“Why would Visconti wish to interfere with our war with France? What’s to be gained?”
Lancaster sat as he was for a long time. He lowered his hand at last and let his arm drape over the chair arm. “Do you remember Geoffrey Chaucer?”
The name sent a warmth of memories through Crispin’s mind. “Of course. He served in your household. We were the best of friends. But it has been years since I have seen him.” Another ache of longing tightened his chest. Naturally he was forbidden from seeing his former friends for fear that the king’s vengeance would rain down upon them. They had been like brothers and never would he risk that.
He cleared his thickened throat. “I hear of his works from time to time.”
“Yes. I am his patron, as you know. But he is also a customs controller…and a sometimes spy for the crown.”
“Geoffrey?”
“Do you recall when I sent you to Visconti’s court?”
“Yes. I still smart from my stupidity.”
“You are not the only one. It pleased Visconti to make fools of the king’s emissaries. Chaucer was sent some years ago and also quite recently.”
“Can you tell me what he discovered?”
“Only that your fears are true. Visconti has been negotiating with France for months, perhaps longer. We believe his intentions are to prevent our troops from invading France, and in return, he will receive control of Calais and the route to Flanders.”
“He wants to control the wool market.”
“Yes. And if he does, it will bankrupt England.”
Crispin’s gaze never left Lancaster’s. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do. If Visconti controls the major ports to Europe, he will control what and where we sell our goods. That cannot stand. I have operatives in Italy now.” He cast a hand irritably skyward. “My grandfather and his Italian bankers! If King Edward Longshanks had not aligned himself with these Italian Jews in the first place—”
“Yet it was your grandfather who established the collection of export taxes on wool. Almost one hundred years of successful taxation.”
“Still, I never trusted these foreigners. And now they forestall our goods, commit piracy, and steal our taxes.”
“Perhaps not all can be blamed on these Italians. Parliament froze wages but did not freeze prices. Wat Tyler—”
“Burned down my house!” Lancaster rose to the edge of his chair. “Do you traffic with his like now?”
“No, your grace. I merely point out that he and his ilk were angry at the state of commerce. The ills of the market may well have been ripe for the picking.”
Lancaster scowled and sat back. His tensed shoulders dropped again. “We did it to ourselves?”
“The door was left open. Now the rats have come in.”
Lancaster’s hand curled into a fist. “I should strike you for such insolence.”
Crispin blinked. “As you will, my lord.”
Crispin eyed his former mentor, awaiting a clout. Lancaster had done it many times before when Crispin was a much younger man. But this time the duke did not move. Instead he leaned back in his chair and studied Crispin. Lancaster raised his hand, but not to strike. He gestured at Crispin’s face. “Who did that to you?”
Crispin raised his hand to his face, partially obscuring it from view. Damn. He’d forgotten how he looked. “It is part and parcel of the job.”
“Is it?” Lancaster put a thumb to his mouth and ran it across the upper lip and then down his dark mustache.
This felt far too comfortable, recalled too many nights similar to this. I want to come home, Crispin longed to cry. Here, where I belong! His gaze slid upward toward the duke’s and met his dark eyes. They regarded Crispin with sudden gentleness. Crispin could almost imagine him saying, as he had said so often, “Crispin, my lad.”
Feeling a sting at his eyes, Crispin sprang to his feet, turning his face away from the man. “There is much for me to do,” said Crispin, rubbing his hands together. They couldn’t seem to get warm. “Forgive me for intruding upon your privacy.”
“It is not an intrusion,” the duke said softly. “It is more…” He shook his head, his face contorted with warring emotions. “More like a breath of fresh air.”
“Don’t.” Crispin stared into the fire until his eyes had a reason to burn.
Lancaster sighed and didn’t speak again for several heartbeats. But when he did speak, it was as if reluctant to let Crispin go so soon. “The king’s guards can be put at your disposal.”
“Oh?” Crispin chuckled guardedly. “So quickly my fortunes turn.”
“I can make the king understand—”
“Do not trouble yourself. It is dangerous to speak of him and me in the same sentence, remember? And I work alone.”
“Crispin, do not let your stubborn streak undo you again. There is too much at stake for your pride to get in the way.”
