Veil of Lies (14 page)

11

The thud of the men’s footsteps approached, and Crispin heard them enter the dead-end alley and stop. Crispin resisted the urge to look over the edge of the eave, knowing they would probably be looking up.

“Joseph Santo!”
swore one of them.
“Porcoddio!”

“Siamo nella merda!”
said the other one.

By their voices he knew their exact location. He hurled the slates over the roof. They landed with a pop on each head.

Crispin heard the men swear and go down. He slipped over the edge to look. The smaller one raised his hand to his head and Crispin noticed he was missing two fingers down to the first knuckles.

Crispin leaped down and blocked the alley’s mouth. He drew his dagger. “Who are you?”

The smaller one glared at Crispin and drew his own long, thin dagger. “Devil take you,
bastardo
!”

“Wait,” said the other, holding the smaller one back. The wide-shouldered one straightened, still grimacing at the ache in his head. “We’re only here to talk to this
stronzo,
remember?”

The small one made a disgusted snort and slammed his dagger in its sheath.

“I ask again,” said Crispin. “Who are you?”

“I’m Sclavo,” said the large man. “And this,” he motioned to his companion, “is Two-Fingers.”

“Interesting. Here in England we only give our animals such appellations.”

Two-Fingers lunged, but Sclavo held him back again. “I may not stop him next time,
Signore
Guest. After all, he’s the one who tied your hands and feet good and tight, did he not?”

“
Sì
. You do not forget your midnight swim, eh?” asked Two-Fingers.

Crispin frowned. “No, I recall it very well.”

Sclavo chuckled. “Not many have escaped us. You embarrassed us in front of our master.”

“Indeed. Forgive me for surviving. Such bad manners.”

“No matter,” said Sclavo. “We have much to discuss. Shall we go elsewhere? This alley is damp.”

Not the Boar’s Tusk. Philippa was there. “Yes, after you, gentlemen.” He motioned with the dagger and stepped aside out of their reach.

With the two walking in front of him, Crispin directed them to the Dog and Bone, a tavern south of his lodgings and situated on Carter Lane, huddled in the shadow of St. Paul’s. They entered first and sat at a table close to the entrance. Should they turn on him, he’d need a quick escape, so he broke his usual custom and kept his back to the door.

The Dog and Bone was smaller than the Boar’s Tusk and much grimier. The great room always smelled as if something had died in one of its corners.

“Our master wishes to make negotiation with you,” said Sclavo. He rested his arm on the sticky table and hunched his massive shoulders. “He knows who you are.”

“I’m enchanted. But I have nothing more to say to Mahmoud.”

Sclavo looked at Two-Fingers and laughed. “Mahmoud? He is not our master. We merely do occasional tasks for him. On orders from our master.”

“Then who is your master?”

Sclavo chuckled. Two-Fingers made a sound like a laugh, but it was a noise more like a cat coughing up a hairball. “We do not speak his name,” said Sclavo.

“I won’t negotiate with men I don’t know.”

“Don’t refuse so quickly,
Signore
Guest. If you do not like our offer, you can go on your way.”

“Am I expected to believe that?”

Sclavo shrugged. “We have no orders to kill you. If we had…” He shrugged again. Two-Fingers giggled. “We would not be having this conversation.”

Crispin smiled. “Like the last time, eh?”

Two-Fingers stopped. He reached for his dagger, but Sclavo shook his head. “You are so hot-headed,
il mio amico.
”

Two-Fingers gestured with the two fingers of his other hand and spat at Crispin.

Sclavo smiled. “What would you say to bags of coins?”

Crispin lowered his brows. “Italian?”

Sclavo smiled. His thick, dark lips made a clownish show of it. “Italian, English. Whichever you prefer. Eight hundred pounds is easy to come by.”

Crispin leaned back and rubbed his mouth. “I am afraid, Master Sclavo, I do not understand you.”

Sclavo looked at Two-Fingers. “‘Pounds’ is the right word, no?” He turned to Crispin. “Our master offers you eight hundred pounds. It is an enormous sum, no? Eight hundred pounds would make you a great man of property. I understand your king’s laws allow for a man who owns eighty pounds worth of land to become a knight.”

