“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?”
Crispin kept his eyes on the sheriff’s. “See how easily treason is spoken. Best not to dwell on it.”
Wynchecombe’s frown deepened. “Indeed! Best not to dwell on it. Yet the king will still be angry with me, and I do not relish that.”
“But you will be the one to break this cartel. As well as solve the murder of a prominent citizen.”
Wynchecombe looked interested. “You’ll give me the credit?”
“Where credit is due, Lord Sheriff. My only desire is to make certain you get all you deserve.”
“Ho, ho! I’ll wager you do!” He chuckled to himself until his gaze fell on the remaining ashes of the Mandyllon. He looked at it a long time. “Then I would say we have a bargain.” His features sobered. He took Crispin’s dagger from his belt and offered it to him. “We took many turns today, you and I.” The last scraps of cloth glowed portentously with angry red edges. “I’m releasing you, you whoreson. You have a lot to do. Don’t forget to do for me what you promised.”
Crispin turned toward the open doorway with a mixed sense of relief and anxiety. He sheathed his dagger, stopped on the threshold, and offered a beleaguered smile. “I would feel safer with the Mandyllon in my hands.”
“A moot point. You just burned it.”
Crispin stared at the ashes and smiled.
25
Crispin obtained a piece of muslin from a puzzled Eleanor and used a bit of charcoal to fashion a face very lightly on the fabric. In the right light, it looked very close to the one he destroyed.
Whenever he thought about the real Mandyllon curling and blackening in the fire, his gut twinged. He could never be certain whether he had done the right thing or not. Even if he did not believe in its power, he felt a wave of anxiety at destroying it. High-handed and perhaps petulant, he nevertheless knew he could never turn over such an object to the king.
He had to get to the Walcote manor. He wanted the box that contained the Mandyllon. It would give it the authenticity he needed. There were many fish to catch, and the bait needed to be as enticing as possible.
Crispin arrived in the misty courtyard and approached the front door. The nervous Matthew recognized him, grumbled a greeting, and led him to the parlor.
Crispin turned to the sideboard and poured himself a bowl of wine as Clarence Walcote strolled through the archway.
“Well, don’t stand on ceremony,” Clarence said sourly. “Go on, make yourself at home.”
Crispin did not turn. He tilted back the bowl and drank its contents. As good as he remembered. He poured another before he looked over his shoulder at Clarence. “I warned you I’d be back.”
“But you didn’t say you’d be taking up residence.” Clarence snorted. “Well, why not? The more the merrier.” He joined Crispin at the sideboard and gestured to an empty cup. “Never drink alone, friend. Fill it up.”
Crispin obliged and set aside the flagon.
“Besides,” said Clarence, knocking back the bowl, a draught worthy of Crispin, “that bruised face of yours looks like it could use it.” He belched and shouldered Crispin aside to pour another. “Wish these cups were bigger,” Clarence muttered.
Crispin listened for the customary sounds of servants moving about and the conversation and laughter of the manor’s wealthy occupants. But this house seemed smothered under an eerie quiet. “How fares everyone here in the Walcote manor?”
Clarence eyed Crispin from over the rim of the bowl. “It’s crowded. And chilly. It looks like Clarence is one too many brothers for this household.”
“Oh? Why do you say that?”
“Because my dear brother and his wife would happily settle here rather than return to Whittlesey. They’ve all but packed my bags.”
“Are yo
u going?”
“And let Lionel get all the inheritance? Not likely.” Clarence moved to a chair and sat, sliding down to stretch out his legs. “I’m afraid I’m having a bit of sympathy for that chambermaid we rousted out of here. I’m beginning to know how she felt.” He ran the cup’s rim against his lips in thought. “She was a pretty thing. No wonder that impostor took a liking to her.”
Crispin stood stiffly near the sideboard, opening and closing his fists.
“I’ll say one thing for her,” Clarence went on. “She knew how to run a manor right well. Maude doesn’t know a blessed thing about it.” Clarence wiped his lips with his fingers and looked over Crispin as if remembering his purpose. “So, still investigating these murders, are you? Come to arrest someone?”
