Veil of Lies (28 page)

“Yes,” Crispin agreed, about to offer more when he saw them. There! Sclavo. Moving forward up the bridge along with the roused Two-Fingers. They made their way to Hoode, but their master found himself surrounded by angry merchants and fought for his life. He swung his sword. The blade flashed in the moonlight. His fierce swings cast shorter swords and daggers aside.

“An accomplished swordsman,” muttered Crispin. He would have liked the opportunity to go head to head with Hoode, but he hadn’t a sword of his own.

Hoode slashed a path to the bridge gatehouse. Once there, no one barred his way and he trotted unimpeded under the shadows.

“I must go!” shouted Crispin to Wynchecombe and pressed forward, thrusting men out of his way. He tightened his grip on the gisarme. He did not need a sword to stop the man. Leaving the sheriff to his own fighting, he took off at a run, zigzagging through the melee.

He skidded under the gatehouse arch and spied Hoode running up the bridge and across toward Southwark. Crispin pursued, and when he got close enough, swung the gisarme low at Hoode’s feet and upended him. Hoode fell but kept his grip on his sword. He righted and glared at Crispin. His face was dark from other men’s blood, but his teeth caught the moonlight when his lips parted in a smile.

“Well now. What are your intentions, Master Guest? To fight? Don’t let my slight figure fool you. My master the duke would never hire a weakling to do his bidding. I have killed more men than you have ever met.”

“Then it’s high time I overtake that score.” He swung the heavy weapon at Hoode’s midsection, hoping its blade side would slice him. But Hoode saw it coming and jerked back out of the way.

“You’ll have to do better than that.”

Crispin raised the gisarme to jab with its long point. Hoode’s sword chopped downward, blocking it. Holding the weapon like a quarter staff, Crispin swung the blunt end toward Hoode’s head, but the sword backhanded it out of the way. The blade flashed. Before Crispin could elude it, the sword’s point stabbed him in the shoulder.

Crispin staggered back a few paces. “Son of a whore!” The pain shot all the way down his body. His fists whitened over the staff. The throbbing wound left his arm numb and his belly sick.

Hoode raised his weapon, lashing sidewise toward Crispin’s rib cage. Crispin blocked the blow with the staff and felt the shock run through the wood.

No recovery time. Hoode retaliated with backswings that slashed the air with an unmistakable whistle. Crispin could do nothing but use the staff to block and step back in retreat. Hoode was as good as his earlier boast.

Crispin saw an opening and thumped the staff’s blunt end into Hoode’s chest. Now it was Hoode’s turn to stagger back. He recovered quickly and came at Crispin again with a two-handed blow. Crispin countered with a block from the staff, but this time the wood cracked and broke in two.

Crispin stared at the pieces in each hand. “God’s blood!” Without thinking, he used both sticks like clubs, catching Hoode on either side of his neck. Hoode spun away, gasping. Crispin swung at Hoode’s unprotected scalp, but even injured and blinded, Hoode managed to fend off Crispin with the blade.

Hoode turned. His face wore a malicious scowl. “You’ll die painfully. And you’ll also die knowing that the girl’s life is forfeit.”

“And you’ll die knowing that the Mandyllon is no more, and that you failed your master. It’s a copy, a fake. I burned the true one.”

“You burned it! Are you mad? It’s worth a fortune!”

“To keep it out of the hands of madmen like you? It was well worth it.”

Hoode’s thoughts played across his eyes.

“Yes. You’ve absorbed it at last. Visconti won’t be very pleased with you. What does the duke do to servants who displease him?”

Crispin saw it all on his face. In many ways the Italian courts were far worse than England’s. The dukes and princes of Italy were more like thugs with their own code of laws.

Hoode looked toward the sheriff’s men.

Crispin could tell Hoode was considering his options: Was it better in an English prison, or the Lombardy court? Hoode decided. He took off at run up the bridge, sword in hand.

