Veil of Lies

by Jeri Westerson

  “Simon, my patience is sorely tried. Did you bring me here to tell me new evidence or to acquire some from me?”

  “Do you have new evidence?”

  Crispin’s crooked smile returned. “No.”

  “Liar.” Wynchecombe rose and leaned over his desk. “And don’t call me Simon.”

  “Of course, my lord.” He raised a hand to his aching head. He wished Wynchecombe would let him sit before he fell over.

  Wynchecombe lowered back into his chair and waved Crispin to one as well. Crispin eased down.

  The sheriff gnarled his hands into frustrated fists. His features darkened in the dim light of his chamber.

  “This business of Nicholas Walcote,” said the sheriff. “I think you best leave it to the authorities.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  The sheriff slammed his fist against the table. He gritted his teeth. “Because I said so!”

  “Oh well then. That is settled.”

  “Don’t be flippant, Guest. I do not think you would fare well if I decided to take my fists to you again.”

  “I’ve had enough of fists for the moment,” he admitted and rubbed his jaw.

  “I heard some strange tidings about you. Something about getting tossed into the Thames?”

  Crispin chuckled. “There’s nothing to tell. As you say. I am still popular.”

  “If you will not say, then there is nothing I can do. Content yourself and forget about Walcote.”

  “And why should I care to do that? The man owes me money.”

  “The man is dead.”

  “Yes. And I admit that makes it harder to collect.”

  “What did he owe you?” Wynchecombe reached for his scrip and brought out some coins from a pouch.

  Crispin rose. His lips parted with disbelief. “What…what are you doing?”

  “I’m paying the debt so that you can put this aside.”

  “What goes on here? You? Paying my fee?”

  “Crispin, just take these coins and content you.”

  None of it made sense. A syndicate. Saracens. Italians. A dead merchant and a holy relic. And now Wynchecombe paying his fee? “Who told you to warn me off this case? You said the guild was pressuring you to make a conclusion. Did they force you to write this summons? What do they have to do with the king’s justice?” Crispin’s mind lighted on the accounting ledgers and especially the customs book back in his lodgings. It also made him think of the man in livery following him. Was it a guild’s livery?

  Wynchecombe screwed up his lips but said nothing. “Mark me,” he said at last. “Bad things can happen to disobedient servants. So why don’t you be an obedient fellow and forget about the murder and simply take these coins!”

  “To hell with your coins!”

  “Don’t pursue this. You will regret it if you do.”

  Almost the same words Mahmoud used. Crispin studied the sheriff’s tightened face, and though its expression appeared strained, it revealed nothing more.

  “Just do as I bid, Crispin. For your own good, stay out of this.”

  The wet wood on the fire hissed its steam, and a rat scurried somewhere along the wall; a counterpoint to the silence and to Crispin’s undigested thoughts.

  “I see. May I go, Lord Sheriff?”

  Wynchecombe sighed. “Are you going to leave it alone?”

  He blinked slowly. “May I go?”

  The sheriff rolled back in his thronelike chair and curled his fingers around the carved arms. He raised one hand to gnaw at a knuckle. An oval stone on his ring reflected the disinterested light. He stroked his mustache with the ring until he dropped his hand to his lap. “Go, then. But if you do not heed me, no one but God can help you.”

  Crispin bowed low, the way he used to at court, and swept quickly from the chamber.

  He walked brusquely toward the Boar’s Tusk wondering what had just transpired. Obviously Wynchecombe was hiding something. He’d never told Crispin to stay away from an investigation before. If anything, the opposite was true. Was the mercer’s guild pressuring the sheriff? And if so, what did they hold over Wynchecombe that they could twist him to their will?

  Crispin turned his head, glancing up Newgate’s high walls before they disappeared beyond the roof peaks and spires of London’s clustered streets. The only thing that made him feel better at all was the prospect of wine at the Boar’s Tusk and of seeing Philippa, though not necessarily in that order.