Crispin scowled.

“But perhaps,” Sclavo went on, “he does not mean
any
man.”

“Where would your master get so many English coins?” Crispin snapped.

Sclavo only smiled.

Crispin had not seen such a fortune since his days as a lord. But more astonishing was Sclavo’s master willing to offer it—and in pounds. Crispin put a few thoughts together and didn’t like the implications.

He relaxed his face, made it as neutral as he could. “Indeed. And what are the other conditions?”

“No conditions. No percentages. An outright gift. It is my master’s way of an apology for trying to kill you. We thought, well, does it matter? It was a mistake. Our master wishes to make amends.”

“It matters to me. What ‘mistake’?”

Sclavo’s fingers intertwined and then opened. He did this several times in a row. Finally he leaned forward. “It was thought,” he said quietly, “
you
killed Walcote, and my master did not yet want him dead. Such an offense is punishable by death.” He smiled broadly and sat back. “Fortunately, you did not die.”

“Fortunately. Judge, jury, and executioner, eh? Your master must be quite a fellow. I should like to meet him.”

“Trust me. You do not.”

Crispin tapped his fingers on his scabbard. “Then what about this generous gift? Surely there is something your master desires in return other than my undying respect.”

“There is one thing. He would very much like the return of a particular piece of cloth he was promised.”

“I see. Eight hundred pounds is an amazing show of confidence in my abilities.”

Sclavo shrugged. “As I said, he knows of you.”

“Will you grant me time to consider?”

Sclavo sat back and opened his large hands generously. “Of course. We will give you a day.”

“A day?”

“Surely a man in your circumstances can decide in a day whether or not to become a wealthy man. When you’ve decided, send a message.” He looked around him and smiled. “To the Dog and Bone.”

“Not the Thistle?”

Sclavo smiled. “The Dog and Bone.” He rose. Two-Fingers stood beside him. He grinned insincerely and bobbed his head.

Crispin, too, rose. He nodded to them, slipped out of the bench, and left.

They thought he killed Walcote. Why did they even suspect him? And more important, why should they care?

He stepped out onto the muddy lane. Careful to skirt puddles edged in frost that the vague sun did little to thaw, he grimaced when his foot dipped into an icy rut. A hole in his boot saw to it that his toes quickly chilled.

He stepped up under an eave and looked behind him, shaking out his boot. They didn’t follow. He breathed a little easier and watched a cloud of breath swirl from his nose. Interesting. They were not Mahmoud’s henchmen, even though they had acted as such. Who was their true master then? There were a score of possibilities, but the bigger picture was becoming more intriguing. “What a tapestry is woven from a single piece of cloth!”

Ideas flitted through his mind as he strode down the lane toward the Boar’s Tusk and Philippa, when Crispin stopped in the middle of the street. A dreadful thought suddenly occurred to him. He pivoted away from the tavern and turned toward his lodgings instead. He had to have another look at those ledgers first.

He hustled down the Shambles and trotted up the stairs to his lodgings. When he opened the door his glance took in the table where he had left the books and he stopped dead in the threshold.

Gone.

He rushed in and looked under the table, under the bed, on the pantry shelves, at the window and finally stood with fists at his hips.

“Well,” he said to the vacant room. “That answers that question.”

Crispin trotted toward Gutter Lane and swore the whole way. He suspected the thieves were too clever to let themselves be seen. He even worried that Sclavo and the taciturn Two-Fingers were sent as a ruse to keep him out of the way.

No, there was too much sincerity, too much information in their directives. And they simply could have coshed Crispin on the head again. They were sincere, right enough. But what was the game?

He ducked his head into the drizzly weather, tossing his hood over his damp hair.

The Mandyllon. This most holy of relics was the prize to the man with the most ruthless agenda. That such treachery could be associated with something so opposed to evil! Walcote was murdered…but maybe it wasn’t for the cloth. Maybe it was for information he had. Maybe it was for what he discovered in those books.
Those damned books that are now missing!
There was corruption among the customs officers, or at least one who dealt in England’s fabric market. How far did the corruption reach? And what did this ultimately have to do with these Italians?

