Veil of Lies (25 page)

24

Simon Wynchecombe planted his feet wide apart. Crispin braced for an attack and flicked his glance toward the edge of the doorway.

No guards? The sheriff alone? What was Wynchecombe playing at now?

“Are you ready to talk?” asked the sheriff.

With one hand Crispin dragged his cloak over his shoulders, a poor substitute for dignity. “What shall we talk about?”

Wynchecombe strode forward and stood before the fire. He watched the small flames sputter for a moment before turning his back to it. “You know I will be fair with you.”

“I know no such thing.”

Crispin knew that his hair was mussed and his coat was spattered with dots of blood from the guard’s fists. His face was a quilt of purple and yellow bruises from old wounds and from the newest assault. Nothing lordly about him anymore, except his manner and his mind. But even those slipped under the weight of time and poor living. What did Wynchecombe see when he looked at him, he wondered. Was it a former knight or just another beetle under his boot?

The sheriff nodded grimly. “We are often at opposites sides of a dilemma, are we not? I am under the auspices of the crown, and you very decidedly outside them. I make no secret of the fact that I know on which side my bread is buttered. And I like buttered bread.” He crossed his arms over his broad chest and looked down his nose at Crispin, who stood shorter by half a foot. “If that makes me a tool of the king then so be it. When all is said and done, kings come and go. I plan to remain.”

Crispin said nothing. His fingers slowly bunched the cloth into a tight ball behind his back.

The sheriff grinned. “I know more than you think I do. About this syndicate, for instance.”

Crispin raised his chin.
I’ll wager you don’t.
Aloud he offered, “If that is so, then why didn’t you speak of it before?”

“Why didn’t you?”

“It’s complicated.”

“The girl, Crispin? I’m surprised at you.”

“I’m a little surprised at myself.”

“We have known about this Italian syndicate for some time,” Wynchecombe went on. “We think they are responsible for a conspiracy to forestall goods, thus raising the prices. And for piracy. The king is not pleased. He has charged me with breaking up this ring. What can you tell me about it?”

“I have connections, my lord. What will it be worth to you to have this matter settled quickly?”

Wynchecombe’s face elongated with disbelief. “Are you trying to extort me?”

“‘Extort,’ my lord? That’s such a strong term. I prefer ‘negotiate.’”

Wynchecombe laughed, a deep, rolling sound that rambled along the walls and trickled out the open cell door. He wiped away his laughter tears with a gloved finger. “Crispin, if you weren’t such a traitorous bastard, I might actually like you. Very well. I might consider forgoing your surety.”

“My good Lord Sheriff, surely putting the king’s mind at ease is worth more than that! I am looking for coins.”

“You want me to pay you?” He laughed again. “And what good are riches if you rot here?”

“Good point. My freedom, then.
And
the gold.”

Wynchecombe’s smile fell. “I don’t believe you. I do not think you have these ‘connections.’”

“Oh, but I do. For instance, I happen to know that the duke of Milan is behind this syndicate.”

Wynchecombe scowled so deeply his mustache completely covered his lips. At last he exhaled, blowing out the cold, foul air in a plume of fog. “I will cover your surety, I will give you your freedom, and I will pay a
small
amount of remuneration. After all, I cannot be entirely certain that you are telling me the truth.”

Crispin clutched the cloth. “You can be certain that it is
all
the truth.”

“How then does this cloth, this Mandyllon, cross paths with the syndicate?”

“They stole the original and commissioned a clever thief to make a copy.”

“And this clever thief? Where is he now?”

“Dead. The man erstwhile known as Nicholas Walcote.”

The sheriff whistled. “Christ’s toes.”

“Indeed.”

“But you claim they did not kill this mock Walcote.”

“Yes. The cartel killed the real Walcote by mistake. This thief—similar in appearance and age, apparently—simply took his place and ran off with the original Mandyllon. The syndicate wanted it back—for themselves, I imagine—and pursued him for five years. They finally caught up with him, I would say about six months ago. But they did not kill him. They wanted the Mandyllon back first.”

“And this cartel…run by the duke of Milan, is it? What does it hope to accomplish?”

“They want to stop our war with France in exchange for a deal for control of Calais. And on top of that, they want to bankrupt our wool market.”

Wynchecombe’s lips parted but he said nothing. He paced in a circle, head down, hands behind his back. Finally he stopped and looked up. “This cloth seems to be in the center of all these unholy tidings.”

“Yes,” said Crispin. “The Mandyllon has caused a great deal of the grief we now see. Were you able to discover its history?”

“No. Only that men die when associated with it. Wouldn’t you rather just hand it over?”

“Should I subject the king to such risks? What sort of loyal subject would I be?”

Wynchecombe merely stared at him, his fist at his hip.

Crispin shrugged. “So I am not so very loyal. Everyone knows that. But Simon, if it is authentic, do you honestly want the king in possession of such a powerful tool? He would be virtually invincible.”

“I don’t want it in the hands of Visconti. Should I not want my own king to be invincible? And how many times do I have to remind you not to call me Simon?” Wynchecombe regarded Crispin a long time before he dropped his gaze. “I have no great love for Richard either.” But after he said it, his face broke into surprise and he looked up. He clamped his lips shut and turned his glare on Crispin. “That is a private admission. I do not expect it to leave this cell.”