Crispin gripped the staff, cocked back, and let fly. With a thump, the long point struck Hoode’s calf and he went down. He lost the sword this time and fell face first across the cobblestones.

Crispin trotted to catch up and picked up the sword, aiming the tip at the back of Hoode’s head. The gisarme’s point pierced Hoode’s calf and blood covered the leg. When Hoode raised his head, he encountered the sword tip and froze. “Let’s try it my way,” said Crispin, panting. “I arrest you in the name of the king.”

Crispin yanked him to his feet and lugged him toward Bridge Street and the sheriff.

By now the merchants and the soldiers surrounded the dwindling number of Italians. The English did not give them quarter until Wynchecombe signaled his captains to force a surrender. The merchants seemed reluctant to capitulate until they were convinced by a party of archers approaching over the hill. Wynchecombe warned the merchants in a loud voice that carried beyond the bridge that he would have no compunction about allowing the archers to fire at will. The merchants pulled back and allowed the sheriff to do his work.

Hoode’s feet dragged along the pavement, the broken spear dangling from the wound in his calf. He made no protest, made no sound at all. They met the sheriff directing his men.

Sweat ran down Wynchecombe’s face and blood stained his coat where the material was slashed. He turned toward Crispin. “What’s this?”

“The feather in your cap, my Lord Sheriff. Visconti’s right-hand man in London. And Adam Becton’s killer.” He tossed Hoode to the ground where he stayed. Hoode twisted and groped for the broken spear but dared not yank it out himself. Crispin dropped the sword behind Hoode.

“Indeed?” Wynchecombe turned toward a bloodied William. “Shackle him,” he ordered. Wynchecombe nodded toward Crispin. “Weren’t you here to rescue your chambermaid? Where is she?”

“She’s been rescued. All that remained was for the king’s men to clean up these Italians, and that you have done. Much thanks to Lenny.”

Wynchecombe shoved his sword into his scabbard. “Damn you, Guest! I’m not your lackey.” But there was little of the former sting to his words.

“No, my lord. But you have accomplished much tonight. You’ve made the Italian cartel ineffectual here. You’ve arrested his minions. I’m certain the king will be pleased.”

Wynchecombe’s grimace opened into a grin. He glanced about the square again, at the soldiers securing what was left of the Italians. “Yes, that he will be. Perhaps even pleased enough to forget that fantastical relic, eh?”

Crispin pressed his hand to his wounded shoulder.

“You’d best get that looked at.”

“There’s no time. I must still capture Walcote’s murderer.”

“You do not forget our bargain?”

“No, as long as you do not forget your part in it. You get the credit, I get my freedom. And my surety is paid.”

“Ha! I said half.”

“Oh, but my lord—”

“Very well, very well.” Wynchecombe waved his hand. “This fight has put me in an agreeable mood. I agree to default all your surety. Now begone before I change my mind. And Crispin.” There was a sincere glint in his eyes. “Good luck.”

Crispin patted the false Mandyllon beneath his coat. “I’ll need it.”

28

Lights still burned in the Walcote manor. The harried Matthew in rumpled clothes answered Crispin’s knock. The servant thrust the candle forward, casting its yellow glow on Crispin’s face. The man admitted him without a word and led him to the parlor, but Crispin headed toward the stairs. “Tell Master Lionel to meet me in the solar. I can make my way alone.”

The servant’s mouth compressed to an agitated line, but he ducked his head and hurried into the shadows to comply.

Crispin took his time ascending the dark stairs. He strolled to the solar and shivered in its darkness. Embers still glowed red in the hearth, and he stirred them with an iron and tossed more sticks on it. When they flared to life, he took a straw and lit the candles, one on the desk and another two in tall floor sconces. Vaguely he wondered where Philippa might be and warmed his hands at the flames, watching the fire lick up at the hearth’s blackened walls until he heard footsteps on the landing. He turned and crossed his arms over his chest before the twinge in his shoulder stopped him. He grasped his left arm instead.