Crispin tried to remember back to when he was a player in the politics of court. Eight years ago—longer—the Lombardy region was ruled by Milan, and the duke of Milan was—

“Bernabò Visconti,” he murmured. He remembered him. He’d met him once while sent on a mission to Milan for Lancaster. Crispin was supposed to negotiate a port for trade.

Crispin recalled his arrival to Milan. He was treated well and there was a woman of the court he was particularly friendly with. He smiled. She was blue-eyed and golden-haired but was certainly no angel. The thought made him smile broader until his grin fell. The court of Visconti was not a place to let one’s guard down as Crispin had. The treacherous duke agreed to all Crispin laid out to him, but later Crispin was drugged and the tables turned.

Lancaster was angry but not at Crispin, and vowed revenge though he never quite got it.

Visconti would most certainly be behind this bid for the Mandyllon. He dabbled in acquiring territory and riches as other men played at chess, and all his minions and competitors were the pawns. Poisoning, torture, extortion, abduction—these were the rates of exchange to him. He thought nothing of conniving a war between his neighbors and, like the opportunistic rook, would take over the unguarded nest.

Visconti wanted the Mandyllon, but this export scandal also smacked of his doing. Visconti must have men placed in the controller’s office, possibly even the guilds themselves, and was stealing these taxes. Crispin knew the taxes were collected to fund King Richard’s war chest, but what if Visconti wanted to interfere with that? There was only one person to ask.

Lancaster.

12

Lancaster once owned the Savoy, a palace overlooking the Thames, but three years ago a peasant rabble burned it to the ground. Even with his many other residences in England and France, he usually stayed at court at Westminster Palace. Since King Richard was currently in residence, so was the rest of the court.

Crispin looked out across the palace courtyard. Westminster Palace was situated in the city of Westminster—close enough to London for the court to keep an eye skinned on its capital, but far enough away to avoid the rabble when necessary. It was a large set of rambling buildings, a grand edifice of sandy stone and arched windows, chapels, apartments. Its exterior was certainly not as grand as its interiors of painted floors, sumptuous tapestries, seeming miles of passageways and corridors, and the immense great hall as large as any cathedral space.

But it was still a formidable structure. It did not sit on some promontory, unapproachable by the common citizen, but seemed to revel in its central accessibility. The king, when in residence, made certain to meet with the burgesses and aldermen of London and Westminster weekly, making decisions as mundane as how many chickens could be traded for how many slabs of pork. Even young Richard with his favorites and cronies could not alter what had been for centuries.

Crispin recalled fondly the dinners in the great hall, the quiet alcoves for trysts, and even the masses celebrated with the other courtiers and hangers-on in St. Mary Undercroft. But more often than not he was in the company of Lancaster even at mass in the ornate Chapel of St. Stephen, the twin of the grand Sainte-Chapelle in Paris. Lancaster liked to keep Crispin at his side like a lapdog, but Crispin had not minded. He had been privy to many of the machinations of court, and enjoyed the status for which he was being groomed.

Until it all fell apart.

Crispin had only been to court once in the last eight years. Raised in Lancaster’s household like many other noble-born boys fostered by wealthy men, Crispin began as a page, and at eighteen, Lancaster knighted him. And just as Jack served Crispin, Crispin, too, attended the man well and became Lancaster’s protégé. He had enjoyed living in familiar society with Lancaster’s son, Henry of Bolingbroke. Crispin’s shoulders had served as “horse” many a time for young Henry. He could scarcely believe the boy he’d helped to raise was now a man of seventeen—the same age as his cousin the king.

Approaching the place forbidden him knotted his gut, but he preferred to remember the good memories in Lancaster’s company than dwell on that dreadful course of events that sent him spinning away from court like a falling star.

He crossed St. Margaret’s, reached the top step to the Great Gateway, and rested his fingers on the damp granite. Raising his head, he stared at one of the guards standing stiffly under the gatehouse arch. With a face stern in its tight conical helm, silvery camail surrounding his cheeks and chin, the guard’s gaze took in Crispin and then dismissed him.

