Veil of Lies (12 page)

Crispin gritted his teeth again and sheathed the blade to remove the temptation. “She is a wealthy woman,” he replied more calmly than he felt. “She has no need to sell herself.”

“Did I say it was for money? Does not everyone have a price?”

Crispin drew aim down his sharp nose at Mahmoud. “You extorted her for sex? What kind of man are you?”

“The kind who gets what he wants.”

The door flung open. Two figures silhouetted against the bright doorway rushed forward. Crispin tried to draw his dagger, but one man closed enormous hands over his throat. The hands pressed tighter until Crispin could not take another breath. The already dark room sank to blackness and then nothing.

8

Cold water lapped over Crispin’s nose and mouth, and he jerked awake, choking and spitting. He blinked, trying to make sense of his surroundings. He shivered from the cold and wet. Dark. He seemed to be moving, floating.

Slowly, he realized his hands were lashed behind his back and his ankles tied together. He bobbed in the water against something hard and jagged.

Now wide-eyed and fully awake, Crispin measured his predicament. Dead of night, floating in the Thames, and bound. His feet were tied to something. A weight? But if they were, shouldn’t he be in the bottom of the river by now?

He jerked his legs but they were caught on something. Whatever they had used hadn’t worked and his own natural buoyancy had kept him alive. At least for now. He had obviously drifted with the current and was deposited under a wharf.

A swell thrashed him against the crusty pier and washed over his face. He spat the brackish water and lifted his chin. If he did not drown with the tide, he would certainly be battered to death.

Night still hung above the lapping water in dense, bloated clouds of fog. To call for help was useless. No one would hear. He struggled with his bonds, but the water made the rough rope tight. His clothes added more weight. His belt cinched the wet garments to his waist.

The belt. His knife! Still there?

With cold-deadened hands, he felt with the tips of his fingers for the belt. Index and middle fingers grasped it. He pulled in his gut and managed to inch the belt slowly around his waist. Another swell made him rise and washed another brackish swallow of water in his mouth. He shivered but willed himself to stop, to calm his racked body. In such a state, the work would take longer, and he knew he didn’t have much time left. His whole body felt numb and heavy as if it had soaked up the entire Thames.

Laboriously, he continued to drag the belt, but it pulled his coat into bulging gathers.

His fingers touched something. The scabbard? He walked his fingers along the leather until he felt the dagger’s metal guard. He pulled the belt further—difficult for the soaking coat—and managed to wrap his fingers around the hilt.

A disorienting wave lifted him and he hit the pier. Barnacles cut into his shoulder, exciting a wave of pain. He spat water, forgetting the ache and numbness, and concentrated on the dagger’s hilt.

Slowly, he edged the knife from the sheath. The hilt danced on the tips of his deadened fingers. Then the knife slipped. He clenched his hands. They were so cold he wasn’t sure if he had it. He squeezed with all his might and detected something there.
Not the coat,
he prayed. Something hard between his fingers.

The knife hilt.

He forced his lungs to breathe fully and evenly against his shivering. He inched the blade from its sheath, using his heartbeat as a measuring guide. Slowly…slowly. He felt the tip linger on the edge of the sheath and teeter once free. The knife hung for a moment in his hands. He blew out a breath just as a swell covered his mouth and his breath came out as bubbles. He crashed against the pier again, numbing the scratched shoulder. He tightened his grip on the knife, thankful to have a hold of it.

Though he could no longer feel his knees, he bent them so his knife could reach the tether at his ankles. The action rolled his back and pulled his face below the water. He held his breath for as long as he could and sawed at the wet rope.

Flexing his knees again, he popped his face above the water, took a deep breath, and plunged again, straining his shoulders to saw his feet free from behind his back. Back and forth he bent and flexed and then rested. It seemed to take hours. Was it taking hours? Crispin’s mind unfocused, and he shook out his head to sharpen his concentration again. If he let his mind go he would certainly die.

The rope snapped and his numb feet floated free. He rested a moment before he pulled his knees to his chest and rolled in the water. With a grunt, he yanked his bound hands up from under his feet to the front. One hand hung on his boot. The effort tired him and he bobbed in the water for a span, spine curled, one leg straight with the other gathered to his chest. He breathed, gazed for a moment at the stars, and wondered, only briefly, if it was the last time he would see them.

With waning strength he pulled his hand free. Both legs were now straight and his arms hung forward. With hands still bound, he swam to shore, unsure where along the Thames he was, and crawled up the bank. He lay on the rocky beach, shivering and panting. Gathering what was left of his strength, he drew the knife blade down with his fingers and sawed at the bonds at his wrist while lying prone, the waves lapping at his boots. And then…

Free.

