The tinker shop stood wedged between a butcher and a poulterer. It was a small house. The timbers had aged to gray long ago and the daub between was colored a dull and flaking buff. The ground floor boasted one door and one window that folded down into a stall. Above that was the jutted first floor, easing meekly over the ground floor, cradling an iron kettle that hung on a rod, announcing to all and sundry that this was a tinker shop. Though the second level seemed bigger, the inside was cut in half by a wall, one side being Crispin’s entire lodgings, and the other the bedchamber of the tinker and his wife. Though it was not usual to have a tinker situated on the Shambles, it was good business sense on Master Kemp’s part. For there was profitable industry in repairing pots for melting tallow and for making hooks.
A narrow stairway led upward to Crispin’s first-floor room. The rickety stairs were the only thing separating the tinker shop from the butcher’s house beside it. And though it was always dark in the shadow of the neighboring structure, at least it was a private entrance. It was one of the reasons Crispin chose to live there. That, and the rent was cheap.
He plodded to the tinker shopfront and encountered his landlord’s plump wife, sweeping off the beaded rain from the unfolded counter. When Alice Kemp spied him withdrawing his key, she placed a pink fist into her ample hip and leaned on the broom. “Well now. If it isn’t our lodger. The one who forgets when the rent is due.”
Crispin sighed. One day Alice would be found murdered, and no one, including himself, would look too hard for the culprit. “I am aware of how late I am, Madam. Here, then.” He reached into the purse hanging from his belt and took out the last of his coins and placed them into Alice’s damp, open palm. She closed her fingers over them and popped them into her scrip.
“I should charge you more for that boy that calls himself your servant.”
Crispin did not look back while he trudged up the dim stairway. “I do not see why. He is rarely here.”
“All the same,” she shouted after him, voice like ice. “It’s not proper for Master Kemp and me to go uncompensated. Mark me. I shall talk with my husband about it!”
“No doubt,” he grumbled, and put the key to the lock, but before it kissed the metal she shouted again.
“I let that woman into your room. She claimed she was a client.” She hurled the last shrill words with disdain. “She had better be, Master Guest.”
Crispin grabbed his dagger’s hilt in frustration. Did she need to shout her insults across the entire lane? He positioned himself before the door as if to block the sound from the client within, but of course it was far too late. Everyone on the Shambles surely heard her mocking voice. How could they not?
He looked down and realized his hand was still on his dagger hilt. How dearly he wanted to use it on Mistress Kemp! He took a deep breath and dropped his hand away, staring at the closed door. How much had Mistress Walcote heard? His dignity seemed to be a rare commodity these days. And what did it matter in the long run? His personal honor could be measured by the number of coins in his purse. With a weak laugh, he realized that purse was presently empty. He shook his head at the irony. The entire situation was disquieting. The one who hired him was now dead, half a day’s wage still wanting. And now the wife he was hired to follow wanted his services. For what? It did not feel right working for the wife under these circumstances. But coin was coin.
He opened the door.
3
Philippa turned when Crispin entered. Poor he may be, but at least he had a servant to keep his meager room as spotless as he could, even though young Jack Tucker often made himself too scarce to be useful. But today, the floor showed no signs of dirt, and the dust was wiped from the few surfaces of shelf and sill. Even the hearth was clean. A small peat fire threw a ripple of gold across the floor, the only gold that room would likely ever see.
The room itself was small, smaller than even the pavilion tents he used to occupy when he marched to war under the old king’s banner. One shuttered window overlooked the Shambles and a chipped jug with wine sat on the sill of another window on the opposite wall. It opened to reveal a view of the tinker’s courtyard and the many rooftops of London’s streets beyond.
