Serpent in the Thorns: A Medieval Noir by Jeri Westerson

Author:Jeri Westerson [Westerson, Jeri]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: General, Fiction, Murder, Mystery & Detective, Great Britain, Mystery, Historical, London (England)
ISBN: 9780312649449
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 2010-09-28T00:00:00+00:00

HE MADE HIS WAY back to the kitchens, keeping his hood low over his face and his head down. When he left the kitchens no one remarked on it. No one remarked his passing through the Great Gate and he was safe to make his way through Westminster and back to London. He arrived at his lodgings by late afternoon.

Walking in the door, he inhaled the heady aromas of two hocks of pork roasting over the fire.

Jack turned from his basting and smiled. “Master, what’s the news?”

Crispin took off his cloak and hood, hung them on a peg, and fell into a chair. He sighed. “Much has happened, Jack. I’ve had to move the wenches again.” He related the story.

Jack listened and took one hock. Laying it on a slab of hard bread, he handed it to Crispin and then fetched a bowl from the larder shelf and poured wine into it from the jug. He put the bowl beside Crispin and then prepared his own supper.

Crispin chewed the meat, keeping his eyes on his food.

“So,” said Jack, settling beside Crispin. “When are you going to tell me the rest?”

Damn the boy. “The rest?”

“Aye. The rest you’re trying so hard not to tell me.”

Suddenly the pork didn’t taste as good. Crispin tossed the bone into the fire. He rose and went to the water jug and basin, pouring the icy water over his hands and shaking off the wet. “I discovered from whom the arrows came.”

Jack gulped his wine and settled expectantly on his stool. “Well?”

Crispin shook his head, tried to chuckle. “It’s absurd,” he said, returning to the table and sitting. “There is a simple explanation.”

“Aye. There could be. If you’d just tell me.”

Crispin stared at Jack, at a face that didn’t seem to belong to a young boy anymore. Jack’s eyes were wise. Well, sympathetic, at any rate. They did not show impatience as they should. They only waited. Who was this boy? As alone in the world as Crispin was. Clever. Resourceful. Just born on the wrong side of the Thames.

Crispin sighed. “Very well, Jack. Master Peale was quite insistent that the arrows were made for . . . the duke of Lancaster.”

No protestations, no jumping up with shouts of denial. Jack was calm, even nodded thoughtfully.

It irritated like hell.

“The duke’s arrows, eh? That’s a sly trick, that. Stealing his arrows so he’d appear to be guilty.”

The simplest of explanations. Crispin’s gut was so tangled that he had not been able to dredge up such an uncomplicated rationalization.

“So,” said Jack, mouth bulging with food. “Whoever stole his grace’s arrows is the killer.”

Crispin bobbed his head inattentively. “It’s as good a conjecture as any.”

“So what you’re saying is, there ain’t no way to trace them to the Captain of the Archers now, is there?”

Crispin gritted his teeth and took a swig. The wine—turning quickly to vinegar—burned down his throat. “In truth, no.” He slammed the table with the flat of his hand. “Damn!”

“Then you’ll have to catch him in the act.

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