Crispin edged closer. His feet disrupted the gravel path.

The guard looked his way again. “Your business?”

Crispin looked the man up and down. He threw back his shoulders and raised his chin. “I wish to speak to his grace the duke of Lancaster. Tell him Crispin Guest is at the gate.”

The guard’s immovable face showed surprise at Crispin’s manner of speech, which did not conform to the shabbiness of his clothes.

Crispin urged him to his task with a practiced tilt of the head before he turned his back on the guard. The guard left to fetch a page and Crispin waited, tapping his fingers on his scabbard, pacing and watching riders and carts travel along St. Margaret’s Street.

He looked down at his shabby cotehardie. Clean, but there was no doubt of the coat’s age. His stockings, too, could use some repair, but he never seemed to have the time, though Jack made certain to sew up the holes when he found them, much as Crispin had done for Lancaster’s surcote after a battle when Crispin was Jack’s age.

After a long spell, the page returned with what looked like a steward in tow and Crispin snapped to attention. The steward’s long face sported a prominent chin and small eyes. He wore long robes trimmed in fur. A chatelaine of keys clinked importantly from his belt. He wore the badge of Gaunt on his breast.

Crispin did not recognize him, but by the scowl on the man’s face, he certainly seemed to know Crispin.

The steward scrambled forward and took Crispin’s arm, but Crispin wasn’t fond of such familiarities and firmly removed it.

“Master Guest,” said the steward. He rubbed his sore hand, the one Crispin removed from his sleeve. “If you have come for alms, I suggest you try the kitchens.”

Crispin’s face warmed. “I have
not
come for charity! I have vital information to impart to his grace the duke.”

“His grace does not wish to receive missives from you, Master Guest.” He scanned the courtyard with nervous eyes. “Of this you must certainly be aware. I must ask you to leave. His grace the duke is not at home to you.”

Crispin’s features stiffened. “Did he tell you so?”

“Yes, he did. Do yourself a courtesy and do not return. You do not wish to endanger my lord of Gaunt by your presence, do you?”

Crispin clenched his jaw. His molars crunched in his head. He opened his mouth to protest but didn’t know what to say.

“Please, Master Guest,” said the steward quietly. “The king has spies everywhere. Should they report that you were here—”

“Say no more.” Crispin stared at the busy ward. Londoners walked stiffly in the wind, wrapping their cloaks tightly over their breasts. The courtyard’s shrill wind was not as cold as the frost that struck his heart.

He turned back briefly to the steward, gave him a courtly bow, and noticed a growing look of pity before he jerked away from his gaze.

His heavy steps snapped over the gravel in the courtyard to the street. It was a long walk, as long as the lists, before he reached an ornate stone archway that marked the edge of the king’s palace grounds.

He should have expected the rejection. In a small place in the back of his head he did expect it, but this knowledge did not make the hurt any less stinging. It was as if a father had disowned his son.

He passed under the arched gateway and came upon a wide avenue. He turned right and ducked between the shadows of spacious houses boasting large gardens and walked a long way along walled courtyards, at least a bowshot, until he reached the end of the lane, where the Thames cut the city in half. He leaned over the sea wall and stared down into its brown depths. This river nearly swallowed him up only two days ago. The men who tried to kill him were now willing to offer a king’s ransom to possess the Mandyllon. Yet even if Crispin earned such bounty, it could not buy him an audience with Lancaster. That avenue was closed. How he hated the circumstances that kept him from the place he belonged!

His nails dug into the stone wall. Didn’t Lancaster realize that Crispin had done it for
him,
risked all for
him
?

“But treason is treason,” he murmured. The river didn’t care if he poured his heart into it, told it his tales of woe. The Thames kept flowing regardless. Kept winding its way through London, carving a division between the best and the worst of the old city. That’s why Crispin had stayed on the north side. No Southwark for him. No dreary low speech such as came through Jack’s lips. Or Philippa Walcote’s.

Yet he was still a man between. Like the river. Between the rich and the lowly and belonging to neither. He, too, would simply flow on.