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

Wynchecombe stepped toward the bed and sat.

Crispin edged toward the wall and leaned against it, keeping the cloth behind his back.

They said nothing to one another for a long interval. Wynchecombe fingered the sleeve of his houppelande. “The king will be furious when he discovers your involvement in this,” he said quietly.

Crispin fisted the cloth tighter. “No more than he already feels for me.”

“His games are no longer your concern, Crispin. Court politics. I would think you were well rid of them.”

“It is true that in some instances I do not miss it. The backstabbing, the lies. But in other ways…” He lifted his free hand in a gesture of futility and let it drop again to his side.

Silence again. He felt Wynchecombe’s concentrated stare and raised his eyes to it.

“Why, Crispin? I have always wondered.”

“Why what?”

The sheriff’s countenance softened. It was something Crispin had not seen before. “Why treason?” The word, as always, caught him off guard. Crispin took a deep breath and stared up into the rafters. “I’d heard of you, of course,” Wynchecombe continued. “This when I was just a man of business. As alderman, I was rising in the ranks. And so, too, were you. We’d all heard of you. Protégé to Lancaster. Some were saying that they expected you soon to be part of the king’s Privy Council.”

Like a wound stripped of its protective scab, Crispin flinched at the raw memories. “I might have been,” he answered in a coarse voice. “For Prince Edward, of course. He loved me well. As much as his brother Lancaster. And I would have counseled him to rein in his wife and son, who were not above their own plots or at least those they favored had a liking for such. But I was not yet that trusted to voice these concerns in public. I was still green. Oh how green! And then…Edward died.”

“Yes. Did it gall you that much for Richard to be king? That you would lose so much?”

Crispin snapped his head toward Wynchecombe. “It was never that! How little you know me. It was for England! Not myself. What did I care for myself if my country failed me? Lancaster was the better man and Parliament knew it, though the whoresons were too cowardly to set him on the throne. A boy of ten! Untried. Underaged.”

The sheriff ran a hand over his beard. “But he was the rightful heir.” There was an uncertain tint to his words. He grunted and flexed his hands. “He
is
king and we are his subjects. There…there is no argument.”

“But he wasn’t yet king when I…” Excruciating, uttering the words even after eight years. He left the rest unsaid and allowed the echo of his voice to die away and leveled his gaze on the small window.

The sheriff cleared his throat. “Alas, Crispin. These are matters for philosophers, not men such as you or me. It is not for me to set up King Richard as emperor of the world, nor to decide against it. What are simple men like us to do? I must obey or I’d be where you are now.”

Crispin snorted.

“You blame me for arresting you? I had to do my duty. At least I had to try.”

Crispin rubbed his jaw. “And the beating?”

Wynchecombe smiled. “That was for me.”

Crispin grinned back. Then he removed his hand from behind him and eased toward the light of the hearth.

Wynchecombe rose. “God’s teeth, Crispin. Is that it?”

The smile fell from Crispin’s face, and he looked at the wad in his hand and nodded. “Yes.”

The sheriff’s foggy breath snarled from his nostrils and tangled in his black mustache. His hand fell lightly to the sword pommel. “Surrender it.”

Crispin raised his head and scanned the room. Quite possibly this could be his final domain.

Slowly, he shook his head. “Only to Hell.” He raised his arm and tossed the Mandyllon into the hearth. The wad of cloth followed a perfect arc and landed squarely on the burning peat.

Wynchecombe drew his sword but not on Crispin. He pointed it toward the fire and made as if to grab the Mandyllon.

But then he stopped.

Nothing happened right away. Smoke seemed to simply rise through the cloth. But soon the white cloth browned and the threads curled and ignited and then the smoke took hold of all of it in a white breath of curling clouds.

Wynchecombe’s blade hovered. Any moment now Crispin expected the sheriff to scoop it out of the flames. But he made no move to retrieve it. Instead, he stood silently and watched it burn.

Wynchecombe sheathed his sword at last. “That was a stupid thing to do.”

“Yes.” Crispin’s bruised cheeks glowed with a momentary flare from the cloth. “It might even be blasphemy. Why didn’t you save it?”

Wynchecombe could not draw his gaze away from the flames. He shook his head. “I don’t know.” He rubbed his beard.

“Then you agree. It’s too dangerous to pass this about from hand to hand. Better it were gone.”

“And your freedom along with it?”

“The cloth was not part of our bargain.”

“Wasn’t it?” Wynchecombe walked to the other end of the room. He pretended to look interested in the window and its narrow band of dying light.

Crispin folded his arms over his chest. “What will this cost me?”

Wynchecombe angled his face toward Crispin. “You can forget about the gold.”

“And the surety?”

“For you, I’ll forfeit—half.”

“So all that is left is my freedom, which costs you nothing.”

“Works out well, doesn’t it?”

“What of the king?”

Wynchecombe frowned. He seemed to remember he was in trouble, too. “I don’t know. Maybe he can be told it never existed.”

“Will the king accept that?”

“He must.” Wynchecombe moved back to the fire, leaned down, and kicked the gray ashes with his foot. “He doesn’t have much choice now, does he?” The sheriff leaned against the hearth and considered Crispin. The silence stretched between them. “Did it make me say it, Crispin?” he said quietly. “Did it make me speak treason?”