  He crossed the lane and only glanced to the side to make certain no carts would run him down when he noticed two men a stone’s throw away. They wouldn’t have been particularly noticeable had the one not had extremely broad shoulders and a head of black, curly hair. His well-shaped but large nose overshadowed dark, thick lips. The other man was small-boned and stood shorter, only making it as far as the larger one’s shoulder. His face, sharp and pointed, was more like a rat’s. They wore decent clothes but not English garb. And they were staring at him.

  Crispin walked a long time, but he couldn’t be certain they weren’t following him until he ducked down an alley and out into another avenue. A surreptitious glance back told him he had company.

  He wove through alleys that were little more than a tight gap, and stepped quickly down familiar streets. Stay with me, gentlemen. It’s only a little farther.

  He found the dead-end alley he wanted and climbed some barrels to the roof. He laid himself flat on the rain-slick tiles, loosened two slates—one for each hand—and waited.

  11

  The thud of the men’s footsteps approached, and Crispin heard them enter the dead-end alley and stop. Crispin resisted the urge to look over the edge of the eave, knowing they would probably be looking up.

  “Joseph Santo!” swore one of them. “Porcoddio!”

  “Siamo nella merda!” said the other one.

  By their voices he knew their exact location. He hurled the slates over the roof. They landed with a pop on each head.

  Crispin heard the men swear and go down. He slipped over the edge to look. The smaller one raised his hand to his head and Crispin noticed he was missing two fingers down to the first knuckles.

  Crispin leaped down and blocked the alley’s mouth. He drew his dagger. “Who are you?”

  The smaller one glared at Crispin and drew his own long, thin dagger. “Devil take you, bastardo!”

  “Wait,” said the other, holding the smaller one back. The wide-shouldered one straightened, still grimacing at the ache in his head. “We’re only here to talk to this stronzo, remember?”

  The small one made a disgusted snort and slammed his dagger in its sheath.

  “I ask again,” said Crispin. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Sclavo,” said the large man. “And this,” he motioned to his companion, “is Two-Fingers.”

  “Interesting. Here in England we only give our animals such appellations.”

  Two-Fingers lunged, but Sclavo held him back again. “I may not stop him next time, Signore Guest. After all, he’s the one who tied your hands and feet good and tight, did he not?”

  “Sì. You do not forget your midnight swim, eh?” asked Two-Fingers.

  Crispin frowned. “No, I recall it very well.”

  Sclavo chuckled. “Not many have escaped us. You embarrassed us in front of our master.”

  “Indeed. Forgive me for surviving. Such bad manners.”

  “No matter,” said Sclavo. “We have much to discuss. Shall we go elsewhere? This alley is damp.”

  Not the Boar’s Tusk. Philippa was there. “Yes, after you, gentlemen.” He motioned with the dagger and stepped aside out of their reach.

  With the two walking in front of him, Crispin directed them to the Dog and Bone, a tavern south of his lodgings and situated on Carter Lane, huddled in the shadow of St. Paul’s. They entered first and sat at a table close to the entrance. Should they turn on him, he’d need a quick escape, so he broke his usual custom and kept his back to the door.

  The Dog and Bone was s
maller than the Boar’s Tusk and much grimier. The great room always smelled as if something had died in one of its corners.

  “Our master wishes to make negotiation with you,” said Sclavo. He rested his arm on the sticky table and hunched his massive shoulders. “He knows who you are.”

  “I’m enchanted. But I have nothing more to say to Mahmoud.”

  Sclavo looked at Two-Fingers and laughed. “Mahmoud? He is not our master. We merely do occasional tasks for him. On orders from our master.”

  “Then who is your master?”

  Sclavo chuckled. Two-Fingers made a sound like a laugh, but it was a noise more like a cat coughing up a hairball. “We do not speak his name,” said Sclavo.

  “I won’t negotiate with men I don’t know.”

  “Don’t refuse so quickly, Signore Guest. If you do not like our offer, you can go on your way.”

  “Am I expected to believe that?”

  Sclavo shrugged. “We have no orders to kill you. If we had…” He shrugged again. Two-Fingers giggled. “We would not be having this conversation.”

  Crispin smiled. “Like the last time, eh?”

