Chaos. All its inhabitants glared up at him, curses on their lips. Spears shook, swords flashed. They wanted his blood, that much was certain.
With his chest pressed to the glass he felt the window with his fingers, the edges of glass, the lead dividers, looking for a latch or hinge.
Then his heart burst with a shot of warmth. The window didn’t open. He was a dead man.
He looked back down and wondered who he should land on for the best effect. It would be the last choice he ever made so he wanted it to be a good one.
He saw it like a story woven into a tapestry. The man below cocked back his arm and took aim at Crispin. The spear released in a long and graceful arc, straight at him. If he didn’t move it would surely pierce him, and he wondered in the few heartbeats it took for the spear to leave the guard’s hand, if he shouldn’t let it do its work. The aim was good and would, no doubt, do great damage to his chest. All he had to do was stand as he was and make no attempt to move. A simple thing. Better than the death Richard would choose this time. Crispin ruminated on the possibilities—on who would mourn him, where his miserable body might be buried if allowed such an ennobling thing as burial. But then his instincts took over, made the decision, and forced him to lean to the side just as the lethal missile slid past him. The spear crashed through the window in a barrage of broken glass and twisted lead.
Crispin windmilled his arms, trying to keep his balance. He stared at the window’s suddenly gaping hole. That would do.
He closed his eyes, gave in to faith, and hurled himself through.
18
CRISPIN FELL A LONG time, or so it seemed. A belly-churning ride toward the unknown. He did not know whether a grassy square awaited or a stone courtyard. Either way it was a long drop and likely to hurt.
He struck the thorny bushes right away like many sharp knives pricking his skin through the coat. It broke his initial fall, but then he continued his momentum through the cracking branches and pointed twigs. The sounds of snapping wood were only slightly louder than his own grunts.
He hit the ground on his shoulder, heard a crack, and exhaled with a wave of pain. He had a feeling the bone had just dislocated. As much as he wanted to lie on the ground and moan out his suffering, he knew he didn’t have time for it.
Rolling to his feet, he assessed his surroundings. Still within the walls of the palace, he knew he had to get out at once. Oh for a sword! A glance at the walls made his sore shoulder twinge. Never mind the sword. Wings would be better appreciated about now.
Holding his sore arm, he pushed forward and trotted along the wall’s perimeter. With a groan, he knew he’d have to climb.
The palace grounds meandered. It wouldn’t be an easy thing to simply scale the wall and be out into London. Whose courtyard was this beyond the wall? What did it matter? He just needed to rest for a while. He was getting dizzy and slightly dazed. He needed to find someplace safe and quickly. Crispin took a breath and found that the pain in his shoulder made it difficult to draw a deep one. Maybe staying in the palace was the best course. They certainly wouldn’t suspect he’d be fool enough to remain.
A tree near the wall offered a good place to climb, but it wasn’t a nice gnarled oak to give plenty of easy footholds. It was a tall, thin larch with a gangly arm thrown over the wall, a branch barely thick enough for a man’s weight.
No time to debate it.
Crispin hugged the tree and clenched his teeth. His shoulder was definitely misaligned. Nothing he could do about it. It was climb or die. He raised his knees and shimmied carefully up the rough bark. He felt as if he were traveling up an inch at a time. There was no telling when his pursuers would appear and he wanted the chance to get over the wall before they made it to the courtyard. If they didn’t know what direction he’d gone he’d have a better chance to get away clean.
At last. He reached the limb hanging over the wall. He maneuvered toward it and tried to swing his leg over. His shoulder screamed its reluctance. He dug into the bark with his fingernails, tightened his arms around the limb and dragged his body forward, inch by inch, until he could open his eyes through the pain and look down. He would chuckle if he had the strength. “Out on a limb as usual,” he muttered. Below was the gravel, mud, and grass of another courtyard, but it was a long way down. The wall was covered in thick ivy. Their bright green leaves shone silver in the dying light. If he could get to the wall itself, he might be able to slide down the ivy, alleviating a lot of pain. It was worth a try.
He’d have to fall just right. And what are the chances of that? Not much had gone right this evening, except he did stop the assassination. But what of tomorrow? He’d never be able to get into the palace again. In fact, after tonight, it might not be possible to stay in London at all.
He stuffed that thought away for another time. If he dwelled on it, he might give up altogether and he certainly wasn’t prepared to do that now.
Crispin drew a long breath and assessed the wall. He wiggled to the edge of the limb, looked down, and let his body peel over the side. His feet hit the wall first and then his knees collapsed under him. He rolled in the wrong direction, tearing off large swaths of ivy, and then managed to right himself and slid down through the foliage, bouncing off the last bit near the ground. He tumbled into the quiet courtyard and saw that it ran along Saint Stephen’s chapel and the palace. He lay propped against the wall. With a shudder, he realized he was in the same pose as the French courier shot with a deadly arrow two days ago, but there was little he could do. He had to get his breath back before he could rise.
He listened. No sound. No shouts or running feet. He was safe for the moment but knew it wouldn’t last.
Crispin pushed himself up the wall and stood, panting. His shoulder was bad. Something would have to be done soon, but first things first. He ran along the long courtyard and finally slowed when he reached another wall. He didn’t think he had the strength to climb another wall. He looked up at the apartments instead, saw a gentle light through the tall windows, and staggered toward them.
IT WAS POSSIBLE CRISPIN slept only a few minutes. It was also possible he slept for a few hours. He wasn’t certain when he opened his eyes. Huddled in a dark corner beneath the shadow of a chessboard, Crispin stared at the darkened window. Shards of moonlight slid across the panes, and these were only visible riding on the brief slant of rain pelting the obsidian-dark glass. The room seemed familiar but his hazy mind would not supply an answer.
The rolling ache in his shoulder told him not to move. His mouth felt dry. He spied a flagon sitting on a tray, its belly lit by a single candle and the glow of embers in the hearth that did little to warm him. His cloak had been left behind in Onslow’s kitchens. He supposed many a day would pass before he could fetch it, if ever he could. He’d have to make due with the short shoulder cape and hood.
A step. He cringed into the darkness. The door opened and a figure entered. Crispin couldn’t tell who it was in the gloom and he waited until the figure approached the fire, picked up a poker, and jammed it into the wood, stirring the coals to flames.
Without a sound Crispin rose and stood behind him. He hated like hell to do it, but he drew his dagger and pressed the tip to the small of the man’s back.
“Don’t turn around.”
The figure tensed. Crispin could tell the man wanted to swing out with his arm. He saw the arm curve, the fingers curl into a fist.