Veil of Lies (27 page)

“What is it, John?”

“Crispin! I think something has happened! There was a message from your man Jack. He said that Mistress Wal—that Philippa was abducted by the Saracen. You are to meet those men—he just said ‘those men’—at London Bridge to make the exchange. Do you know what he meant?”

Crispin’s bravado sizzled away and his knees felt weak. All he feared. She was supposed to be safe at the Boar’s Tusk. How could she have been taken right out from under everyone’s noses? And if she was, then where were Eleanor and Gilbert?

He stared at Hoode’s desperate face and somehow grew courage from the man’s fear.

“Yes, John. I know what he meant. Do me the kindness of telling Jack to meet me at the bridge.”

26

Crispin hurried out of the Walcote estate and trotted toward the Thistle on his way to London Bridge. He praised God when he spotted a familiar ratlike figure lurking near a brazier trying to keep warm while at the same time remaining unobtrusive to the other men warming their hands.

“Lenny!” cried Crispin across the avenue.

Lenny cringed. The others at the fire turned to look at him and edged away.

“Now Master Crispin,” he said in low tones. “What you go and point me out like that? I just got them gentlemen to forget all about me.”

“I need your help.” He grabbed his arm and steered him into the shadows.

“Anything, Master Crispin. You know old Lenny. Always here to help.”

“I need you to get a message to the sheriff.”

“The sheriff?” Lenny squinted and darted his glance up and down the quiet lane. “Oh, now, Master Crispin!” he said in the hushed whispers reserved for a church. “I don’t go to Newgate. Not if I can help it. You’d best send someone else.”

“Lenny, you know I wouldn’t ask unless it was dire.”

He shook his head vehemently. “Don’t ask me to do it, Master Crispin. I ain’t going to Newgate and that’s that.”

“Please, I’m begging you. Tell the sheriff to bring a garrison and meet me at London Bridge. Lenny, for the love of God!”

Lenny brushed Crispin’s hands away from him. “Don’t unman yourself. I won’t go to Newgate!”

Crispin straightened. “I see. You’re a coward.”

Lenny straightened as much as his bent posture would allow. “Aye, that I am. It ain’t a fitting place. I spent too many months there.”

“So did I.”

“Ah, now. Don’t be bringing that up.”

“What does it matter? If you won’t go, you won’t.” Desperation steeled over him with a hot flush. What could he do? He hadn’t any money with which to bribe the man and it seemed as if it would take a great deal. He felt like throttling him. He clenched his hands into fists and trembled his helplessness into his taut shoulders. “I’m done with you, then. Our agreement is dissolved.”

“Master Crispin, try to see it my way—”

“I haven’t time, Lenny. A woman’s life is at stake.” He speared Lenny with a last glare and spun. Damn Lenny! Cowards all. Was there no one man enough in London anymore? He stalked away, hearing nothing from the cowering man behind him. He didn’t look back. Perhaps Lenny’s conscience would get the better of him but he doubted it. So much for honor among thieves.

It was up to him now. He wished he had a plan.

Leaving Lenny far behind, he trotted toward Watling Street and followed his nose toward the Thames. Mist glistened off the slate rooftops and a slice of moon washed it in scattered light, making the roofs look like teeth knocked out of a drunkard’s mouth. Crispin trotted through the streets, feet sucking into the muddier places.

A layer of fog shrouded the city. Crispin perceived only dim, looming shapes of buildings on either side of him. A bobbing light appeared in the distance and Crispin slipped into an alley and pressed his back against a damp wall. The Watch. He knew it was well past curfew and he did not relish delay.

He watched the bobbing light pass—for that was all he could detect of the Watch—and waited several beats before plunging back into the street.

Muffled by the smothering weather, he heard the lapping of water and the tide softly hiss against the rocky shoreline. The Thames at last. He looked upward. The rooftops along London Bridge arose from the gray mist. Stone foundations upheld the miniature city within a city. Shops and houses lined the now narrowing bridge, some hanging precariously over the river. He saw glowing lights dulled from the mist in the vague shapes of windows, but for the most part, the bridge’s inhabitants slept, oblivious to what awaited.

One street away. Crispin hurried.