The head of a small pallet bed was situated against the common wall he shared with his landlord Martin Kemp and his wife. On the other side of the hearth in a corner lay a pile of straw where Jack slept, presently unoccupied. A bucket of water sat by the wooden chest near the door. Above that was a shelf of meager foodstuffs—a half-eaten loaf of bread under a cloth, a wedge of cheese, two bowls, and a razor. Nailed to the exposed timber above that was a small brass mirror. A worn table with a wobbly leg took up the space in the middle of the room where a tallow candle on a disk of tin offered its weak light. A chair with arms and a back, and a stool tucked beneath the table, served as both his dining hall and place of business.
These meager sticks of furniture were rented along with the room. Crispin owned only the scant bits of clothing and writing tools lying in the plain wooden chest.
He peeled off his damp cloak and hung it on a peg by the door. Pushing back the hood off his head, he bowed slightly to her. “You made mention you wished to hire me. In what capacity?”
She pouted. Her lips were as red as her velvet gown, and his former sourness was forgotten amid lips and gown and sinewy woman. They reminded him that he still carried the miniature painting of her in his purse. He thought of mentioning it and handing it over, but that was as far as he got.
“How lost does something have to be for you to find it?”
The room’s dim light illuminated only a stripe across her face, revealing heavily draped lids. Her eyes hid beneath thick lashes, unwilling to reveal all. Slanted and sleepy seemed to be their natural posture.
He measured them through the ribboning black smoke of the candle on the table. “You’d be surprised at the things I’ve found,” he said. “Perhaps even mortified.”
She exhaled through her nostrils, blowing the candle smoke toward him horizontally for a moment before the smoke spiraled upward again. “You’d be surprised at the things I’ve seen,” she countered. “Perhaps…even mortified.”
He allowed himself a smile. “I know little about you or your husband—requiescat in pace,” he said, crossing himself. “What happens behind closed doors does not interest me.”
“It should.” She strode to the table and leaned her thigh against it. “Kingdoms are bought and sold behind closed doors.”
“I own no kingdoms.”
“To be sure.” She perused the room with mild distaste. “If you are so successful at your profession, then why such poor lodgings? I’ve seen stables that are better furnished.”
His smile faded. “If you do not wish to hire me then don’t waste my time.”
She waved her left hand. The gold band gleamed insolently in the candlelight. “I merely asked because I do not trust easily.”
“Indeed. Then why are you here? Alone.”
She turned to look him in the eye. “I trust myself.”
He lowered his face. That was more than he could say for himself. He remembered how she looked with her impatient lover. His face grew hot with the memory. “You must trust someone if you are to get the help you say you need.” He moved away, putting the table between them. “I have no proof of my deeds except by the word of others. I am not a man to parade my triumphs about my person.”
She made a slow measure of him again. She did not smile, but her guarded posture eventually softened. Even weakened. She bit her bottom lip and turned from him. No longer did she wear the expression of the grand lady of the manor, but that of a frightened girl.
“There is something dangerous, something strange hidden in my house,” she said in her throaty voice. “I believe it is why my husband was killed. I want you to find it and dispose of it.”
He frowned. “Why have you not told the sheriff about this?”
She laughed without pleasure. “I reckon I’m a good judge
of character, Master Crispin. And of cunning. Of the two, my choice was you.”
He was also a good judge of character, at least he liked to think so. And a good judge of intonation. He again noticed that her accent somehow did not match her status. Her cultivated speech seemed too careful. “There’s no need to be melodramatic,” he said and crossed the room, took up the iron poker, and jabbed it into the ashes and embers. No fire emerged. He broke some sticks and placed them on the radiant coals, blowing on them to catch a flame. When they did, he poked the small fire to give himself time to think.
She moved slowly toward the hearth, each sinuous step rustling the generous fabric of her gown. “You don’t know. You can’t imagine. They killed poor Nicholas. I wish it had never been brought into my house.” She hugged herself even though the fire now burned warmly.
He walked to the back window and closed the shutter. It did not close all the way, and the wind whistled through the open crack. He moved back toward the fire. “They? Who killed him? Your lover?”
