Serpent in the Thorns (9 page)

What “service” could Alice want? Perhaps he should offer to look over Martin’s books again before Alice could think of something else. Crispin shuddered at the possibilities.

He trotted up the stairs in his relief to get away, pushed opened the door, and felt an immediate prickling on the back of his neck.

The Crown of Thorns sat on the bed out of its casket, and Jack was nowhere to be found.

7

CRISPIN CLOSED THE DOOR and walked toward the bed. He lightly touched the Crown and then went to the rear window. He looked out to the back courtyard, across the many roofs, but saw nothing but doves delicately stepping over the tiles. Slowly he closed the shutters and barred them. He looked at the Crown again. An anxious feeling crept over him.

The door suddenly flung wide behind Crispin. He spun and Jack staggered into the shadowed opening.

“Jack? Where’ve you been? Did you touch that?” Crispin pointed to the Crown and Jack stared with bulging eyes.

“I fell out the window,” he said.

Crispin grabbed Jack by the shoulders, hastily checking for fractured bones. “Are you drunk?”

“I ain’t. I fell out the window. After tinkering with that!” His hand shot forward, accusing the Crown.

He pushed Jack back to look at him. “But there isn’t a scratch on you.”

“I ain’t lying, Master. I put it on me head. And the strangest thing. I felt like—” He looked up at the cobwebbed beams. “I felt like I could do anything. I took it off me head, I stood on yonder sill, and then I fell out. I don’t remember falling. I was just . . . on the ground. It’s bewitched, that’s what it is.”

“Nonsense.” The word soured in Crispin’s mouth. He, too, remembered feeling an unnatural elation when he wore the Crown, an elation that almost made him pick a fight. Yes, he, too, could well see—in that state—he might have imagined he could fly out the window. He stared at the Crown. Just coincidence, surely. “Now Jack,” he began, soothing himself with his easy words, “you could have imagined it. With a little wine—”

“I tell you true, Master Crispin. I ain’t had no wine!”

Crispin turned from Jack to pick up the Crown, running his thumb over the smooth side of a thorn. “There
is
something about this—” The Crown felt substantial in his hands. Not particularly heavy, but thick with the woven rushes and the prickly thorns that did not stab him as he thought they should have done. He glanced at Jack and then carefully placed the Crown within its jeweled casket. He rested his hand on the closed lid and shook his head. “No, I do not believe that God’s power can inhabit worldly things. It makes no sense.”

“But God was Himself a worldly thing. As Jesus, eh?”

“So now you are a theologian?”

“I don’t know what that is, but I know what happened to me. I fell out the sarding window and I didn’t feel nought.”

Crispin set the jeweled casket within the wooden box and cast about for a place to hide it. His lodgings were particularly bad for hiding large objects—no alcoves, no other rooms. It wouldn’t fit in his coffer. The only place was the pile of straw in the corner that Jack used as a bed. He took the box to the straw and dug deep to nestle it there.

“In
my
bed?” cried Jack. “I ain’t sleeping with it. God knows what mischief I’d be up to next. Flying off the roof, maybe.”

“I’ve no other place to hide it.”

“Why don’t you give it over to court if you’re so keen to have the king forgive you?”

Crispin pulled the last strands of yellow straw over the box and stepped back to look at the pile. The straw conjured images of the bed he slept on in one of Newgate’s cells, little better than this pile of straw, and the cell had been much colder than this room. All had been silent and mostly dark, until they allowed him a candle. Alone had been best, for he knew that when the cell door opened, the questioning and the torture would begin anew. He came to dread the sound of whining hinges and rattling keys. Each time the door yawned he hoped the guards would take him to the executioner. But such relief was not to be. Only the last time. The last time at court.