  Two-Fingers stopped. He reached for his dagger, but Sclavo shook his head. “You are so hot-headed, il mio amico.”

  Two-Fingers gestured with the two fingers of his other hand and spat at Crispin.

  Sclavo smiled. “What would you say to bags of coins?”

  Crispin lowered his brows. “Italian?”

  Sclavo smiled. His thick, dark lips made a clownish show of it. “Italian, English. Whichever you prefer. Eight hundred pounds is easy to come by.”

  Crispin leaned back and rubbed his mouth. “I am afraid, Master Sclavo, I do not understand you.”

  Sclavo looked at Two-Fingers. “‘Pounds’ is the right word, no?” He turned to Crispin. “Our master offers you eight hundred pounds. It is an enormous sum, no? Eight hundred pounds would make you a great man of property. I understand your king’s laws allow for a man who owns eighty pounds worth of land to become a knight.”

  Crispin scowled.

  “But perhaps,” Sclavo went on, “he does not mean any man.”

  “Where would your master get so many English coins?” Crispin snapped.

  Sclavo only smiled.

  Crispin had not seen such a fortune since his days as a lord. But more astonishing was Sclavo’s master willing to offer it—and in pounds. Crispin put a few thoughts together and didn’t like the implications.

  He relaxed his face, made it as neutral as he could. “Indeed. And what are the other conditions?”

  “No conditions. No percentages. An outright gift. It is my master’s way of an apology for trying to kill you. We thought, well, does it matter? It was a mistake. Our master wishes to make amends.”

  “It matters to me. What ‘mistake’?”

  Sclavo’s fingers intertwined and then opened. He did this several times in a row. Finally he leaned forward. “It was thought,” he said quietly, “you killed Walcote, and my master did not yet want him dead. Such an offense is punishable by death.” He smiled broadly and sat back. “Fortunately, you did not die.”

  “Fortunately. Judge, jury, and executioner, eh? Your master must be quite a fellow. I should like to meet him.”

  “Trust me. You do not.”

  Crispin tapped his fingers on his scabbard. “Then what about this generous gift? Surely there is something your master desires in return other than my undying respect.”

  “There is one thing. He would very much like the return of a particular piece of cloth he was promised.”

  “I see. Eight hundred pounds is an amazing show of confidence in my abilities.”

  Sclavo shrugged. “As I said, he knows of you.”

  “Will you grant me time to consider?”

  Sclavo sat back and opened his large hands generously. “Of course. We will give you a day.”

  “A day?”

  “Surely a man in your circumstances can decide in a day whether or not to become a wealthy man. When you’ve decided, send a message.” He looked around him and smiled. “To the Dog and Bone.”

  “Not the Thistle?”

  Sclavo smiled. “The Dog and Bone.” He rose. Two-Fingers stood beside him. He grinned insincerely and bobbed his head.

  Crispin, too, rose. He nodded to them, slipped out of the bench, and left.

  They thought he killed Walcote. Why did they even suspect him? And more important, why should they care?

  He stepped out onto the muddy lane. Careful to skirt puddles edged in frost that the vague sun did little to thaw, he grimaced when his foot dipped into an icy rut. A hole in his boot saw to it that his toes quickly chilled.

  He stepped up under an eave and looked behind him, shaking out his boot. They didn’t follow. He breathed a little easier and watched a cloud of breath swirl from his nose. Interesting. They were not Mahmoud’s henchmen, even though they had acted as such. Who was their true master then? There were a score of possibilities, but the bigger picture was becoming more intriguing. “What a tapestry is woven from a single piece of cloth!”

  Ideas flitted through his mind as he strode down the lane toward the Boar’s Tusk and Philippa, when Crispin stopped in the middle of the street. A dreadful thought suddenly occurred to him. He pivoted away from the tavern and turned toward his lodgings instead. He had to have another look at those ledgers first.

  He hustled down the Shambles and trotted up the stairs to his lodgings. When he opened the door his glance took in the table where he had left the books and he stopped dead in the threshold.

  Gone.