Crispin sprawled on his back, arms splayed like a damp crucifix, the stones of the shore digging into his spine. But he did not care. He was alive. Finally he turned over and rose on his hands and knees, spitting out the last of the Thames. Unsteadily he regained his feet and wrapped his sodden cloak about him, though its icy dampness did little to protect from the cold.
I must go home
pulsed through his mind. Between the strangulation by Mahmoud’s henchmen and the near drowning, Crispin’s head was good for nothing but the one thought.

He staggered up the bank and glanced up the road, recognizing Thames Street at the mouth of the Walbrook. At least he landed on the correct side of the river, though he had a long way to go to the Shambles.

Crispin gathered his cloak and hugged himself, dragging his numb feet one in front of the other. Vaguely, he thought of seeking shelter in a tavern, but those establishments were surely barred at this time of night. He saw no lights in any windows.

The wind gave no quarter and whipped about his wet clothes, encasing him in an icy cocoon.

Somehow he managed to get to the Shambles, to ascend the stairs of Martin Kemp’s tinker shop. But when he reached the landing he was unable to uncurl his claw of a hand to open his own door. Out of the wind but far from warm, Crispin collapsed at his threshold just as Jack Tucker opened the door.

Crispin dreamed of the giant hearths at Lancaster’s palace. Sheathed in a large fur robe, he settled on a cushion before the blazing fire. A pot of mulled wine warmed soothingly near the flames and its aroma of spices and cinnamon melted his humor into a mellow mood.

Someone nudged his shoulder. “Master,” he said. “Master Crispin.”

Crispin opened his sticky eyes and slowly recognized Jack. The robes wound round him were not fur but woolens, and the spiced aroma from the fire was little more than his steaming clothes drying before the hearth.

“My lord,” said Jack, kneeling by the bed and ignoring Crispin’s admonitions not to use the latent title. “What happened to you, sir?”

Crispin pulled the warm, dry blanket under his chin. He looked down at his wrist and the raw weal encircling the bone where the ropes had been. “Our friend at the Thistle,” he began, in a raspy whisper, “has even bigger friends. I do not think I was meant to survive.”

He recounted to Jack all he knew, from the first moments of his encounter with Mahmoud to his struggle in the freezing Thames.

Jack did not close his mouth throughout the telling, shaking his head and muttering prayers. When Crispin finished, Jack frowned. “So Philippa Walcote sold her body to this pagan—not for money, but because…because why?”

“An interesting question. One I shall put to her the moment I am able to stand.”

Jack rubbed his mouth and squinted. “But Master. Might she be in danger now that this man has told you their doings?”

“They think I am dead. But she needs to be warned that perhaps Mahmoud’s intentions have changed. You’d better give her a message.”

Jack nodded, his hand on his knife hilt.

Crispin thought of asking Jack to get his writing things, but he worried at Philippa’s reading skills. “Get her alone, Jack. Tell her that the man at the Thistle has told me all and her life may be in jeopardy.” He lay back and licked his lips. They tasted of fear. “Go quickly, Jack.”

9

Crispin awoke the next morning. No sign of Jack, and the fire dimmed to a few halfhearted flames. Crispin wrapped the woolens about him and staggered toward the hearth. He grasped the poker and broke up the slabs of peat mingled with bundled sticks, renewing the fire’s fervor. He stood unsteadily and stared into the hearth, hoping Jack’s message was made plain enough to Philippa. His heart buffeted his chest when he thought of her. Why was she giving herself to this man? Was she mad? What did she need to protect so badly that she was willing to subject herself to Mahmoud’s lust? Was it the Mandyllon?

He straightened. He still felt shaky but wanted to get to Philippa himself and talk with her. She must not go back to Mahmoud…or did she already know that? Better yet, he’d rather pay a visit to Mahmoud and find out what the man was hiding. If it was something about the Mandyllon, perhaps he could bargain.

After all, Crispin knew where it was.

He threw off the blankets and carefully dressed. The clothes were dry but still smelled of the Thames, though with a smoky tinge.

He descended the steps unsteadily, resting halfway. He supported himself with a hand to the wall and continued down until he reached the bottom.

He lifted his head and stared down the avenue. He hadn’t felt this weak in a long time and wondered if this were the best time to face Mahmoud. But then the scene of Philippa in Mahmoud’s room filled his mind. Damn her and her secrecy! If only she would say. How he hated secrets.

The Thistle had never seemed farther.

He trudged down lane after lane, hugging his cloak against the shrill wind that snaked through the twisting streets. It brought with it a cascade of whirling brown leaves plucked from autumn-dead trees. They rambled about his feet like playful pups, darting unpredictably before and behind. Their playfulness would turn soon enough once the earnestness of winter hit—not with a patter but more like the sound of rattling bones.