“I have no lover.”
He shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. “Are we to play this game again? Very well. Then I will checkmate you. I saw the two of you together at the Thistle. In the room.” He raised his brows meaningfully. “I saw what transpired. Must I go on?”
Her expression did not change except to cool. “I have taken the time, Master Guest, to visit these…lodgings. And I have precious little time to give.”
“You would protect a murderer?”
She turned her face away and he stared instead at a soft cheek and a braid looped over a pink ear. “I protect no one but my husband. Now he is beyond my protection.” She whirled. “What good would it do anyone to kill Nicholas?”
“Why Madam, then your lover could have you for himself.”
She shook her head. “Nonsense. He don’t want—” She pressed her lips closed. This time one edge of her mouth turned up in a smile.
“Then I have another question,” he said, monitoring her reactions. “Did you kill him?”
The smile vanished. “No!”
He moved nearer. Her expression remained cool. She seemed aware of his closeness, and like a feral animal, attuned herself to it. One shoulder rose and she tucked her chin down. She looked up at him through a veil of lashes. He detected the faint, sweet scent of elderflowers and found himself leaning closer.
She blinked, slow and even. Her gaze seized him, as if drawing him into a secret she was not yet willing to reveal. He could not help but lose himself in those lustrous eyes.
“I know I can trust you,” she rasped. Could those lips truly go unkissed by other men? He tried to imagine what her lips tasted like, how they felt. Were they soft and pliant, or merely flat and moist? He found he wanted to know. He wanted to taste them, to bite them, to feel them like petals running down his flesh. He wondered if she felt the same for him—and then with a jolt he reminded himself of her husband.
He retreated deliberately.
She took a deep breath and the neckline of her gown rose and lowered. Her face grew somber. “What I am about to say, well. It is plainly unbelievable. But you must believe it. If you don’t, then I might as well leave now.”
“How can I promise before I hear?”
Her eyes searched his. They seemed to drag him forward and shake him, willing him to listen. “Do you believe in the power of holy relics?”
He ran his hand over the back of his neck to wipe away the sweat. “I may have had a run-in or two with relics.” He nodded. “But I do not know whether I believe in their power or not.”
“But you must believe in this. Have you ever heard of the veronica?”
“Do you speak of Veronica’s Veil?”
“Aye. But there are supposed to be many veronicas. They take the words from the Latin and Greek, vera icona. It means—”
“True Image,” he finished. “Yes, Madam. I know my languages.”
She nodded. “There is one veronica’s veil that our Lord encountered while on his way to the cross. The woman Veronica offered her veil to wipe our Lord’s face, and his image was miraculously imprinted upon it. The other was the shroud from his tomb. But there were others that came before.”
“I never heard of these.”
“Few have.”
“How do you know of them?”
“May I sit?”
He motioned her to take the only chair. He sat on the edge of the chest.
Methodically, she folded her hands on her lap. She took her time as if she were recounting exactly how to sit and how to place her hands. Finally she raised her head. “Six months ago Nicholas returned from a long journey on the continent. When he returned, he was a changed man. Nervous. Afraid. Oh, I know what they say. He never leaves the house except to travel. He was always cautious of strangers. But this was different. He was different. I begged him to tell me what vexed him but he would not. Soon he had locks affixed to every door, and me and Adam Becton were given the only other keys and told to lock the doors after going through each of them.”
“Adam Becton? The steward?”
“Aye. You met him.”
He frowned. “Yes. Becton. Go on.”
“There isn’t much more to tell. Nicholas told me about this Mandyllon, that’s what he called it, and that he kept it in the house. I want it gone.”
“But why should you fear such a thing? Surely your husband was duped into believing it was authentic. There is much traffic in so-called relics—”
She shook her head. “No. It is authentic. And it is dangerous.”
“In what way?”
“It does things to people.”
“What sort of ‘things’?”