Crispin rolled his shoulders and straightened. “I work best alone. I find it difficult to trust others.” Lancaster nodded but still looked concerned. To mollify, Crispin added, “Should I need the court’s help, I shall work through the Lord Sheriff’s office.”
Lancaster snapped his head in a nod. “Better.” He rose and stood toe to toe with Crispin. “It seems you did have information of great import. I must thank the intelligence of my wife.”
“The duchess is always to be highly praised.”
Lancaster looked Crispin over again and even smiled. “Until we meet again, Crispin.” He turned, but over his shoulder he added, “But not too soon, eh?”
Leaving court, Crispin felt satisfied relief. Vindication sometimes came at a price. At least this time he had not paid too dearly. And it had been good to be in the man’s presence again.
So Visconti wanted to maneuver the English market not by armed invasion but by backroom conspiracies. If he and his men killed Nicholas Walcote, it wasn’t for the Mandyllon. Whoever has the books must be Walcote’s killer. But what about the locked door to Walcote’s solar?
Whoever killed him had a key or plotted with someone who had a key. And whoever killed him either altered the guild’s ledgers or conspired with those who did. Perhaps the killer did not care about the holy cloth. And yet it was all about cloth in one way or another.
Crispin looked up and measured the sky. Noon. And a rendezvous with Philippa was long overdue. He had to risk her anger and make one more stop.
13
Crispin waited across the street from the Dog and Bone. He leaned against a wall under an eave and out of the stinging damp of an icy rain. He withdrew his knife and cleaned his nails.
Two familiar figures lumbered out of the distance and stood at the corner, a wide-shouldered man and his shorter companion.
Crispin let them stand a moment in the rain before he sheathed his knife and pushed off from the wall.
“Gentlemen,” he said, striding toward them.
They flinched. “We did not expect to see you so soon, Signore Guest,” said Sclavo.
“I am here to answer your master about his generous offer.”
“And? What is your answer?”
“I know where the Mandyllon is.”
“Then you will get it for us?”
“Not so fast. There’s a little something that needs cleaning up first.”
“And what is that?”
“I know that Bernabò Visconti is behind this scheme.”
The two fell silent. Two-Fingers mumbled something in Italian to his companion and touched his knife. Sclavo silenced him with a gesture of his hand. He looked up at Crispin and smiled. “A very interesting supposition. I wonder how you came by it.”
“I haven’t always lived at the Shambles, Master Sclavo. I have met your master before.”
“I did not say his grace the duke was my master.”
“You didn’t have to. I want to meet with him.”
Sclavo laughed. His wide square teeth were visible in his open mouth, like horse’s teeth. “Oh Signo
re. It isn’t healthy to know too much.”
“I have seen the Thames up close, gentlemen.”
“You are like the cat with nine lives,” said Two-Fingers. His teeth bit down on each word, snapping them like a rat snaps at a flea. “But even a cat has only so many.”
“Well? Do I meet with him? It is only directly to him that I will hand over the Mandyllon for my exorbitant fee.”
Sclavo kept his smile. “Our master does not bargain with peasants.”
The last word dug a blade into Crispin’s gut. He resisted the urge to pull his dagger and gritted his teeth not quite into a smile. “Then I would speak to your head man in England.”
Sclavo darted a glance at Two-Fingers. “How did you know there is a man in England?”
“Because you just answered it. Well?”
Sclavo frowned. It pleased Crispin to finally cut through the Italian’s armored façade. “That might be possible,” said Sclavo. “Give us a day to arrange a meeting.”
“A few hours. I’m not a patient man.” He bowed to the silent men and left them on the street. It was good to feel in charge again, if only to a few henchmen. He lifted his leather hood over his head and hurried through the rain to the Boar’s Tusk. Crispin turned the corner of Gutter Lane and spied the tavern. Jack stood outside patting his arms to keep warm. His shabby hood only partially covered his curls of ginger hair.
Crispin frowned. “Jack! Why aren’t you inside safeguarding Mistress Walcote?”
“I wanted to keep my eyes skinned for you. Besides, she don’t want that kind of fussing. She told me so herself.”
“That doesn’t mean she doesn’t need it.” Crispin pushed through the door and stood on the threshold, craning his neck to see. His gaze skimmed over the heads of the patrons—mostly men and travelers who chatted and laughed noisily over the clatter of cups and music from a man playing a bagpipe and a boy keeping the beat with a drum.
