Veil of Lies (21 page)

What was he going to do about these foreign villains; what about the cloth? And what, by all the saints, was he to do about Philippa? The sheriff still thought her guilty of murder but Crispin believed otherwise. Or was it merely his feelings getting in the way?

A pleasant ache suffused his chest when he thought about her desirable softness, her eager compliance. He looked up to the window. A cold sweat dampened his chemise when he also thought about his admission to her.

He lightly touched the Mandyllon under his coat. He didn’t believe in the power of such things. He knew about profitable traffic in relics, and how easily faked they were. Wasn’t this just one more of those? Still, it was provable. All he had to do was deliberately lie in its presence.

A lie was easy to conjure. He’d made many as a means to his ends. A lie was only another tool, like a dagger or a sword.

He strolled down the lane, trying to think of a lie. A butcher called out to him. “Come sir! This is the finest flesh in all of London, except of course for the stews in Southwark.” He laughed at his own bawdy jest and Crispin turned to him. “Oh! Master Crispin. I did not see it was you.”

“Master Dickon,” Crispin responded. “I know how it is in Southwark,” he said with a crooked smile. “How is the meat in your own establishment today?”

Dickon lay his hand on a haunch swinging from an overhead hook. “Truth to tell, it ain’t as fine as it could be. Lots of gristle in this one. Better for stewing than roasting, but I will still try to get the best price. And a good price I will offer to you, of course.”

Crispin eyed him. “Did you truly mean to tell me that?” he asked in a hushed tone. “About the gristle.”

The butcher thought a moment. “Well now, I doubt I would tell another man such, but I have always tried to be honest with you, sir.”

“Are you certain? Did you not just get a sudden urge to tell me the truth?”

Dickon smiled awkwardly. “I don’t rightly know, sir. I don’t know until the moment strikes me, do I?”

Crispin nodded, dissatisfied. He thanked the butcher and proceeded on his way, heading up the small incline of the Shambles, which inevitably led him to Newgate and its prison.

He hadn’t meant to arrive there, but as he looked up its fortress walls and thought of its guards and many cells, an idea occurred to him.

19

Crispin sauntered down the dim corridors, the guards nodding to him in recognition of his uneasy relationship with Simon Wynchecombe. That alone allowed him free rein in Newgate, though it wasn’t his favorite haunt. Usually he headed directly for Wynchecombe’s hall in the corner tower, but today he swallowed his own revulsion of the place and strolled among the few cells, each arched portal closed up tight. Black iron hinges, double, triple strength, bolted tightly to the heavy oaken doors. Some doors had smaller, barred spy-holes, yet still others had none, making them dark and lonely places of despair.

He traveled down the passage lit only by an occasional pitch torch or cresset. All the doors seemed to be closed until he reached the end of the passage. One cell stood open. The straw that served as bedding and toilet sat in an unattended dung cart. Crispin darted a glance down both sides of the empty passage before slipping into the cell, cold with its open arrow-slit window. Embedded grillwork in the stone sill made certain the prisoner could not escape even if it were possible to squeeze through the tight window. If he managed even this feat, he would plunge four stories down, though a death in freedom was often preferable to the uncertain future of prison walls.

Crispin knew the feeling.

He ran his hands along the stone walls, looking for crumbling mortar. Reaching above his head, his fingers caught on a loose stone and he used his nails to pry it free. A hole barely big enough for his purposes, he nevertheless took out the folded cloth and did his best to stuff it in the hole. “If this is your face on this cloth, Lord, then I beg your mercy,” he grunted, pushing the stone block back into place. It teetered, trying to fit. Crispin withdrew his dagger and used the pommel to pound it in the rest of the way. He craned his neck to look at it and decided it needed mortar.

Under the window, a permanent mud hole collected from streaks of dribbling rain running down the discolored wall. He used his dagger again to scrape some with his blade and pasted it between the joints. He worked at it for a few minutes and then stood back to admire his effort.
I’m no mason, but if no one is looking for it, then I have nothing to fear.

He wiped his blade on his coat, sheathed it, and clapped the mud from his hands.

“Miss the place?”

