Jeri Westerson - Serpent in the Thorns: A Medieval Noir

SERPENT
in the
THORNS

The Crispin Guest Novels by Jeri Westerson

Veil of Lies

Serpent in the Thorns

SERPENT
in the
THORNS

A Crispin Guest Medieval Noir

Jeri Westerson

MINOTAUR BOOKS NEW YORK

For Craig and Graham

Contents

Again, my first thanks go to my ever-patient husband, Craig, my wonderful son, Graham, and my Vicious Circle of Ana Brazil, Bobbie Gosnell, and Laura James. Thanks also to my agent, Joshua Bilmes, for continuing to hold my hand, and a very special thanks goes out to Julia Spencer-Fleming and her husband, Ross, for their kind words and their wonderful help! Another very special thanks also goes to Kevin Cooper and Carl Vitolo of Inland Color Graphics. They have continued to help me with their support and their valuable printing for all my wonderful promotional materials. And thanks also to DiAnne Cooper, my idea person at ICG. (Thanks, guys! I owe you more tequila.) Paige Vignola offered help in the Latin, and there were scores of others who helped with aspects of history and answered many other questions I posed on mediev-l. Ive met librarians and booksellers who have been nothing but supportive and kind and I thank you all, wherever you are. Last but not least, I thank Keith Kahla at St. Martins Press for his excellent editing and advice. Long may you wave!

SERPENT
in the
THORNS

London, 1384

PRETTY, LIKE A WINDBLOWN shepherdess. Sweet, but a bit dim. Crispin sensed it from the way she ran her chapped fingers over her right hand and by the care she took pronouncing each word. She lifted her chin and parted her lips even when she wasnt speaking. He leaned forward and focused his blurry eyes on her. Tell me again about the dead man, he said. Slowly.

She rubbed her hands, meekly, hurriedly, as if she knew she would be chastised for it.

Crispin watched her busy hands and closed his eyes. His head felt like an eggshell liable to crack, and the merest sound seemed to rake the back of his eyeballs with sharp needles. He glanced at the wine jug on its shelf. Hair of the dog?

She sat on a stool in his lodgings, a small room above a tinker shop on the pungent streets of the Shambles with its meat markets and butchering stalls. One of his broken shutters rattled with an acrid wind that did nothing to sooth the belch of the rooms smoky hearth. A table, a chair, another stool, a narrow bed, and a chest. All rented. He owned little more than the clothes on his back, and they made a poor showing.

Theres a dead man in me room, she said, thick with a Southwark accent. She overpronounced her words, letting her lips slip back over her teeth, revealing them often. One bottom tooth was chipped and gray. Livith wasnt there. I couldnt ask her. Shes always there to explain, but she wasnt there.

He passed a hand over his face but his head hurt too much. He slowly sank to the stool. Who is Livith?

Shes me sister. She looks after me. I get confused. She always explains.

I see, he said, barely understanding. Wine might not be a bad idea at that, and he moved to the larder. He poured a bowl, but not for himself, and handed it to her. She stared into the wine and then looked up at him. Go on, he said. You look as if you need it.

She tipped the bowl with trembling fingers, sloshing some of the wine onto her faded blue gown and apron-covered lap. She tried to smile. A wine mustache made it pathetic.

Crispin sat on the chest this time and rested his hands on his thighs. He hoped it would keep the room from tilting. Why did you come to me?

Her lips twisted. Youre the Tracker, aint you? I heard of you from the others. You find out things. They say you was once a knight and know all sorts of matters.

He waved his hand and scowled, but that, too, hurt his head. Never mind that. Past history. It is your difficulty that intrigues me now. You have a problem and I am happy to solve it for you. But... I am paid for such a service.

I couldnt find Livith, so I came to you. Not the sheriffs. They scare me. I heard you was smart like her. Like Livith. You could reckon things out.

Yes, that is true. But I do so for a fee. Do you understand?

Livith wont let me have money.

No surprise there. Where is the dead man now?

In our room. At the Kings Head Inn. Were scullions there. Hes got an arrow in him, doesnt he?

An arrow? Crispin sat up straighter. I havent yet seen him. Do you know who he is?

No. Never saw him before. But hes dead now.

Never fear. I will do my best to find the man who killed him.

She cocked her head and blinked. But I already know who killed him.

Crispin made a surprised sound, but before he could respond with a question, the door flung wide. Crispin shot to his feet and blocked the woman from the unknown intruder.

A ginger-haired boy dashed into the room, slammed and bolted the door, and rested against it, panting. He looked up at Crispin through a mane of curled locks. Riotous freckles showed darker against his bone pale skin.

Jack! Crispin put a hand to his throbbing head. What by Gods toes are you doing?

Master, said the boy. His gaze darted between the girl peering around Crispins back and then up to Crispin again. Nought. Nought much.

Crispin glared at his charge. Jack Tucker was more trouble than any servant had a right to be. Certainly more so than had served him in the past. A pitiful servant, was Tucker. Seldom present when needed, almost always an annoyance, and just another mouth to feed. He had not wanted a servant! Not anymore. Not when he didnt deserve one.

Ah, if only seven years ago Crispin had not plotted treason. If only he had not been caught by the kings guards. If only they hadnt stripped him of his knighthood and his lands. If only... if only. Then he wouldnt be living on the stinking streets of the Shambles above a tinkers shop with a thief as a servant and a simpleton girl as a client.

The gods, too, are fond of a joke, he lamented.

Jack was eyeing the wine jug and Crispin was about to berate him for interrupting when the tinkers door below shook with muffled pounding. Crispin crossed to the opposing wall and threw open the shutters to the small window overlooking the street. The stench of butchering and offal rose to his second-story room. A boy lugging chickens in a stick cage hurried next door to the poulterer followed by a man carrying several dead coneys by their feet. He tramped through the mud, the rabbits long ears dragging with each stride.

Crispin leaned out over the sill. Two men stood at the tinker shop door right below him and beat on it with their fists.

He turned back to the room. For Gods sake, Jack. What have you done?

Jack shrugged, still looking at the girl. Begging your pardon, sir, for interrupting.