He loosened a pebble with his fingers and tossed it down into the water. It sank below the surface, never to be seen again. He slammed the wall with his fists. “Damn the king to the lowest level of hell!” he hissed.

“Is it Crispin? Crispin Guest?”

He spun. The female voice startled him, but he could not mistake the soft Spanish dialect where his name sounded more like “Creespin.”

Costanza of Castile gazed down on him from her carriage.

“Your grace,” he said with a deep bow.

Her maid beside her rolled up the curtain for the duchess. The duchess of Lancaster rested her arm on the sill of the canvas-covered cart and leaned out. “It has been so long.” Her smile was gentle and offered him all the regret, all the kindness his sore heart yearned for.

“But you have not changed, my lady.”

She laughed. “So full of flattery. It was always so with you. In truth, I miss it.”

Her lips clamped down on that last and they stared at each other in silence. She broke their stalemate by waving her hand. “But here you are. Have you come to court at last to see us? Our prodigal son.”

He turned a glance down the long avenue toward the unyielding gates just around the corner. “I think it best I do not. The king—”

She dismissed the king with an angry gesture. He knew she did not fear the boy king of England. Not when her father had been king of Castile and her husband, Lancaster, ruled the king’s own council. “I think my lord would be happy to see you again.”

“My lady, his grace does not share that sentiment.”

“Then why are you here?”

A lie eluded him. “I…had hoped to speak with him. But it is better—”

“Nonsense. Come with me. Lewis, help him in.”

The coachman eyed Crispin. Crispin backed away. “My lady, no. The duke already refused my admittance.”

“Are you disobeying a command from your better, Master Guest? I said, get in!”

Grateful, he nevertheless feared her misplaced loyalty would do them both ill. But she was right. He could not naysay her, especially in front of her servants.

Lewis lowered the coach’s gate, which also served as a step. Crispin ducked as he entered the arched compartment and sat opposite her along the pillowed bench.

“Let us hope John is in an agreeable mood today,” she said.

Crispin hoped so, too, and he tried to sit back and relax. The unwieldy carriage bumped along the avenue, rattling those within and making it an uncomfortable ride, even with pillows beneath them.

The maid did her best not to stare at Crispin. He did not know where to look either, and gazed out the small window while holding fast to the bench for dear life.

The carriage passed through the gates and stopped before the massive arched portico. The door opened, and Lancaster’s steward rushed forward to greet the duchess. She emerged first, and the man bowed.

Crispin stepped down from the carriage, and the steward’s face went white.

“My lady—” the steward tried to interject, but Costanza only raised her chin.

“Where is my lord husband?”

“His grace is in his apartments, my lady. In the parlor, but—”

“Very well. Come, Crispin.”

Crispin looked back at the sputtering steward. There was nothing for Crispin to say to him, and he only shrugged at the man and followed the duchess inside. The familiar corridors and halls settled him in a place somewhere between comfort and misgiving. This was home to him, yet he did not belong here anymore.

Shadows parted for rushlights, and they walked a long way, first through the massive great hall, through a close, through a chapel, and down a long corridor until they turned a corner and entered the warm apartments of the duke. Crispin recalled the parlor well with its carved oak beams and wood-paneled ceiling, heavy tapestries, carved pillars, ornate sideboards, and lush chairs. The fireplace stood as tall as a man and as wide as five of them. Made of carved stone, it boasted the badges of Gaunt impaled by Castile. A great log within burned with a rolling golden fire, casting an aroma of toasted pine and spicy ash into the chamber. A corona filled with blazing candles stood nearly in the center of the room. Not far from the hearth sat the man himself at his desk, enthroned in his chair, nose immersed in his books. The quill, poised like a dagger, stood straight up in his hand.

He looked up and smiled upon seeing his wife. The smile fell away when Crispin stepped from behind her.

Lancaster stood so abruptly the heavy chair fell back. “God’s blood!”

Crispin bowed and opened his hands. “Your grace, forgive me—”

Lancaster drew his sword and lunged forward, two, three strides. “By God, when I give an order I expect it to be obeyed!”