Veil of Lies (15 page)

Crispin waited. The sword would either strike him or not. Either way suited.

“My lord husband! Is this the courtesy you extend to my guests?”

Lancaster stared at her. His scowl hid amid the dark beard and mustache. The sword lowered and his shoulders with it. “You did this,” he said to her. “You brought him here.”

“In all fairness,” she said, moving forward and laying a gentle, white hand on Lancaster’s sword arm, “he protested. I forced him to it.”

With a huff that gusted his mustache, Lancaster slid the blade back in its sheath. Without a word, he made a slow circlet of his overturned chair and finally stood behind it. “You take liberties, Madam,” he said gently to his wife. “You do not understand the seriousness—”

“I understand when an old friend is neglected. And I understand when it is politically expedient. But I also understand that our friend Crispin does not take such a visitation lightly, and therefore it must be of some import.” She angled her head at Crispin. The gold cages cupping the rolled braids at her ears sparkled when she turned. “It is of some import, is it not?” she whispered to him. “Do not make a liar out of me.”

“Yes, my lady.” He bowed to her and looked up hopefully at Lancaster. “It is.”

The duke closed his eyes for a moment. The dark lids rose slowly and he sighed. He leaned down, righted his chair, and sat heavily. “Will you leave us?” he asked her.

She curtseyed, pressed her hand a moment on Crispin’s, and left.

Crispin stood alone waiting for Lancaster to speak. The roaring fire diminished under Lancaster’s presence and even the wooden floor feared to creak lest his eye be directed there.

It was one of the longest silences of Crispin’s life.

At length, the duke cleared his throat, closed his books one by one, and set his quill aside. “When the king asks me why you were here,” he said, raising his face, “I hope to answer him with substance. For he
will
ask me, and I must make it known that no new conspiracies are afoot.”

Crispin looked at the scuffed toes of his boots. “I needed to come—”

“Rashness, Crispin. Always your downfall. You do not spend enough time reasoning it out.”

“Your grace—”

“Is it another one of your criminal inquiries? Why you cannot leave it to the law I will never understand.”

“Because the law founders on its own ineptness…your grace.”

By the look on Lancaster’s face, he didn’t exactly agree. The duke rose from his chair and took his time approaching. Lancaster studied Crispin’s threadbare coat, its patches, and the careless stitching that repaired his stockings.

Crispin felt each blink of the man’s lash, each snort of disdain in his throat. To appear before his lord in something little better than rags…Crispin felt his face flush with heat.

Finally, Lancaster stopped and looked Crispin in the eye. “I thought I made it clear that I did all I could for you. Wasn’t saving your life good enough?”

The words smarted. “And I thanked you for it. But there is information only you can provide. No one else in the council will have anything to do with me. I hoped you would have the courage to admit me.”

Lancaster’s hand slapped his sword hilt. “How dare you!”

Crispin eyed the sword and slowly raised his gaze. “What more can be done to me?”

Lancaster’s brows were perfect black arches. His lower lip jutted slightly forward. “I can think of a thing or two,” he said in a deadly voice.

Crispin’s blood chilled, but he would not stand down. “I would not be here if I did not think England’s welfare was at stake.”

Lancaster’s hand fell away from his sword. “So”—he snorted—“your
loyalty
brings you?”

“I am London born and raised, your grace. I am as much England as the king.”

Lancaster huffed a sound somewhere between a laugh and a grunt. “His Majesty would not be particularly pleased to hear that.” He glared at Crispin before retreating to the sideboard. He poured himself wine from a silver flagon but offered none to Crispin. He stood with his back to him and drank.

Crispin studied Lancaster’s wide shoulders. Being at home, the duke wore no armor, but Crispin was almost more used to him in the black armor he was so fond of. Today he wore a velvet houppelande whose sleeve points surpassed the gown’s knee-length hem and nearly touched the floor. The coat’s face was quartered by the colorful arms of Gaunt and Castile. Only ten years Crispin’s senior, he seemed so much older, so much stronger and heroic. Here was a man with claims to the throne of Castile and Leon. He was unafraid of any power in Europe. And though he warned Crispin of the king’s wrath, Crispin suspected he did not fear Richard himself.

“What worries you so about England’s welfare,” Lancaster asked, his back still to Crispin, “that only the Tracker could salvage it?”

He did not know Lancaster knew his new title. He felt uncomfortable hearing him utter it. “I know of a scheme that has our enemies embezzling England’s export taxes.”

Lancaster spun and stared at him openmouthed.

Crispin’s solemn lips curved up at one edge. “Is that important enough to concern you?”

“Who? Who is stealing the king’s money?”

“I have reason to believe it is the duke of Milan, Bernabò Visconti.”

Lancaster set down the bowl and grabbed Crispin’s arm to steer him toward two chairs at the fire. He pushed Crispin into one and sat in the other. “Tell me what you know.”

Crispin’s heart panged. This was too much like the old days. “I do not know much. Only that there is an Italian syndicate working its plots in England. I suspect they have on their payroll a guild member who performs creative bookkeeping at the staple ports.”

“Do you have proof?”

Crispin leaned forward and rested his fist on his thigh. “Alas, no. The ledgers were stolen from my lodgings. I think a man was murdered because he knew the truth.”

“Who was this murdered man?”

“A mercer. A rich one. Nicholas Walcote. I suspect those particular funds are stolen to prevent Richard from lining his war chest. Does he plan on marching to France any time soon?”

