Serpent in the Thorns (3 page)

Crispin tightened his hold on the strap. “I say again. This is not your property, nor mine. In fact, were either of us to be found with it, it would most certainly mean our deaths. Is that what you want?”

She looked once at the satchel over Crispin’s shoulder and shivered. “Aye, I get your meaning at last.” She turned and disappeared through the archway.

Eleanor shook her head and clucked her tongue. “Your heart is bigger than your head, sometimes. I know you won’t admit it, but you are as soft as dough.”

Crispin said nothing. Feeling the small weight of coins in his pouch, he was loath to agree, but knew the truth of it.

“Would you stay, Crispin?” Eleanor set her broom aside and grabbed a drinking jug of wine, wiping its dewy spout with her apron. “Have a cup with me?”

He glanced toward the kitchen archway again and thought staying might be pleasant. But the weight of the courier’s bag hanging from his shoulder preyed on him. As did Jack Tucker’s hurried appearance and exit this morning. “As much as I would like to,” he said, “I fear I have other business to conduct.” Possibly the warmth and familiarity of the room enticed him to relax too much, or perhaps it was Eleanor’s bright eyes and sincere expression that drew the confession from him. He sniffed the smoky hearth and looked at his favorite spot in the corner with a sigh. “Jack is in trouble. I don’t know what to do.”

“Again? That boy. He needs a firm hand, Crispin. He’s had to care for himself for so long he doesn’t know what’s right and what’s wrong anymore. It’s up to you. He is like a son to you. It’s time you treat him as such.”

“Nonsense. He’s twelve. That’s old enough to take care of himself. At his age, I had already begun my arms practice and supervised Lancaster’s London mills.”

“The duke was kind to you and acted as foster father, did he not?”

“Yes.” John of Gaunt, duke of Lancaster, was never far from Crispin’s thoughts. He barely remembered his own father, who died when he was seven. It was Lancaster’s face he saw when he thought of “father,” even though Lancaster was now an estranged one.

“Are you saying I should be more solicitous to the boy?”

“I’m saying he needs guidance. And who better?”

He felt an ache in the back of his neck. “I didn’t ask for this. I never wanted a servant.”

“Yet now you have one.” She laid her hand on his shoulder. “But isn’t young Jack more than a servant?” Eleanor wore her matronly smile. It had the power to either annoy or mollify him. Today he couldn’t tell which it was.

What could he say to her words? He wondered just what his responsibilities to Jack Tucker were. He had met the twelve-year-old only a few months ago when the young thief tried to steal Crispin’s purse. It was Jack who had insinuated himself into Crispin’s life as his servant, not the other way around. The boy could barely be trusted to keep his hands to himself even after many promises.

He made his thanks to Eleanor but offered no reply to her entreaty. He didn’t really want to see the boy hanged, but if Jack didn’t curb his ways, that was all that was left to him.

CRISPIN TRUDGED BACK TO the Shambles under a fine spray of drizzle. Up the steps to his lodgings, he unlocked the door and swept the room with a glance. No Jack, as usual. He dropped the bag on the table and poured himself more wine into the bowl that he had offered to Grayce. The wine burned down his throat with a satisfying heat, and he licked his lips. He felt better already.

He looked at the bundle on the table, took his bowl with him, and tossed aside the bag’s top flap. He ran his hand over the carved wood, turned the key, and opened the lid. The gold box seemed to glow from its place within the wooden casket. He set the bowl down and pulled out the golden box. Besides the gems that encrusted the casket, there were raised friezes of Christ’s journey to the cross encircling it, all crafted in beaten gold. He lifted the lid and stared at the strange object within. “Crown of Thorns,” he muttered. A fingertip toyed with a particularly nasty spike before he drew the circlet out of its container and held it aloft. He turned the crown to examine it. Chuckling, he darted his gaze about the obviously empty room, shook his head at his wary suspicions, and placed it on his head.