He thought of Miles. How comfortable life must have been for him the last seven years. All Crispin’s comrades executed, and all too brave to name Miles Aleyn. Even Crispin had said nothing. But now Crispin would say. Nothing would stop his tongue. But he must be careful. He must do so with enough evidence. There was still one more unknown conspirator. Someone powerful enough to hire Miles and want either Lancaster or Richard dead. Who at court would dare such a feat? He’d wait to bring the Crown of Thorns so that he could pillory Miles and this other man at the same time. That
would
be a prize.

He looked at Jack. “Not yet,” Crispin said. The sneer did not leave his lips. “I have more work to do before I can.”

“I would be rid of such a thing. What do you know of it? I mean—” Jack stared at the pile of straw that hid the box. He crushed his arms over his chest. “Is it truly the Crown of Thorns placed on our Lord’s head?”

“That is what they say. But for all the answers, I do know someone better to ask. Get your cloak.”

THEY SET OFF TOWARD the west end of London. Crispin was grateful Jack didn’t ask about Miles. Too much anger bubbled in his gut. It was impossible to discuss the man. But Crispin was puzzled as to why he had not killed Miles outright. Of course, if he had, he’d be in a cell right now truly awaiting the executioner. No axes for him this time, but the strangulation death of the gallows.

He didn’t much care for the idea.

“Where are we going, Master?” Jack asked after they passed Charing Cross.

“There.” Crispin pointed to the large church. Its rounded apse faced the Thames, as did the long walls of its cloister snuggled next to the church under the crook of the south transept, like a kitten cuddling its mother. The big square tower with the rosette window faced north and jutted upward above the cloister’s walls and rooftops. Westminster Abbey.

Over Crispin’s shoulder and farther to the east stood Westminster Hall. Court. But he wouldn’t go there today. No. He was not yet welcomed at court. The few times he attempted entrance went not well at all. The next time he entered court he intended not a triumphal entrance, perhaps, but a more salutary one.

“Why there?” asked Jack, pulling at his collar.

“I’ve an old friend at the abbey. He’ll be able to tell us about the Crown, if anyone can.”

They did not enter by the front entrance, but through a side door that led to the cloister. The barred gate might have discouraged a lesser man, but Crispin expected it and pulled down on the bell chain several times, certain the call of the bell would summon someone. Soon it did. A becassocked monk with a black band of hair across his forehead and a shiny tonsure on his skull turned the corner. He walked with eyes lowered and murmured “Peace be with you” and then raised his head. His face, pallid and frozen in an innocuous expression of passivity, came to life. “Crispin Guest! How good it is to see you!”

“Brother Eric. It is good to see you as well. Is the abbot available? I would take a moment to speak with him.”

“Yes, Crispin. For you, there is always time.”

Crispin felt Jack’s gaze on him as he passed through the opened gate. The lad followed haltingly, eyeing the monk who stared back at him with a full amount of scrutiny.

They strode along the cloister walk, steps echoing into the stone vaulting. The air was cold, particularly in the shadows, and seemed to linger within the windowed arches. Braziers dotted the walkway every few feet, crackling with burning logs, sending smoke up into the sooty ceiling vaults.

The three finally came to a large oak door with ornate hinges. Brother Eric knocked but did not wait for a reply before he opened the door.

One young monk sat at a high desk by the window. He looked up with a quill poised in his hand. The other was older, gray with wisps of hair blowing off his now natural tonsure. He stood before a large Bible lying open on its stand and contemplated the text, a finger pressed to his lips. His triangular nose stretched beaklike over his finger. His gray brows hunched low over hooded eyes. Though the gray hair marked him as old, his face did not seem as lined as perhaps it should be. His cheekbones, set high and pronounced, overshadowed a strong chin. He had a face designed more for a knight’s helm than a cowl.

He turned at their step. It took a moment for his eyes to recognize the figures before him but when they did his face dented with smiles. “Crispin Guest!” He opened his arms, strode forward, and enclosed Crispin in a strong embrace. Crispin endured it. The monk pushed him back and held Crispin’s arms in muscular hands. “How long has it been? Look at you. You are looking hale.” He nodded. “I am pleased.”