He turned at Bridge Street and paused. Ears peeled, he listened for any sound other than the persistent Thames and the creak of sheets pulling on masts and hulls scraping against docks.

He felt it. Someone behind him.

Soundlessly, he whirled and gripped the hapless soul by the throat.

He heard a choking whisper, “Master!”

Crispin released Jack Tucker and tried to see his face in the dark. The torches at the mouth of the bridge’s stone gatehouse did little to penetrate the fog beyond a few feet from the portcullis. All he could discern before him were two wide eyes. “Anything, Jack?” he asked, voice soft.

The eyes, like tiny candle flames, blinked out once and lit again. “There’s three of them. At the mouth of the bridge. I can’t tell who they are. Then there’s more up on the bridge. Maybe three dozen. They’ve managed to raise the portcullis. Either they’ve bribed the guards or—”

Crispin looked down the street one way and then the other. Nothing—no sound, no movement. Was Wynchecombe coming? “I suppose we can’t wait any longer.” Crispin straightened and walked out of the alley toward the gray shapes of the bridge’s gatehouse.

He moved precisely and slowly, well aware that they could see him or soon would.

“That’s far enough,” said a voice.

Crispin stopped. His fingers whitened on the box.

The voice had the wisp of an accent. Crispin thought it was Italian. Not Mahmoud? Then he recognized it as the voice in the stable: Visconti’s head of operations in England.

Three dark figures stood before the quiet gatehouse.

“Put the box down and step away,” the voice ordered.

“Where’s the girl?”

“Crispin! I’m here!” One of the figures tried to wriggle free from between the other two. The one on the left raised an arm. Crispin heard a smack. He jerked forward.

“Don’t!” warned the voice.

Crispin clenched his free hand. Definitely needed a sword in it. Four strides and four strokes would do it.

“Now do as you are told and no one will be injured.”

Slowly, eyes fixed on the middle figure, Crispin bent and put the box on the ground. He stepped back but not too far.

The man on the left moved forward. He was covered from head to foot in a cloak and hood. The cloak swished about him as he walked and pooled when he knelt at the box.

He looked up once at Crispin. Two-Fingers. Crispin didn’t wait. He swung his foot forward and kicked him in the jaw. The man fell back without a sound, out cold.

The voice laughed. “That wasn’t very sporting.”

“Now it’s even. Give me the girl and I’ll give you the box.”

“I don’t give a damn about the box. Open it.”

Crispin knelt and did so.

“Now take it out.”

“Where’s my eight hundred pounds?”

The voice laughed. “A man gets tired of waiting. I’m afraid it’s too late for that. Now it’s the girl. Unless, of course, I was mistaken and she isn’t worth the trouble. Mahmoud was very helpful in telling us how much she meant to you.”

Crispin grunted and said nothing. He reached in and lifted the cloth. In the misty light, it was the same color as bleached bones.

“Toss it to me.”

“No. Come get it.”

The man laughed again. “Why not?”

He dragged Philippa forward. When they got closer, Crispin could see the vague reflection of light on the blade held to her throat. He straightened and stood over the box. They were close enough now for Crispin to see her face. She held herself well.

The man’s face lay hidden by the shadows of an overhanging hood. He was tall and the hand that held the knife was long with slim fingers. Only the tip of a nose was visible from the shadows.

Crispin set his jaw in a grim angle and nodded toward the blade. “There’s no need for that.”

“On the contrary. She can be most vicious when provoked. I have the bite marks to prove it. But perhaps…I’m not the only one.”

Crispin refused to reply. He was busy glancing beyond them to the figures closing in from the bridge. He thought he recognized one taller shadow as Sclavo. “Had your say yet? It’s cold out here and I’d have it done with.”

“So bold when I have the upper hand. You are an extraordinarily arrogant man, Crispin Guest. I like you.” He shook his head. “I wish that my own henchmen were as clever as you. Oh, don’t mistake me. We are a family. But at times we must hire those outside the family, and they are not nearly so clever.”

“Like Mahmoud? I expected him here.”

“He’s been working both sides of the alley, I fear. We did hire him once, but it seems he’s been working for competitors. In Constantinople. They want the Mandyllon back.”