His steps echoed.
His
steps? He took a brief glance behind and saw, distantly, a man in livery, head bent forward out of the wind. The man trudged diligently though not as quickly as Crispin.

Crispin turned a few corners, just to see, and looked back again.

The man was gone.

Suspicious. Every footfall was now filled with portent. His mouth felt dry even though he’d almost swallowed all the Thames. It wasn’t water he wanted. It was wine, and plenty of it.

Crispin reached the Thistle and spied Lenny trying to blend into the street’s shadows. Crispin glanced at him and Lenny gave him an acknowledging nod.

Entering the inn’s warm interior, Crispin sighed. The smoky fire partially obscured the nameless men beside the hearth, and the others at farther tables were too absorbed by their drink and food to bother with him.

He stood for a moment and scanned the room, trying to locate the men who guarded Mahmoud, but he did not recognize anyone. The men who had tried to kill him seemed enormous, but he never really got a good look at them. They could be any of a number of these men in the room, laughing over their beakers of ale.

It didn’t matter. He strode across the room, licking his lips at the many jugs of wine, and caught sight of the innkeeper. The man blanched when he spied Crispin and tried to escape through the kitchens.

Crispin lunged for the kitchen curtain and grabbed the innkeeper by the long tail of his hood. “Leaving?” he growled and drew him into a corner of the warm kitchen. Crispin pulled him close till he almost cradled the man against him.

The innkeeper turned a bruised face to Crispin. “Now good Master, you’ve done me ill. See what he’s done!”

“Give me the key.”

He shook his head furiously. “He’ll kill me! He said so.”

“How much gold did they give you to look the other way as they dragged me bound and bleeding into the night?”

“But—” the tavernkeeper sputtered.

Crispin’s fist silenced the man. When he crumpled to the floor, Crispin farmed the key ring from his belt. He offered a warning sneer to the petrified kitchen servants and made for the stairs. When he reached the landing, he used the key and flung wide the door. Mahmoud sat hunched over his plate of roasted meat and pickled cucumbers. When he saw Crispin, he tossed the entire table aside.

“You!” Mahmoud reached for the curved dagger at his belt, but he was far too slow. Crispin threw a sloppy punch. Instead of a smooth uppercut, it was a ragged sideways swipe, but it did the trick as neatly as a clear shot. His knuckles connected with the jaw, slamming the teeth together. Blood spurted between Mahmoud’s suddenly flaccid lips. A fan of red sprayed across his chest. He staggered backward, giving Crispin the opportunity to drop his fist in Mahmoud’s belly. Mahmoud bent double and struggled for breath and footing. Crispin closed and locked the door. No more interruptions.

He returned to Mahmoud, watched him gasp for a moment bent as he was, and with a smile of satisfaction, reared back and kicked him in the face with the heel of his boot.

Mahmoud fell to the floor unconscious. A patch of blood and spittle pooled under his cheek.

Crispin rubbed his hand and unsheathed Mahmoud’s dagger. He examined its curved blade and admired its sharpness before tossing it into the fire.

Crispin righted the table and looked for a wine jug but remembered that Saracens were disposed against spirits. “Uncivilized,” he muttered and picked up the chair and sat. He watched Mahmoud’s immobile form gurgle. Each breath made red, bloody bubbles at his nostrils.

The sunlight in the room soon changed. Crispin decided he could wait no longer. He took a nearby jug of water and poured it on the man’s head.

Mahmoud sputtered and blinked. He scrambled to a sitting position and glared at Crispin. He ran his hand over his face, wincing at the newly formed bruises. “You are most difficult to kill,” he sneered.

“So I’ve been told.” Crispin crouched close before him and Mahmoud darted a glance down for his own blade, but Crispin nodded toward the fire. Mahmoud looked, gasped, and turned a burning countenance to Crispin.

“There’ll be no games this time,” said Crispin. “Why did you and your men try to kill me?”

Mahmoud repositioned himself as if he were used to sitting on the floor. He looked at his unbound wrists.

“No, I didn’t bind you, though perhaps I should have done. I also did not call the sheriff. I thought to discuss this man to man.” He smiled grimly. “I still may bind you or call the sheriff. It all depends on you.”

Mahmoud ran the back of his hand under his chin and wiped away the blood. He chuckled. “I like men who are hard to kill. It is more satisfactory when the task is finally done.”

Crispin stood, smiled at Mahmoud, even chuckled along with him, and kicked him in the face again.

The Saracen fell back, his smile gone. Groggily, he righted himself. His dark eyes, crinkled to mere slashes, followed Crispin’s every move.