Lancaster sat back and pinched his lower lip between his thumb and finger. “Yes. That is…he did. Before Parliament advised him there were insufficient funds for such a venture. Now I know why.”

“Why would Visconti wish to interfere with our war with France? What’s to be gained?”

Lancaster sat as he was for a long time. He lowered his hand at last and let his arm drape over the chair arm. “Do you remember Geoffrey Chaucer?”

The name sent a warmth of memories through Crispin’s mind. “Of course. He served in your household. We were the best of friends. But it has been years since I have seen him.” Another ache of longing tightened his chest. Naturally he was forbidden from seeing his former friends for fear that the king’s vengeance would rain down upon them. They had been like brothers and never would he risk that.

He cleared his thickened throat. “I hear of his works from time to time.”

“Yes. I am his patron, as you know. But he is also a customs controller…and a sometimes spy for the crown.”

“Geoffrey?”

“Do you recall when I sent you to Visconti’s court?”

“Yes. I still smart from my stupidity.”

“You are not the only one. It pleased Visconti to make fools of the king’s emissaries. Chaucer was sent some years ago and also quite recently.”

“Can you tell me what he discovered?”

“Only that your fears are true. Visconti has been negotiating with France for months, perhaps longer. We believe his intentions are to prevent our troops from invading France, and in return, he will receive control of Calais and the route to Flanders.”

“He wants to control the wool market.”

“Yes. And if he does, it will bankrupt England.”

Crispin’s gaze never left Lancaster’s. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do. If Visconti controls the major ports to Europe, he will control what and where we sell our goods. That cannot stand. I have operatives in Italy now.” He cast a hand irritably skyward. “My grandfather and his Italian bankers! If King Edward Longshanks had not aligned himself with these Italian Jews in the first place—”

“Yet it was your grandfather who established the collection of export taxes on wool. Almost one hundred years of successful taxation.”

“Still, I never trusted these foreigners. And now they forestall our goods, commit piracy, and steal our taxes.”

“Perhaps not all can be blamed on these Italians. Parliament froze wages but did not freeze prices. Wat Tyler—”

“Burned down my house!” Lancaster rose to the edge of his chair. “Do you traffic with his like now?”

“No, your grace. I merely point out that he and his ilk were angry at the state of commerce. The ills of the market may well have been ripe for the picking.”

Lancaster scowled and sat back. His tensed shoulders dropped again. “We did it to ourselves?”

“The door was left open. Now the rats have come in.”

Lancaster’s hand curled into a fist. “I should strike you for such insolence.”

Crispin blinked. “As you will, my lord.”

Crispin eyed his former mentor, awaiting a clout. Lancaster had done it many times before when Crispin was a much younger man. But this time the duke did not move. Instead he leaned back in his chair and studied Crispin. Lancaster raised his hand, but not to strike. He gestured at Crispin’s face. “Who did that to you?”

Crispin raised his hand to his face, partially obscuring it from view. Damn. He’d forgotten how he looked. “It is part and parcel of the job.”

“Is it?” Lancaster put a thumb to his mouth and ran it across the upper lip and then down his dark mustache.

This felt far too comfortable, recalled too many nights similar to this.
I want to come home,
Crispin longed to cry.
Here, where I belong!
His gaze slid upward toward the duke’s and met his dark eyes. They regarded Crispin with sudden gentleness. Crispin could almost imagine him saying, as he had said so often, “Crispin, my lad.”

Feeling a sting at his eyes, Crispin sprang to his feet, turning his face away from the man. “There is much for me to do,” said Crispin, rubbing his hands together. They couldn’t seem to get warm. “Forgive me for intruding upon your privacy.”

“It is not an intrusion,” the duke said softly. “It is more…” He shook his head, his face contorted with warring emotions. “More like a breath of fresh air.”

“Don’t.” Crispin stared into the fire until his eyes had a reason to burn.

Lancaster sighed and didn’t speak again for several heartbeats. But when he did speak, it was as if reluctant to let Crispin go so soon. “The king’s guards can be put at your disposal.”

“Oh?” Crispin chuckled guardedly. “So quickly my fortunes turn.”

“I can make the king understand—”

“Do not trouble yourself. It is dangerous to speak of him and me in the same sentence, remember? And I work alone.”

“Crispin, do not let your stubborn streak undo you again. There is too much at stake for your pride to get in the way.”

Crispin rolled his shoulders and straightened. “I work best alone. I find it difficult to trust others.” Lancaster nodded but still looked concerned. To mollify, Crispin added, “Should I need the court’s help, I shall work through the Lord Sheriff’s office.”

Lancaster snapped his head in a nod. “Better.” He rose and stood toe to toe with Crispin. “It seems you did have information of great import. I must thank the intelligence of my wife.”

“The duchess is always to be highly praised.”

Lancaster looked Crispin over again and even smiled. “Until we meet again, Crispin.” He turned, but over his shoulder he added, “But not too soon, eh?”

Leaving court, Crispin felt satisfied relief. Vindication sometimes came at a price. At least this time he had not paid too dearly. And it had been good to be in the man’s presence again.

So Visconti wanted to maneuver the English market not by armed invasion but by backroom conspiracies. If he and his men killed Nicholas Walcote, it wasn’t for the Mandyllon. Whoever has the books must be Walcote’s killer. But what about the locked door to Walcote’s solar?