“Maybe, but I have a question—and a favor to ask.”
Clarence tightened his shoulders and stared down his nose at Crispin. “Oh? What’s that?”
“That box found in the solar—when we discovered the steward. What happened to it?”
“Maude took it. Using it for her jewelry.”
Crispin measured Clarence before turning back to his bowl. “You do not seem to have much love for your brother nor his wife.”
“Why should I? They are a pair, those two. Meant for each other. He’s the jackal and she’s his bitch. They’re poison, they are. Poison to everything they touch.” He lifted the cup to his lips. “Maybe it’s best I do get out of here before something happens to me.”
“Do you think something will happen to you?”
He chuckled. “That’s only talk.” The cup stopped before it reached his lips. “Hold. You don’t think Lionel—”
“Don’t I?”
“By my Lady!” He gnawed on his lip. “You know,” he whispered and gestured with the cup, sloshing the wine on the floor. “He just might have done it at that.”
“The both of you were aware of the secret room. It’s obvious the murderer entered and exited from there. And Lionel was here in London at the time. Or should I suspect you?”
“God’s wounds! You are an impudent fellow, aren’t you?” Clarence’s hand wandered toward his dagger but then lost impetus. He scowled instead. “What do you want me to say? Plead my innocence? Very well. I so do. I did not kill that insolent fraud. I admire the hell out of him.” He saluted with his wine, tilted the bowl back, and drank it down.
“No one knew he was a fraud. Not until you and your brother denounced him.”
“That’s right. No one knew. So why—if Lionel—”
“Lionel thought it was Nicholas. Too late he discovered he was a fraud. By then, of course, it didn’t truly matter.”
“He thought it was Nick.” Clarence stared into the room with a haunted expression. “How proud Father would be. What a den of wolves are we.” He rose and approached the sideboard, reaching for the flagon again, but paused halfway and lowered his hand. He dropped his cup on the sideboard. The bowl spun, wobbled, and finally stopped. His face grew long, and though his eyes seemed lazy and saturated with drink, Crispin noted a change in his mood and the first sincere expression he’d seen Clarence wear. “I think we Walcotes deserve each other,” said Clarence softly.
“I need that box, Master Clarence. Can you get it for me?”
He faced Crispin and seemed to slowly rise from his melancholy. “That will make Maude madder than a wet hen.” He smiled. “I’ll gladly do it.” He marched toward the archway, but before he crossed under it, he turned to Crispin. “By the way, what happened to her? That chambermaid?”
Crispin stiffened and scowled. “She’s found temporary employment. But I fear for her safety.”
“What? Why? She’s got nothing.”
“She is a pawn in a much larger game. That box might help her.”
“An empty box?”
“Just trust me, Master Clarence. I know she harmed your family. She perpetrated fraud. But I do not think you would wish to see her killed, especially for something for which she is entirely innocent.”
Clarence screwed up his mouth and toyed with his dagger. He nodded and left the parlor.
Crispin felt the need to pace and made several circuits of the room. Philippa. He wanted to concentrate on Mahmoud and the Italians, but such thoughts proved impossible once her image slipped into his consciousness.
She looked so forlorn when he left her at the Boar’s Tusk. Why didn’t he take her in his arms? Why make such a fuss about a kiss? Plenty of men kissed their women on the streets. Plenty of plain, hardworking men.
Knights kissed women on the streets, too. But those women were last night’s conquests at stew houses, not courtly women.
He looked up at a wall painted with a family scene of people romping in a garden. Painted servants worked nearby dyeing fabric in vats. The wealthy family was turned out in their best furs and scarlets. The female servants cavorted, barefoot, skirts hitched up, ankles and calves revealed. Hounds of high pedigree frolicked with the wealthy patrons, while mongrels nipped at the heels of the drunken male servants toting bolts of cloth under their arms. The peasants hung on the necks of the donkeys pulling carts, while the rich merchants held delicately to the reins of their sleek, white horses.
Try as he might, he could find no pleasure in the antics of the riotous peasants gamboling across the wall. He knew in his gut that he belonged to the sedate and wan faces of the wealthy; painted with just as many brushstrokes.