Crispin sat again. His smile never faded from his face. “You are in no position to talk of killing. Shall we get on with it?”

Mahmoud’s expression turned dour. His cheek swelled from Crispin’s boot. He shrugged. “Why not?” He glanced at the other chair by the hearth. “May I rise?”

Crispin’s crooked smile remained. “No.”

The Saracen touched his bleeding forehead with a trembling hand. Crispin knew it was not from fear. “I am a member of a…how shall I call it? A syndicate.”

“Of Saracens?”

“No. Italians. Their interests are my interests.”

“Why is that?”

He smiled. There was blood on his teeth. “Because they pay me.”

“What is this syndicate?”

Mahmoud rolled his tongue in his mouth and spat out a tooth. “Merchants. Men with a great deal to gain by combining forces.”

“A guild, you mean?”

“No, not a guild. Something far more powerful. Guilds do not have as members—” He stopped himself. He pointed a scolding uncle’s finger at Crispin with a laugh. “I mustn’t tell, must I? Too much loose information could make my employers very unhappy. And that could be lethal.”

“Very well. The members of this syndicate are secret and powerful. I assume their activities are far from legal.”

“They operate somewhat outside the law and also within it. They fix prices for goods, create demand, strangle the supply to raise prices. Even piracy.”

Crispin nodded. “I see. Criminals operating a cartel.”

“Criminals? Oh no. Men such as these are never called criminals. They are called sir.”

“Even a lord can be a criminal,” he said, examining his nails. “I used to be both.” His smile broadened, but it wasn’t pleasant. He leaned toward Mahmoud. “Why are they operating in England? Should I not go to court with this information, these aliens working their wiles on English soil?”

“Do what you wish. The authorities will never find them. Or me. We are like smoke. Dispersed with a whisper.”

Crispin eyed the door. “Smoke, eh? Even smoke has a source that can be located.”

“But only once the fire is long gone.”

Crispin considered. This cartel sounded like an ambitious enterprise. Mahmoud hinted at the high status of its masters. If they were Italians then this implicated dukes and princes. The Italians were famed for such treachery among their courtiers. This was a great deal more to worry over than he thought.

He studied Mahmoud’s bruised and swelling face. This was the face he saw mauling Philippa in this room. “What has any of this to do with Philippa Walcote?”

Mahmoud sat back and made a noise of disgust in the back of his throat. “This again? Let us just say…it was a bonus.”

Crispin rose.

Mahmoud raised his hand in defense. “If you kick me again, I fear I shall have no more teeth left to tell you what you wish to know.”

Crispin deliberated and took his time. Was Mahmoud’s information more important than Crispin’s desire to batter him to death? In the end, he decided he’d at least listen first. There would always be more time later for violence.

He sat and pulled the chair closer and rested a taut fist against his thigh. “I’m all ears.”

Mahmoud licked his lips before spitting another tooth into his hand. He looked at it, sneered at Crispin, and threw it over his shoulder. “It is best you do not know too much. What these men did to you—what they tried to do to you—is nothing compared to what they might attempt this time.”

“Are you trying to warn me off?”

“It is for your own good. You are obviously a very clever man. You must know that staying alive is the best trick of all.”

“What makes you believe you can frighten me?”

“Frighten?” He shrugged. “Very well. What is your price, then?”

“There is something called honor, you bastard. I do not have a price.”

“I understand your price is sixpence a day.”

Crispin’s grin returned. “That is my fee. As for my price, there is none high enough.”

“So I am told.”

“So you know me.”

“I know of you. And so I tell you truly, man to man, you must not pursue this.”

Crispin rose but only to pace. Mahmoud kept a nervous eye on him.

Crispin glanced at the light from under the door and saw no shadows of men lying in wait. Neither did he see anything at the shattered window. “Pursue what?”

Mahmoud’s frog’s mouth slid open, the widely spaced teeth now wider. “I will give you nothing more.”

Crispin looked down at the blood on his boots. “My foot is not in the least tired.”

“Do with me what you will. I am trained to withstand it.”

Crispin appraised the man, certain he was telling the truth. “A pagan bedding a Christian woman. Give me a reason why I should not kill you now.”

“If I die, so does the woman.”

A chill vibrated down Crispin’s spine and radiated to the back of his knees. Now more than ever he wanted to kill him. He did everything he could to control that urge, including putting the chair and table between them.

“So you see,” continued Mahmoud, “there is nothing more to discuss. My associates will be surprised to hear of your recovery, but I will tell them, if you make no more provocative moves, to let you be. Should it appear that you are uncooperative, then your resurrection will be short-lived.”