Crispin stepped back, his hand on his dagger. He looked up at a squint-faced guard with a three-day beard and a leather cap slightly askew on his head. Ginger hair peeked from a tear in the cap, sticking out straight from his head like a sentinel.

“I am only looking around, Malvyn.”

Malvyn tapped his knife on the side of his face, scratching his unshaven chin. The blade was nicked and stained. Crispin wondered if he ever cleaned it.

“And here is his lord, standing in a cell again. What do we make of that? Shouldn’t you be in the sheriff’s hall?”

“I am not seeking out the sheriff today.” Crispin crossed the threshold and stood upwind of the gaoler before he turned his back on him.

“Now, Crispin. I thought we had become friends while you was here.”

Crispin chuckled with bared teeth. “We were never friends. I loathed the air you breathed.” He waved his hand before his own sharp nose. “I still do.”

“Now, now. Rudeness? That was never tolerated when you was a prisoner here.” He grabbed Crispin’s arm.

The cold feel of the man’s fingers closing over his skin flooded Crispin’s mind with memories he had no desire to revisit. He stiffened and spun. With a much stronger grip than Malvyn’s, he captured the man’s wrist and twisted until he sank down on one knee with a yowl.

“I am no longer a prisoner here!” Crispin growled. “And I will thank you not to touch me.” Crispin twisted the arm once more simply because he enjoyed it. With a feral grunt he released him, tossing the captured hand aside.

Clumsily, the man rose and found his footing. He scowled, face reddening as he wobbled toward Crispin to spear him with his finger. “You’ll come to regret this,” he snarled.

Crispin straightened his coat and turned on his heel. He didn’t look back as he strode down the passage. “That I doubt.”

Crispin took the stairs to his lodgings two at a time. He was anxious to see Philippa and tell her…tell her what? That he loved her? He’d said it once and didn’t know how it could be true. But didn’t he feel his heart leap when he looked at her? Didn’t he admire how she had lifted herself from her hardships? He wouldn’t speak of it again. Maybe she wouldn’t either. He chuckled at that. Wishful thinking. At least she would be relieved the Mandyllon was gone.

He opened his door carelessly, expecting to find both Philippa and Jack.

He did not expect the man across the room or the one behind the door.

20

Dark-haired and dark-skinned, the men wore livery. Crispin thought he recognized them.

But more notably, they both carried crossbows, and the weapons were cocked and aimed at him.

“Gentlemen,” said Crispin. “If I knew you were coming I would have prepared better hospitality.”

“You are to please come with us,” said the one across the room. His accent was thick with the sunshine and olive oil of the southern part of the continent.

Crispin slowly shook his head. “I do not think I would profit from that.”

“It is not a matter of what you think. It is a matter of who is better armed, no?”

Both foreign men smiled and raised their weapons higher. Crispin smiled, too, and nodded, all the while wondering where the hell Philippa and Jack could be. He decided he wouldn’t fancy ending up at the bottom of the Thames with two quarrels in him. That would help no one.

The closest man made a move toward him. With blood pumping madly through his every fiber, Crispin tensed and before the man could grab him, Crispin darted his hand forward and closed it around the wrist with the crossbow. With all his strength, he slammed it hard against the wall—once, twice. The man protested in Italian and was wrenched off balance by Crispin’s unrelenting blows. He nearly fell into Crispin, still holding tight to the weapon.

With an inarticulate shout, the man across the room lifted his crossbow and aimed.

Crispin spied him over the struggling man’s shoulder. With widened eyes, he yanked his attacker in front of him.

A whoosh and a thud told Crispin the bolt struck true—and hit square in the back of the man he pinned. The man cried out, twisting, clawing at the bolt in his back. But his thrashing grew weaker. Blood darkened the back of his coat.

The face of the other man parched white in horror and he lowered his weapon for only a moment before he snapped to and struggled to reload.

With a groan, Crispin’s attacker slumped to his knees, but without missing a beat, Crispin snatched the weapon from the man’s limp hand, aimed the crossbow, and pulled the trigger.

Both bodies hit the floor at the same time.

The room suddenly fell to silence. One of the men was whimpering. Crispin could not tell which one.