“And you look no older, my Lord Abbot.”

The abbot waved his hand and stood back. “ ‘My Lord Abbot’? I am Nicholas to you.” He turned his head and looked down at Jack Tucker, who cringed. “And who is this?”

Crispin laid his hand on Jack’s shoulder. The shoulder did not relax. “This is Jack Tucker. He insists on being my servant.” Crispin flashed a sideways smile. “Jack, this is the Abbot of Westminster Abbey, Nicholas de Litlyngton.”

Jack’s wide gaze sped over the abbot and the room with its gold-encased manuscripts, silver candlesticks, and toasty fire. He made an awkward bow. “My lord.”

Crispin jerked his head toward the abbot. “I did a minor task for the abbot some years ago—”

“Minor task!” Nicholas guffawed. He patted Crispin heartily on the back. “I was accused of murder and Crispin here uncovered the truth, exonerating me. Minor task indeed!”

“Sweet Christ!” said Jack, and then slammed his hand over his mouth when both monks turned to stare.

Nicholas chuckled and took Crispin by the shoulders, steering him toward the fire. Brother Eric bowed to the abbot, glanced once more at Jack, and departed.

Crispin tolerated the abbot’s attention. He knew it was the monk’s way. The fire felt good and even smelled good, better than the poor sticks and peat Crispin used for his own hearth.

“Brother Michael,” said Nicholas to the other monk at his desk. “Please serve us some wine.”

The abbot’s room was comfortable, even cozy. Tall arched windows with delicately cut panes of glass cast colored light upon the abbot’s desk and stone floor. A hound, ribs showing through the short fur, lay on the floor by the fire undisturbed by all the comings and goings.

Brother Michael offered a goblet of wine to Crispin but not to Jack. The wine was better than good. Smooth, fragrant. Crispin surmised it was probably the abbot’s better stock from Spain.

Crispin drank and realized that it had been a year since he last visited the abbot. He cast a glance into a far corner between bookshelves and a prie-dieu, and smiled to see the chessboard still in place. He narrowed his eyes at it and walked forward. If he were not mistaken, none of the pieces had been disturbed since their last meeting.

He looked up at Nicholas. “Our game?”

“Yes,” said Nicholas. “And I believe it’s your move.”

Crispin examined the board. He’d already captured Nicholas’s queen and a few other pieces. He picked up the black knight and moved it forward. “Your king is endangered by my knight.”

Nicholas frowned and examined the pieces. “Hmm,” he said, resting a finger on his lips. He glanced up at Crispin. “So he is. After so many months, I hoped you would not notice. But there is little that escapes your notice, is there, Crispin?” The abbot reached for a piece, paused, and then drew his hand back. “I shall have to mull this over. But in the meantime. . . .” He gestured to the chairs by the fire. The abbot settled in a chair with a blanket made of fox pelts cast across the chair’s arms and back. He urged Crispin to take another beside it. Jack positioned himself behind Crispin’s chair and grasped its carved back with white fingers. Nicholas bent down to scratch the hound’s head. The dog made no move except to raise his tail, thump it a few times on the floor, and drop it again. “Tell me why you are here. I doubt it is purely a social call. As much as that would please me.”

“To my regret, Nicholas. I wonder if you could tell me about a particular relic.”

“Oh, indeed.” He smiled and turned to Brother Michael, who stood by with the flagon. “I have great facility with relics. My chaplain, Brother Michael, has accompanied me on many a quest to see such venerable objects.”

“Then you can easily tell me of the Crown of Thorns.”

“The Crown of Thorns?” The jovial lines of the abbot’s face fell. He shifted forward over his thighs. “Why would you wish to know of that particular relic?”

Crispin made a half smile and ran his finger absently around the lip of the goblet. He did not look up, but studied the glittering amber of the wine swirling in the bowl. “It seems to be on my mind of late.”