  “He was shot here, then?”

  “It would seem so, Lord Sheriff. At close range.”

  “For that damned relic.”

  Crispin paused. What was he to say? He knew the mysterious archer did not kill for the relic, the relic he now possessed. “Possibly. But there may be other motives we know not of.”

  Wynchecombe’s mouth thinned to a straight line. “And why do you say that?”

  One of the sheriff’s men-at-arms shoved his way through the Frenchmen and bowed to Wynchecombe. “My lord, the king’s guards are rousting the men to commence archery practice.”

  “The king is doing so now?” asked Crispin.

  “His decree said immediately, remember?” Wynchecombe nodded to his man. “Very good. See that all is orderly.” He turned his glare on Crispin. “Shouldn’t you be out there as well?”

  Crispin bowed, relieved to get away. “Yes, my lord.” Should he say more? Crispin scanned the room—the French couriers eyeing the sheriff’s men with suspicion, the dank walls, the muddy mess on the floor—and decided to keep his thoughts to himself. He mulled over the relic in his possession. Yes, the more he kept from the sheriff, the better.

  He sidled passed the sheriff’s men, enduring their sneers, and joined Jack in the muddy courtyard. He couldn’t help but look back into the undercroft and wonder about the couriers. Why would they need to “prepare,” as they said, to go to Westminster by lingering at this rough inn? Prepare for what?

  They jostled passed the shaggy horses in the inn yard and stood at the yard’s edge, looking out on to Thames Street. “What a to-do, Master. Men scrambling out of their houses with their suppers still in their hands.”