“The suffering servant,” he said without mirth. “That’s me.” He caught his reflection in the brass mirror pegged to a post above the basin and water jug. The crown had little appeal and did not improve his features. His blurry image suddenly made him feel like a fool, and he lifted the crown from his head. But in the indistinct reflection he noticed something dark on his wide brow and he raised his fingers there. Blood.

He examined the inside of the crown. He hadn’t felt any pain when he wore it, but there within were prickly thorns, and what looked like the vestiges of winding stems, all black with age. He placed the crown back within its reliquary and touched his wounds again. “Treacherous little relic.” Walking to the window overlooking the street, he pulled open the shutters. He leaned out and took a deep breath. The smell of the Shambles did not overpower today. Perhaps the wind blew in the opposite direction. Whatever the case, he suddenly felt too cooped up in the room. And he did have the task of reporting to the sheriff about the dead man.

Closing the shutters, he threw open the door and trotted down the stairs. He thought about food—he hadn’t eaten since last night—but didn’t feel hungry. He reached the bottom step and inhaled again, as if the act of filling his lungs and widening his rib cage were a new experience. In fact, the air was unaccountably renewing. So much so that he felt like leaping into the street. He wanted to run up the avenue like a young boy, like he used to do down the long lane from Lancaster’s house in the country to its main road. Strange, but exhilarating, this feeling.

And he wanted to forget his troubles—to forget Jack Tucker and his thieving ways, to forget the harsh looks from former peers when he made the odd encounter on the street. He wanted to allow these new sensations to wash over him, to take him like a rushing river far beyond these troubled shoals. His chest felt warm and his limbs bursting with energy. Strange, these feelings. But not unwelcome. Oh no. To feel such a sudden surge of fire in his blood brought him back to his knightly days when his hand curled around a sword hilt and he sped into battle, Lancaster at his side. Yes! It was very like that feeling. He was giddy with it. He hopped down into the street to take it in. He had a bright awareness of the world. The colors of garments were deeper. The smells of the street were stronger but not unpleasant. The men hurrying along, their bundles over their shoulders, seemed infinitely more interesting than before. He took a step into the muddy street . . . and stopped.

Martin Kemp’s plump daughter Matilda blocked his progress.

Crispin’s abrupt elation was sucked away like water down a gutter, especially when her gaze roved over him, a gaze that might hold more than insolence.

“Going somewhere?” she asked. Her small, piggy eyes blinked with what he thought was an attempt at coquette. On her it was a sloppy interpretation. “You’re always off somewhere. Out ‘Tracking,’ eh?” She giggled. It reminded Crispin of chickens clucking.

“Indeed.”

Still her wide hips blocked his path. “Oh. You’ve hurt yourself.” She pointed to the wounds along his forehead. He felt a trickle of blood and wiped it away. “You should put something on that,” she said. “It looks painful.”

“It isn’t, I assure you.”

“I could give you something. I could make a poultice.”

He gave a brief, insincere smile. “No, thank you.”

Once more, he tried to sidestep her but she moved to block him. “Always, you are so busy, so much in haste,” she said, twining the end of her apron around her fingers.

“I must work for my keep. As do you and your family.”

“Why is it you never take board with us? You’ve lived here four years and you’ve never done so.”

“I do not pay for board. It makes the rent cheaper.”
And I don’t have to eat my meals looking at you
. He longed to say it aloud. His tongue tingled with the possibility.

She shrugged, as if money were of little consequence. “You don’t always have to eat here. I sometimes sup with my friends. Sometimes at the Rose. And sometimes even at the King’s Head, though Mother would hide me good if she knew. You might want to come, too.”

“I do not advise your going to the King’s Head today. There may be trouble.”

She giggled again, an unpleasant rumbling of her throat. “You’re always after trouble, aren’t you? My father says that you were once a knight, but I don’t think that’s true.”

Crispin rested his hand on his knife hilt. He itched to draw it, but he snipped off the ends of his words instead. “Oh? And what drew you to that conclusion?”