Crispin’s ears pricked, trying to make out any possible sounds in the distance. He stalled. “It comes from Constantinople? What is this thing? I have never heard of any ‘Mandyllon’ before.”

“I’d never heard of it either until a merchant from the Orient told me the tale. Then I had to see it for myself. Once my master heard the legend, he simply had to have it.”

“The legend?”

“It is said that, centuries ago, there was a king of Edessa called Abgar and he was a leper. Even in the far reaches of his kingdom he heard of the miracles of Jesus of Nazareth. He sent his personal scribe Hannan to seek out our Lord and bring him back to heal his king.

“This scribe searched all over Judea and finally reached Jerusalem and found our Lord. But he was teaching there and could not come to Abgar’s aid. The scribe, desperate to help his master, attempted to paint a portrait of the Savior so that the king could venerate it and heal. But Christ, struck by the man’s sincerity, took a cloth and impressed his perspiring face upon it, leaving the image of his glorious features. This is the Mandyllon—the ‘little kerchief.’”

The man nudged Philippa forward and Crispin backed away the same number of strides. The man and his captive now stood over the box.

“The scribe returned to Edessa bearing the cloth,” the man went on. “With one glance at the cloth, the king was immediately healed and became a devoted Christian on the spot. All in his kingdom were baptized. The Mandyllon was revered for many years until the old king died and his son came to power. The infidel did not believe in our Lord or the image, and returned to pagan ways. The bishop of Edessa, fearing for the safety of the cloth, walled it up in the church.

“Emperor Constantine himself later purchased the cloth for two hundred Saracen prisoners and twelve thousand silver coins. It was most prized by the emperor because it not only possessed healing properties, as with most relics, but it was a very valuable asset to a king, because a man could not lie in its presence. So it is said.”

“Do you believe it?”

“
Sì.
I’ve seen it work.” He stepped closer and pushed back his hood.

Crispin’s lips parted with astonishment. “
John Hoode?
What the hell—”

27

“I deceived you, I know, but it was necessary.”

Crispin stared at the man he knew as John Hoode. Gone was the façade of cowardice. He held himself differently; tall, confident. His smooth accent was full of golden, Mediterranean tones, not coarse and full of the smoke of Southwark.

“You’re not English?”

“No, and my name is not John Hoode. My name…is not important.”

“And this syndicate?”

“I work for it. I am one of many. We labor for one man who controls all. I think you know who.”

“Visconti. I always thought of him as a wily general, not a master criminal.”

“I should do you harm for such a remark,” he said without malice. “My master would expect it.”

“Visconti has always gotten away with murder. After all, ‘successful and fortunate crime is called virtue.’”

“And you quote Seneca. I knew I liked you.”

“The plan is soured now. I’ve discovered it and let the authorities know. Visconti can’t stop or even delay our conflict in France. France belongs to England and the crown will get it back. There will be no deal for Calais.”

Hoode frowned. “These are distressing tidings. You seem to know a great deal. My master will be very displeased. But at least I can present him with the Mandyllon. As a consolation prize.”

“Yes, the Mandyllon. You’ve come a roundabout way to get it.”

“We need not have traveled so far. The Mandyllon was in Rome. Until it was stolen by our thief some five years ago. We had a difficult time tracking him down, I’m afraid.”

“How did it get to Rome?”

“Don’t you know your history, Crispin? Rome sacked Constantinople a century ago.”

“I see. And such feelings still run deep. Is that why Mahmoud tries to return it to Constantinople?”

“Oh, I doubt he will be able to do so—from the bottom of the Thames.”

Philippa looked at Hoode. “He’s dead, then?”

“
Sì, senorina.
Very.”

“I could kiss you.”

Hoode smiled, turning toward Crispin. “I like her. Teeth marks and all. Even at the manor, I liked her methods.”

“Why did you kill Adam Becton?”

Hoode’s eyes glittered in triumph. “You
are
clever. Poor Adam. He found me when I accidentally discovered the secret room. There are many such secret rooms in Italian courts, you see. I tried to bribe him, but he grew suspicious of me.”

“I see.” Crispin raised his head. His hand itched for his dagger. He wished for one of Mahmoud’s crossbows. “You are the customs controller. And accounting clerk, no doubt. You used your master’s initials when you made your entries in the ledgers—BV. Bernabò Visconti. Or are they yours as well?”