The candle flame shifted at the same time a floorboard creaked. Crispin was suddenly aware of someone behind him. He cocked his head and saw Clarence. Crispin guiltily adjusted himself, feeling as if his thoughts were spattered across the wall.
“Oh the fuss she made,” snorted Clarence. He presented the box to Crispin. “I knew it would be worth it. Of course, I did not tell her the purpose it was being put to. She would have tossed it in the fire for spite.”
“Yes. It is foolish to burn things for spite.”
Clarence crossed to the sideboard, but stopped midway. He angled his head to look at Crispin. “I’m curious. About you.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I mean, your clothes. And you’ve got this strange title—what is it again?”
“The Tracker.”
“Yes, that. Just who are you, anyway?”
“A man of many talents—and none of them for riches and success.”
Clarence laughed. “Yes, I am your brother in that.”
“Does not the cloth business suit you?”
“Oh yes, I do well enough. Nothing like Nicholas did, rest his soul.” He glanced around the parlor. “Or even this fellow who played at him. I suppose I haven’t the head for business. Lionel’s right, I reckon. I would have run the business into the ground.”
“I hear he has done no better.”
Clarence snapped his head up. “Eh? Where’d you hear that?”
Crispin said nothing.
Clarence nodded and smiled. “I see. Part of those many talents of yours, eh?” Clarence grew thoughtful and toyed with the flagon but never quite poured from it. “If Lionel is guilty of this murder,” he said slowly, “what will happen to him?”
“He will most likely be hanged.”
Clarence shivered. “Christ’s toes.” He seemed to freeze on the spot, looking nowhere in particular, nor moving his hand to pour wine. “That’s a hell of a way to inherit all.”
“It is legal. It is better than murder.”
“Yes,” he said softly. “Better than murder.” He looked at the flagon in his hand as if seeing it for the first time and decidedly set it down. He wiped his hands down his coat and ambled toward the arch, never quite looking at Crispin. “Does he…will he…” He closed his eyes. “Master Crispin. I am unacquainted with the doings of the law. Will it be swift, or will he endure in prison a long time?”
“Were he a high-ranking nobleman, he might well languish in prison. He is a wealthy merchant, which makes him nearly as important, though I should think that all shall move swiftly.
Your inheritance will be awarded just as speedily.”
“No, no. It isn’t that. It’s just that I’m actually feeling sorry for the bastard.”
Crispin shifted forward. “Best not to say anything to Lionel, Master Clarence. Or to anyone. The sheriff would be very displeased if the culprit should be warned. And don’t feel too sorry for him. He could easily turn on you, too.”
Clarence raised his head and nodded. “Yes, it has occurred to me. God keep you, then.”
“And you. If I were you, Master Clarence, I’d lock my door.”
Clarence’s face drained of color. He glanced up the staircase and its dark shadows and even darker secrets. He rested his hand on his scabbard and took to the stairs as if they were a gallows.
Clarence. Such a man made Crispin wonder what the real Nicholas must have been like. Was he gruff and all business like Lionel? Or did he have a sensitive side as indicated by Clarence’s surprising sobriety? Crispin cast a glance about the chamber. Its riches were evident in every corner, every stick of furniture. No doubt Nicholas was as ruthless as any lord. No one got this rich doing kind deeds.
He wanted no more of the Walcotes and their ceaseless bickering. He’d take care of Lionel soon enough, but this business with Visconti overrode all, and time was running out. When he turned to leave, he nearly smacked into a boy, the one from the kitchens he’d talked to before.
“Master Crispin.”
“Yes, lad. What is it?”
“Master Hoode would speak with you, sir. He’s awaiting you in the kitchens. He says it is very urgent that he see you now.”
“Very well. Much thanks.”
Crispin followed the boy across the hall to the kitchen close and trotted through the low-ceilinged passage.
John Hoode stood in the flickering light of the large hearth. He looked whiter than usual. The firelight caught the edge of his fair hair and blazed it with light. The others must have gone on to their beds. He saw only another boy sleeping on a pile of straw near the storage rooms.
Veil of Lies Page 23