Lionel, red-faced and brusque, crossed the threshold. He was dressed hastily in a gown, the material bunched inelegantly over his sword belt. A few loose threads trailed from the gown’s hem. His pilgrim’s badges clung haphazardly to his sleeve. Crispin smiled at them.

Lionel pushed Crispin out of the way and shook his shivering shoulders in front of the fire. “What is this? Do you think I keep baker’s hours? This had better be worth my time.”

“Oh, I assure you it is.” He strolled to the other side of Lionel and continued to warm his hands. “I am concluding my investigation of the murder.”

“Are you now? Very well, then. There’s been far too much death in this house. I think it is cursed.” He turned from the fire and reached for the wine jug on the sideboard. “Have you found your man?”

“I believe I have.” Crispin waited until Lionel poured his wine and took a swig. He did not offer Crispin any. Lionel stared into his cup, but when Crispin said nothing more, he turned and scowled.

“Well then?” Lionel finally took in Crispin’s appearance, the blood on his shoulder, the scrapes on his face.

“In a moment,” said Crispin. “First, I’d like to show you something.” Crispin unbuttoned the last few buttons on his coat, pulled the cloth free, and shook it out. He handled it tenderly but in such a way that the light glowed from behind its faint image. “Do you know what this is?”

Lionel shook his head and took another drink. “Of course not.”

“It is called the Mandyllon. A very valuable relic. You see here? It is the face of Jesus Christ.”

Lionel set the wine aside. He took a step forward, his hand stretching out to touch it. Crispin pulled it back and shook his head as if to a naughty child. “No, no. Mustn’t touch. It’s very valuable and very delicate.”

“Is it for sale?” breathed Lionel.

Crispin scowled. “You
would
think of that, wouldn’t you? No, it’s not for sale. You cannot put a price on such a thing. So many have wanted this. So many have died trying to get it. Our false Walcote for one. He transported it from Rome. Kept it in this very room.”

“You don’t say. Kept it here?”

“Indeed.” Crispin raised it and looked it over before glancing at Lionel. “Relics have special properties.” He nodded to Lionel’s many badges. “But you know that already.”

Lionel touched the monstrance hanging from a gold chain around his neck. It looked to Crispin as if the hairs of a saint were pressed against its crystal case. “Yes, they protect us poor souls.”

“Yes. Some do. Some heal. Some have other properties. The Mandyllon, for instance. Do you know why it is so valuable?”

“Why, it has the face of Christ!” He took a step forward. Crispin countered by stepping back toward the wall.

“Of course that’s only one reason. But it is valued for its power. Valued by kings and princes because a man is incapable of telling a lie in its presence. Curious, isn’t it?”

Sweat broke out on Lionel’s face. His nose shined with it. “Can’t tell a lie, eh? Ha!” A slight hesitation. “That’s very interesting.”

“Indeed. For instance. If I were to ask you—”

Lionel held up his slick palm. “Now, wait a moment! That’s not quite fair, is it? What if I test it on you first, eh? What if I were to ask about you?”

Crispin drew up as straight as he could with a wounded shoulder and narrowed his gaze down his sharp nose. “Then ask.”

Lionel edged forward and raised his double chin. “I’ve done a bit of investigating about you. You are not quite who you seem. You’re supposed to be a knight, I heard tell. That right?”

Crispin squinted. “Yes,” he said slowly.

“Is it true you committed treason?”

Crispin pulled his knife.

Lionel shrank back and held up his empty hands. Crispin stopped himself and gritted his teeth. Lionel’s face filled with fear and that alone gave Crispin enough satisfaction, though a blade in the man’s gut would have gone further to cheer his mood. He looked the man up and down and made a disgusted huff before he slammed the knife back in its sheath.

“Well?” asked Lionel, recovering. He panted. “I asked a question. If that cloth is authentic, you have no choice but to speak the truth. And I can see that you’d rather not.”