  He rushed in and looked under the table, under the bed, on the pantry shelves, at the window and finally stood with fists at his hips.

  “Well,” he said to the vacant room. “That answers that question.”

  Crispin trotted toward Gutter Lane and swore the whole way. He suspected the thieves were too clever to let themselves be seen. He even worried that Sclavo and the taciturn Two-Fingers were sent as a ruse to keep him out of the way.

  No, there was too much sincerity, too much information in their directives. And they simply could have coshed Crispin on the head again. They were sincere, right enough. But what was the game?

  He ducked his head into the drizzly weather, tossing his hood over his damp hair.

  The Mandyllon. This most holy of relics was the prize to the man with the most ruthless agenda. That such treachery could be associated with something so opposed to evil! Walcote was murdered…but maybe it wasn’t for the cloth. Maybe it was for information he had. Maybe it was for what he discovered in those books. Those damned books that are now missing! There was corruption among the customs officers, or at least one who dealt in England’s fabric market. How far did the corruption reach? And what did this ultimately have to do with these Italians?

  Crispin tried to remember back to when he was a player in the politics of court. Eight years ago—longer—the Lombardy region was ruled by Milan, and the duke of Milan was—

  “Bernabò Visconti,” he murmured. He remembered him. He’d met him once while sent on a mission to Milan for Lancaster. Crispin was supposed to negotiate a port for trade.

  Crispin recalled his arrival to Milan. He was treated well and there was a woman of the court he was particularly friendly with. He smiled. She was blue-eyed and golden-haired but was certainly no angel. The thought made him smile broader until his grin fell. The court of Visconti was not a place to let one’s guard down as Crispin had. The treacherous duke agreed to all Crispin laid out to him, but later Crispin was drugged and the tables turned.

  Lancaster was angry but not at Crispin, and vowed revenge though he never quite got it.

  Visconti would most certainly be behind this bid for the Mandyllon. He dabbled in acquiring territory and riches as other men played at chess, and all his minions and competitors were the pawns. Poisoning, torture, extortion, abduction—these were the rates of exchange to him. He thought nothing of conn
iving a war between his neighbors and, like the opportunistic rook, would take over the unguarded nest.

  Visconti wanted the Mandyllon, but this export scandal also smacked of his doing. Visconti must have men placed in the controller’s office, possibly even the guilds themselves, and was stealing these taxes. Crispin knew the taxes were collected to fund King Richard’s war chest, but what if Visconti wanted to interfere with that? There was only one person to ask.

  Lancaster.

  12

  Lancaster once owned the Savoy, a palace overlooking the Thames, but three years ago a peasant rabble burned it to the ground. Even with his many other residences in England and France, he usually stayed at court at Westminster Palace. Since King Richard was currently in residence, so was the rest of the court.

  Crispin looked out across the palace courtyard. Westminster Palace was situated in the city of Westminster—close enough to London for the court to keep an eye skinned on its capital, but far enough away to avoid the rabble when necessary. It was a large set of rambling buildings, a grand edifice of sandy stone and arched windows, chapels, apartments. Its exterior was certainly not as grand as its interiors of painted floors, sumptuous tapestries, seeming miles of passageways and corridors, and the immense great hall as large as any cathedral space.

  But it was still a formidable structure. It did not sit on some promontory, unapproachable by the common citizen, but seemed to revel in its central accessibility. The king, when in residence, made certain to meet with the burgesses and aldermen of London and Westminster weekly, making decisions as mundane as how many chickens could be traded for how many slabs of pork. Even young Richard with his favorites and cronies could not alter what had been for centuries.

  Crispin recalled fondly the dinners in the great hall, the quiet alcoves for trysts, and even the masses celebrated with the other courtiers and hangers-on in St. Mary Undercroft. But more often than not he was in the company of Lancaster even at mass in the ornate Chapel of St. Stephen, the twin of the grand Sainte-Chapelle in Paris. Lancaster liked to keep Crispin at his side like a lapdog, but Crispin had not minded. He had been privy to many of the machinations of court, and enjoyed the status for which he was being groomed.