“Please! Can’t you find it and rid me of it? I will pay you.” She rose and fumbled at her scrip. Crispin watched dispassionately while she spilled a handful of coins on the table, more money than he had seen for a long time. She raised the coins in her cupped hands and thrust them toward him. “Take them! And I will no longer be cursed!” He said nothing and her face became fierce. “You need it, I have it. Take it and do as you are bid! Are you so rich that you would refuse a Walcote?”
The words stung that sore place on Crispin’s pride. He lunged forward and grabbed her wrist. The coins jangled and hit the table, some spinning across the floor. He tightened his grip. “I work for myself. I do what I like, when I like. And I need not abide a lying, adulterous serpent of a woman filling my head with straw and nonsense about cursed relics. I care not how wealthy you are. You reek of blood. It could be mine next.”
Fear changed her expression to something wild and distant. She stared at his whitened fingers wrapped around her wrist. “You are hurting my arm,” she said.
He chuffed his displeasure and threw her hand aside. “Our business is over. Take your coins and be gone.”
She blinked hard in succession. Her red lips grew darker when she mashed them together. “You won’t help me?”
“Why should I? You come to me with a ridiculous story to hide your own wantonness. I do not wish to waste my time. Good day.”
“I cannot go to the sheriff.”
“That is not my affair. Good day, Madam.”
She raised her chin and gathered the coins. He helped her find those on the floor and dropped them smartly into her open scrip. She said nothing more and strode in harsh steps to the door, yanked it open, and stomped through.
Crispin stood for a moment looking at the open doorway.
“I’m hungry,” he decided.
He sat by the fire in the Thistle and stared up the staircase to the door of Philippa Walcote’s most recent tryst. The thick broth he ordered tasted savory, its flavors melting on his tongue, but he found no pleasure in it when considering the possible identity of her dark paramour. With a hunk of brown bread, he sopped the rest of the pottage out of the bowl and looked up from his meal with a belch before he spied a familiar face that had obviously not yet noticed him.
A ginge
r-haired boy threaded through the crowd, squeezing through with apologies on his lips. Unseen by the patrons, his hand with the small knife slipped down and up, neatly slicing purse from belt on one man after another without detection. It was something quite amazing to behold and Crispin couldn’t help admiring the boy’s skill even as he grew more annoyed with him. The boy zigzagged quickly through the throng and slipped outside.
Crispin followed hard on his heels, came up behind him, and nabbed his hood. “Jack Tucker.”
Jack spun. “Master! What are you doing here?”
“Working. And so are you, I see.”
“W-what? Me?” He tried to hide his hands as if their mere presence made him guilty. “I gave up me thieving ways when you rescued me from the sheriff, remember? All I want in this life is to serve you.”
“And I told you I don’t want a servant.”
“Now, Master Crispin. A man like you ought to have a servant.”
“If you would have it so, then why aren’t you at home?”
“Well, I just stepped out for a breath of air, didn’t I.”
“You’re a bit far from the Shambles.”
Jack smiled. It lifted his entire countenance into an act of revelry with its blunt nose, ginger hair, and array of freckles speckling his cheeks and forehead. “The air’s better over here,” he said.
“Let’s have it.” Crispin opened his hand.
Jack tugged uncomfortably on his tunic. “Now Master. I’m hurt, I am. That you should doubt me when I said I’d given it up.”
Crispin thrust his hand down the open laces of Jack’s tunic and pulled out the money pouches. Three in all. “And how did you come by these?”
Jack pressed his lips together and looked at the ground. “It’s a very hard habit to break, sir. And I know you’ve been low on funds. I was just trying to help.”
Crispin laid his hand on Jack’s shoulder. The boy winced at first, but relaxed under Crispin’s gentle tone. “I do not need this kind of help, Jack. You know my stance on this. You are the one who insists on being my servant, not I. If you truly wish to be worthy, then I suggest you return these to their owners. Now.”
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