Hoode shook his head. “You are methodical. You would make an accomplished general.”

“Why did it take you so long to find your thief? If he looked so much like Walcote…”

“It took us some time to discover he had taken on Walcote’s persona. And then he was in hiding for a number of years, living abroad. We did not know when he slipped back to England, but once we knew, he never left his house.”

Crispin snorted. “Very well, then. You’ve got your cloth. Release her.”

Hoode looked at Philippa. He shoved her toward Crispin, who reached out and hauled her to him. She rested against his chest for a moment but he had no time to savor it.

Hoode moved forward and took the cloth from the box.

“Jack!” Crispin hissed into the shadows.

The boy crept forward. Hoode turned and caught Jack with his gaze.

Crispin whispered in Jack’s ear, “Take her to Master Clarence and
only
Master Clarence.”

“Aye, Master.”

“And Jack. What of Eleanor and Gilbert? Are they well?”

“Aye, Master,” he replied, puzzled. “No harm has come to them as far as I know.”

“Mistress Philippa was not at all concerned when her servant John Hoode came for her,” Hoode said by way of explanation. “It was a simple thing to get a message to your boy from the Walcote manor.”

Jack sneered at Hoode, grabbed Philippa’s hand, and rushed her away. She had the sense to keep quiet, though when she looked back, her face told Crispin she had much to say.

“And now we are alone,” said Hoode. “Crispin, may I be frank?”

Crispin nodded. He eyed Hoode’s men moving closer.

“The reason we as an organization have existed as long as we have is that we recognize opportunities and how to exploit them. We can use a clever man like you. Ever consider becoming a free agent?”

“I belong to England. I will not be hired against my own countrymen.”

“Nor kill? There is much money in killing for hire.”

“Even less appealing.”

“You are not an ambitious man. A pity.”

“Ambition has little helped me in the past. May
I
be frank?”

“In the presence of the Mandyllon, you can be nothing but.”

Crispin nodded toward the cloth in Hoode’s hand. “Everyone wanted that. Looks like no one’s getting it.”

Hoode frowned. He clutched the cloth. “What is your meaning?”

Crispin listened and waited for the faint sound of Jack and Philippa to disappear. What made him especially smile was the other sound emerging from the distant streets. The heavy footfall of many boots; the clop of horses. He wasn’t the only one to hear it. Hoode’s men rumbled quickly from the bridge’s gatehouse.

“
Signore!
They come!”

“Who?” Hoode jerked his head toward the sound. Over the creaks of boat against wharf, the lapping of the Thames against the rocky shore, rose the unmistakable clatter of armor and weapons. It drew closer and Hoode took a step back, eyes rounding. Faint torchlight illuminated the rooftops of the houses along Thames Street just beyond sight. Many torches.

Crispin felt the hard steps in his gut as the line of men rounded the corner at last with a rider in the lead. Crispin was never so glad to hear Wynchecombe’s clear baritone as he was at that moment.

“Hold!” cried the sheriff, hauling on the reins of his skittish horse as it tripped this way and that. “In the name of the king!” The men flanking him surged forward, never slowing until they were no more than a stone’s throw from Hoode.

Hoode drew his sword as he backed away from the solid line of men, and the cloth slipped through his fingers.

Crispin ducked, grabbed the false Mandyllon, and slipped back into the mob of soldiers.

The confused Italians were backed against the bridge. There was no signal. With cries lifting into the night—Crispin could not tell from which side they came—swords suddenly clashed and Crispin had only enough time to jump out of the way of a swinging club. He was suddenly in the midst of a melee.

The bridge erupted with swarming Italians like ants on an anthill and the sheriff’s men met them with bold battle cries and the clash of steel on steel.

The scattered, foggy moonlight and the flickering illumination of torches made it difficult to see, but Crispin saw the soldiers rush forward, slashing a path over the bridge’s broad avenue. Even Wynchecombe, mounted on his dark stallion, pushed his way into the thick of it. He slashed his sword downward into the opposing men. His white teeth shone against the dark of his mustache. He seemed to enjoy himself.