She eyed the street and wrinkled her nose. “No knight would live here, to be sure. And you used to do my father’s books. I’ve never seen any lordly men about here looking for you. Come now. Weren’t you a steward and just liked to pretend you were more?” The last was surely her mother’s voice. He’d heard that tone too many times before. “It doesn’t vex me, of course. You can pretend to be whoever you like.”

For a moment, he started his usual reaction to her uncouth comments, which meant a low growl and getting out of her way before he sputtered an inappropriate reply. But a surge of self-assurance swelled his chest again, pushing back the subservient tilt of his head. With a pounding heart, he remembered such a feeling, the very same he felt on the lists just before the charge, lance at the ready, blood rising, horse beneath him toeing the earth.

He loomed over her, his mouth set in a scowl. “Listen, you spoiled whelp. I
was
a knight. Why should I
pretend
I was better than I was? The only reason I haven’t slit your throat now is because I like and respect Martin Kemp. But do not try my patience.”

Her mouth flopped open. She put her trembling pink fingers to her throat but made no sound.

It felt marvelous. He’d wanted to mouth those words to her for a long time. Something had always curbed his tongue. But not today. He fisted the hilt of his dagger, though it took all his strength not to draw it.

“Now. Are you going to get out of my way, or do I have to throw you aside?”

She shrieked and tumbled after herself to scramble out of the way. Crispin caught a glimpse of a blue stocking before she made her escape back into the Kemp family quarters. He heard her muffled screech to her mother beyond the walls and took this as the perfect moment to leave.

He swaggered onto the muddy street, feeling as proud as a cockerel. There was nothing more satisfying than brutalizing Matilda Kemp, except for, perhaps, Alice Kemp. Poor Martin. The tinker would get the brunt of it. With a disgusted sigh, Crispin knew he would eventually have to apologize with promises of good behavior. He needed these lodgings. They were all he could afford.

He smiled. But he didn’t have to apologize just this moment, and causing that horror on her face
was
satisfying.

Pleased with himself, he dug into the street with sure steps, until a large man casually bumped him. The tall, wide-shouldered man continued on but Crispin whirled, grabbed his arm, and spun him. “Here now,” he said, pulling his dagger at last. “You did not apologize for jolting me. I think it’s owed.”

The squared-jawed man stared at Crispin. “Unhand me. I owe you nought.”

“This dagger says you do.”

“You threaten me?” The man pulled his blade and he looked down at Crispin. His stout arms looked as if they could snap Crispin like a twig, yet Crispin felt no fear of him.

Crispin even smiled. “I have not drawn another’s blood in at least a sennight. And my blade is thirsty. Do you apologize?” He showed his teeth. “Say no.”

Perhaps it was Crispin’s confident posture, or his refined speech that gave the man pause. Whatever the reason, the broad man dropped his dagger to his thigh and inclined his head. “I beg your pardon. I did not see you. I meant no harm.”

Crispin took a disappointed breath. With a huff, he saluted with his blade and sheathed it. Without further words, he turned on his heel and proceeded up the avenue. He peered into the shops and stalls he passed, inordinately interested in the commonplace: a butcher drew his knife down the skinned corpse of a pig hanging upside down from a hook; a poulterer held chickens by their feet and waved their struggling bodies to potential customers, wings spread like an angel’s; a young apprentice walked carefully to the back of a shop with a tub of blood; a fishmonger briskly scaled a gudgeon, scales flinging into the air like faery dust.

Crispin took it all in, the coppery scent of blood, the sounds of chickens cackling, the slippery rush and splash of a fish in a bucket. This was no fine street of grand houses. These were the shops of laborers, tradesmen. Their many shops along the Shambles were as tired and as worn as their occupants. Narrow structures, shouldering one another in tight proximity. Their stone foundations were speckled with mud; their daub the color of parchment and their timbers a dusky gray from weathering. An autumn sky sputtered beams of sunshine through its cloud cover, recoloring the shop fronts with alternating stripes of sunlight and shadow.

“Master!”

Crispin heard the voice from far off but there were many men called “Master” by their apprentices along any avenue in London. Slapping steps approached from behind and the voice called again, this time more recognizable.