“It—There was—” He pressed his lips tight before saying, “It’s true.”

“Lord love me!” Lionel wiped off the perspiration above his upper lip.

“And now
I’ve
a question.” Crispin raised the cloth, holding it between them. “Did you kill the imposter Nicholas?”

For a moment, Crispin thought Lionel might run. His hands fisted, and his knees bent in an attitude of flight. Crispin’s body blocked the doorway. He knew he could outrun the corpulent merchant, but it was late, he was tired and wounded, and no one had offered him wine. He almost wanted Lionel to run, wanted to strike him. Looking at Lionel’s sweaty face and piggy eyes, remembering the cold-blooded murder, he decided that a little more violence may not be so bad.

Lionel unwound his fists and straightened. “Ha!” he said halfheartedly. He seemed to take courage from the sound of his own voice. “What does it matter if I say so to the likes of you? Even if that damned cloth makes me say it, who’d listen to a traitor? Not the sheriff. I saw how he talked to you. Doesn’t trust you either.”

“Did you?” Crispin asked again.

Lionel threw out his chest like a cockerel and thrust his hands into his belt. “Yes,” he said at last. “I did.” He gestured toward the cloth clutched in Crispin’s hand. “That cloth, eh? Confession is good for the soul.” He walked slowly toward Crispin. “I thought the man was Nick, of course. Haven’t seen him in a score of years. When I saw it wasn’t, well. I thought his death would complicate things. Until I realized it made it easier.”

“Did you do it for the money?”

“Oh, yes. My business is no more. And Nick always had the best of everything. The best house, the best cloth, the best clients. And he was a true bastard about it. Well, no more. I reckoned he was already dead somewhere or this imposter couldn’t have taken his place. So good riddance to him. To the both of them. And I inherit all.”

“Not quite all. There is Clarence. Or do you plan to kill him, too?” Crispin raised the cloth.

“To tell the truth,” he said, eyeing the cloth, “I haven’t thought about it. But there is that possibility.”

“You
are
a right bastard, aren’t you?”

“I suppose I am. But I’m a rich one. And now.” He pulled his sword before Crispin could react. “I’ll take your knife and that cloth.”

Crispin looked at the cloth in his hand, and tossed it to Lionel. He lifted the dagger from its sheath and held it a moment.

“No tricks,” said Lionel. “Kick the dagger to me.”

Crispin did as told and the blade rumbled across the plank floor.

Lionel chuckled and raised the sword blade until it was level with Crispin’s chest and maneuvered Crispin away from the door. Lionel closed and locked it and then backed Crispin toward the window. “Now what’s to be done with you? I don’t suppose a man such as yourself would be missed too much if you vanished. And I know the perfect place to hide you. Just so happens there’s a passage in this room that takes you down to the garden where I can easily bury your remains. No more Nicholas Walcote and no more Crispin Guest.”

“You have no morals whatsoever, do you?”

“None at all.”

“You’ll hang, you know.”

“Only if I’m caught. Clearly you don’t have enough evidence or you wouldn’t have resorted to this Mandyllon.” Lionel clutched the cloth to his chest and inhaled triumphantly before he stuffed it into his scrip. “This needs safekeeping. I can’t risk your making me confess in front of someone important.”

The wall creaked and the secret panel whooshed aside. Lionel jumped back. His red face turned a crabapple color and his double chins seemed to double again, quivering.

The sheriff stepped into the room and placed a fist at his hip. “Am I important enough?”

Lionel snapped his head toward Crispin and glared. His bushy brows seemed to reach out for him. “You son of whore!” He raised the sword and lunged, but Wynchecombe swung the bejeweled hilt of his sword at the back of Lionel’s head. Lionel’s momentum propelled him forward and he fell facedown on the floor. His sword flung from his hand, skidded across the planks, and slammed with a clang against the wall.

“Two murders are quite enough,” growled the sheriff.