Panting, Crispin stepped back and stared at the bodies now littering his floor. Blood was seeping over the floorboards. And urine. He could smell it. At least one of them was already dead and the other soon would be.

He hefted the crossbow in his hand and studied the compact weapon with a sense of giddiness at having escaped the sharp scythe of Death once more. The gears and windlass of the crossbow interested him for only a moment. A fool’s weapon. Give him a dagger or a hunting bow any day.

He dropped the crossbow on top of the closest man.

The hard stillness was broken by the sound of slow, deliberate clapping, one hand striking the other. Crispin jerked toward the doorway, his hand on his dagger.

Abid Assad Mahmoud leaned in the jamb as if he had been there a long time. Perhaps he had. He stopped clapping when Crispin glared at him.

“My compliments,” said the man. “Well played.”

“Your crossbowmen, I presume?”

“Yes, but”—he looked them over and tutted—“mine no more.”

“Have you come to finish the task?” Crispin’s hand had not left his dagger.

“No. Only to tell you how disappointed I am. The girl was a special bonus. And now, well, there is nothing left with which to extort her.”

“No, your game is done.”

“Not quite. There is still the matter of the cloth.”

“And so. You admit it at last.”

“Yet you knew all along.” The Saracen walked into the room and looked about with a sneer on his bruised face. “So what do we have left to bargain with?”

“I do not wish to bargain with your like.”

“You do not know my like. I am a very valuable man in my country. But you are an infidel. All you see is the color of my skin. I must be pasty-white like the rest of you English in order to be trusted. What a small people you are.”

“I was in the Holy Land, Mahmoud. I saw followers of Muhammad treat us ‘pasty’ English and French with inhumanity.”

“As did your crusaders to our people. The sword cuts both ways.”

Crispin closed his hands into fists. He hoped he could use them. “What do you want, Mahmoud? I tire of this. Others want this cloth. What is your claim on it? Does it belong to you?”

“The Mandyllon? In a sense.”

“In what sense?”

He blinked slowly. His wide mouth spread in a crocodile’s smile. There was still swelling and bruising about his cheek and eye. It pleased Crispin to see it. “We commissioned it,” said Mahmoud.

“What do you mean you commissioned it? How is that possible?”

“Not the original one, of course.” He touched the back of Crispin’s chair. “Will you invite me to sit?”

“No.”

Mahmoud sat anyway. He eased back in the chair with an air of indifference, but all his muscles appeared taut and ready for any move from Crispin. “The man you know as Nicholas Walcote was paid to make a copy of the Mandyllon,” he said. “He was a clever thief, though. He made his copy, and when it was time for us to collect the true one, he made a substitution. It seems he left with the real cloth and we were left with the copy. This made our masters very unhappy. And when they are unhappy, people die.”

“You never met the real Walcote?”

“Alas, no.”

Crispin mulled the information, staring blindly at the nearest dead man. Blood stained the shirt around the arrow.
Masters?
“Then the missing cloth is the real one?”

“Missing?” Mahmoud laughed. “Crispin, you play such coy games.”

“Why did you need a copy?”

“My master did not wish for the keepers of the cloth to know it was appropriated.”

“Stolen, you mean.”

Mahmoud waved his hand and smiled.

Crispin glanced at the dead crossbowmen. “Don’t tell me
you
killed Walcote, or whatever his true name is?”

Mahmoud frowned, but his face wore amusement. “We wanted him dead, but we would not be so stupid as to kill him
before
we got the cloth back.”

Crispin wished for half a heartbeat that he was still holding the cloth and that it could tell him a lie from the truth. But he was also a good judge of men and a good judge of lies.

“Strangely,” he said, “I believe you.”

“I am gratified,” Mahmoud said.

“Yet this cloth that you so fiercely desire does not seem to belong to you?”

“Not strictly speaking, no.”

“Then we have nothing to discuss.”

“I think we do. My employers wish to make you an offer that you will find difficult to decline.”

“Oh? And what is that?”

Mahmoud rose and sauntered toward the door. His hand never left the pommel of a curved dagger in its intricately patterned sheath. “Give us the Mandyllon or the girl dies.”

