Veil of Lies

by Jeri Westerson

  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.

  “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 r
aised 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 p
ulled 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?”