Candles winked on in the many houses along the bridge and the merchants living there were roused to their windows, rushing to open shutters in their nightclothes, shouting down directives to the fighters below. Still others cast open their doors and, brandishing what they could, joined in the fight. Unlike the soldiers who hacked and slashed with precision, the merchants reacted as any angry mob would. They wielded sticks like clubs, and many had swords that they used perhaps not as smoothly as the trained soldiers, but just as effectively.

The king’s men tried to gather the Italians to make arrests but soon found themselves fighting off the merchants, who perhaps saw their chance to wreak their own vengeance on the king’s men and any others they decided had done them wrong in the past. Like a wave, they gushed forward over the soldiers. Grunting bodies blundered together, and while the soldiers raised their swords, the merchants swung their fists. Blood spattered the cobblestones. Weapons clattered to the ground from wounded hands and more than one man fell headlong into the dark Thames below with a cry and, if they were lucky, a splash.

Crispin, armed only with his dagger, stood motionless. But it was the sound of clattering steel and the coppery scent of blood that made his own blood pound in his veins.

An unmistakable animal scream sliced the night even above the noise of battle. A spear had pierced Wynchecombe’s horse and man and beast sank to the ground. Crispin ran and snatched up a bloody gisarme from the mud. He swung it at the head of the Italian spearing the horse and sliced a good portion of his scalp from him. Blood sprayed, flecking Crispin’s face. The horse rolled and Wynchecombe yelled as the beast landed on his leg.

“Simon!” Crispin offered his hand and Wynchecombe grabbed hold. Pulling and bracing with the weapon, Crispin yanked the sheriff free. The man stood unsteadily but none the worse.

He stared at Crispin unabashedly. “Much thanks.”

“Think nothing of it, Lord Sheriff.”

Wynchecombe stomped his leg, testing it. “These damned Italians!” He swiped the sweat from his face and glared at his twitching horse. He drew his sword. A man sailed toward him uttering an ear-piercing shriek and Wynchecombe hacked downward, stopping him for good. Crispin stood at his back and swung the gisarme. A clumsy weapon, one with which he was not familiar, but it felt good to fight again. Too many years had passed since he found himself in battle, and the fact of the matter was, he missed it. The surge of adrenaline; his muscles straining as he swung sword or ax; the fierce battle cries of his fellows urging him on to conquer. Banners, gonfalons. Heralds and pages crossing the lines. That was where he belonged. Not on the filthy streets of the Shambles.

Wynchecombe panted and looked over his shoulder at Crispin. “I never would have believed it if I did not witness it for myself.”

Crispin swung again and then jabbed at his retreating attacker. “What is that, Lord Sheriff?”

“You, coming to my aid.”

“We are on the same side, are we not, Simon?” he answered hurriedly, straining as he swung the weapon forward to fend off more foe.

“Sometimes I wonder.” He drew forward and slashed at a man with his blade, each stroke in time with his words. “And how…many times…must I tell you…not…to call me…
Simon
!” At the last, he thrust home.

“Forgive me, Lord Sheriff,” said Crispin, aiming his weapon toward a man with a club, who changed his mind and skirted him. “I must have been distracted.”

“You annoy me, Guest.”

“Oh? What have I done this time?”

Wynchecombe mopped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. “You put great demands on the office of the Lord Sheriff. Expecting me to come with an army on the say-so of one of your street urchins.”

“Lenny,” Crispin breathed with satisfaction.

“Nameless beggars, cutthroats, thieves,” Wynchecombe went on. “I expect jackals and buzzards next.”

Crispin almost laughed outright. But he smiled anyway at the sheriff’s declawed banter. It felt good to swing a weapon again, to be useful. “Why did you come?”

The sheriff shook his shaggy head. “I haven’t the slightest idea!” He swung his sword two-handed at a man with an ax and laid him low. Crispin felt each shock with his shoulder blades pressed against the sheriff’s back.

“Couldn’t be that you have come to trust me, Lord Sheriff?”

The man’s gloved fist swept back to box his ear. Crispin winced from the blow and glared at him over his shoulder.

“Don’t be a fool.”

Crispin thought that was sage advice and scanned the crazed scene, searching for Hoode among the fighters.

“There’s more work to be done here,” said Wynchecombe, sizing up the battle.