A wave of panic seized Crispin, but his face only showed practiced indifference. “What if I were to negotiate directly with your masters?”

Mahmoud’s mouth flattened. “That would be ill-advised. My masters do not bargain amongst the lower classes.” He said the last with relish. Crispin fought the urge to frown.

“Would it surprise you to learn that your master is already negotiating with me?” The look on Mahmoud’s face more than made up for his last comment. “It seems he effectively cut you out of the entire process. Unless…he isn’t the master you speak of. I believe you said ‘masters.’”

Mahmoud shut his lips and strolled across the room. He stared down at one of the dead men. “That is all of little consequence,” he replied quietly.

“Truly? Will this not displease your masters, whoever they are? That at least one of them was forced to negotiate with me? That
you
failed?”

The Saracen looked up. “The end is still the same.”

“The end.” Crispin chuckled and leaned against the doorpost. “Indeed. The
end.
”

Mahmoud rushed him. He snarled, his hand on his dagger. “What have you told them?”

Crispin blinked slowly, enjoying it. “Only what I needed to.”

“They don’t know about the girl,” he growled. “I do. I suggest you surrender the Mandyllon to me before I get to her.”

“You don’t know where she is.”

Mahmoud cast his glance purposefully about the room. “Don’t I?” He saluted Crispin and rolled out of the doorway.

Crispin cast a glance at the dead men again before he dashed for the door. He got two paces on the landing before he stopped sharply.

No one was there.

“What the devil—?”

Just that moment Jack and Philippa passed the eclipse of light and shadow at the bottom of the stairway. They trotted upwards when Philippa looked up and raised a startled hand to her chest. “Crispin!”

“Didn’t you see him?”

She ascended to the landing where Crispin stood, peering past her. “Who?”

“Mahmoud. You must have just passed him.”

Philippa turned to Jack who had come up beside her. “We saw no one.”

Like smoke.
Mahmoud’s threat still hung in the air. Crispin’s voice remained calm but his heart hammered against his ribs. “Where have you been?”

“Jack went with me to get some food.”

“Where did you get the money? Jack, haven’t I told you a thousand times—”

“It wasn’t him,” she said, putting a hand on Jack’s drooping shoulders.

“You said you didn’t have any money.” He looked at her hand resting on Jack. “You pawned your wedding ring.”

She covered the empty ring finger with the other hand. “What any self-respecting servant would do.”

Jack chuckled. “I like her,” he said.

“Now that you’re back we must go.”

“Go?” she cried. “Go where? What did Mahmoud want?”

Jack groaned. “She was going to cook, Master Crispin. No offense, but I am tired of your cooking, and mine.”

“She hasn’t the time.” He took her elbow and steered her down the stairs.

Dejected, Jack stood holding the poultry and sausages. “What should I be doing?” he asked.

Crispin stopped. “Oh. Jack, call for the sheriff. If he has any questions…well, it is certain he will, and I will answer to him anon. But…not at this moment.”

“Call the sheriff for what?”

“Those men in our room. I’m afraid they are dead.”

“What?”

Without looking back, he ushered Philippa away, but she dragged her heels in the mud and brought him to a halt. “Crispin! I will not take one more step until you tell me where we are going! And what did that terrible man want?”

“You are going to a safer location and stay with some friends of mine.”

“But Crispin.” She melted naturally into his arms. Her touch brought an instant response. “I thought you wanted me all to yourself.”

He wanted to kiss her, but the reality of their public surroundings sunk in. He gently pushed her back. “I want you alive.” He glanced up and saw a few turned heads. It took all his strength to step back. “You have enough scandal to contend with without talk of your living with a man.”

She set her jaw and planted a fist at her hip. “What’s the matter? What tidings have you heard?”

“Mahmoud threatened you.”

She laughed, a hearty, throaty sound, one that made him tingle with desire. He had felt that laugh tremble against his chest only last night. It almost made him lose his resolve. “He can’t have me anymore,” she said triumphantly. “That game is done!”

“He wants the cloth.”

“You didn’t give it to him!”

“No, nor will I. It is a tangled tale, to be sure. There is more than one syndicate at work here. Yet there is one thing I am certain of. Neither killed your husband.”