Jack pointed. “She’s there, sir. Right where I left her.”
Crispin saw her. She tried to be the dainty lady, but her nature would not allow it. She leaned over her beaker of ale with her elbow on the table like any kitchen wench. Her fist propped up her chin, and her other hand beat the rhythm of the piper’s music. Her shoulders followed suit, and if the table hadn’t been in her way, Crispin was certain she would be dancing.
The leering man beside her, eyeing her fine clothes, did not seem to concern her, but he troubled Crispin.
“Go along back to our lodgings, Jack. By the way, you did not move those books I had on the table, did you?”
“No, Master.”
“Very well. Go on back to the Shambles, then.”
He heard Jack mumble something about “not so much as a ‘thank you,’” but he was too distracted to pay the boy much mind.
Crispin strode forward and stood behind her. The man beside her on the bench leaned toward her, no doubt close to offering an inappropriate remark when he spied Crispin glowering down at him, hand on hilt. The man flinched and stealthily slid away, leaving a space on the bench for Crispin to fill.
Philippa turned and her merry expression soured. “Christ’s toes! Where the hell have you been? I’ve been sitting here for two hours!”
Crispin said nothing and sat.
“You think because you are this Tracker you can keep a body waiting as long as you like?” She pushed her beaker forward and stood.
“Sit down.”
“I will not.”
He grabbed her wrist and yanked her down to the bench. Her rump met the seat with a smack. “I’ve experienced quite a lot this morning, and I’ve no time for your ill humor. I need facts, not tantrums.”
“Very well,” she said grudgingly and settled herself. “What happened at the sheriff’s that took so long? Why did he summon you? Has it to do with the cloth?”
Crispin smiled without the flecks of humor. “Jack talks too much,” he grumbled. “But since you asked, I will be plain with you if you will do the same for me.”
She blinked, and her expression fell into practiced indifference. “I will be as plain as I can.”
Crispin leaned in conspiratorially and she did likewise. Her scent of spiced perfume reached out for him, wrapped sinuous arms of aroma about his senses, and drew him even closer.
She detected his subtle gesture and angled her face upward toward his. He felt her breath against his face and even on his own parted lips. If he moved two inches more, their lips would touch. The thought flushed his face, and he cursed his pounding heart. He tried to remind himself brusquely who she was, but it only made him tick off the obvious: a widow, a rich merchant, a sensuous woman. The adulteress and the chambermaid now seemed distant.
He used his own words to splash cold water on his thoughts. “I met with your acquaintance Abid Assad Mahmoud.”
He waited for a reaction from her, but she didn’t so much as flick an eyelash.
“He admitted to me,” he said, his voice growing quieter, “that he extorted certain services from you.”
Still she said nothing.
Crispin dropped his gaze. His voice took on a gentle quality. “Philippa, why did you do it? Who are you protecting? If it was for Nicholas Walcote’s sake there is no longer a reason to protect him.” He wasn’t surprised that she did not answer him. He surprised himself, however, for the next words coming from his own mouth. “For what it’s worth, I believe you must have had a very good reason.”
He recoiled slightly when her hand touched his face. He hadn’t expected it, hadn’t anticipated the gentle touch, how the fingers delicately stroked over the many bruises. But still she said nothing and finally let her hand fall away.
“Dammit, woman. Don’t you want my help?”
“I want you to find that cloth.”
Crispin opened his mouth to impart an indelicate phrase when Eleanor arrived with a leather flagon of wine and a bowl. Eleanor had the sense to say nothing, but she made an approving nod toward Philippa before she left them. Crispin frowned, poured the wine, and took up his bowl without waiting for Philippa. He drank deeply, emptied it, and poured another. Sliding his arm across the table, he leaned on it and looked into the wine. “I nearly got myself killed for you,” he hissed. “The least you could do is cooperate.”
“Is that what happened to your face?”
He snorted, almost a laugh. “You should see the other fellow.” His face dipped into the wine again. He licked his lips. “Tell me about this Italian syndicate.”
His words finally provoked a reaction. Philippa’s fingers clawed into his arm. “What do you know about them?”
“Only as much as our friend Mahmoud would say, which was not much.”
“Mahmoud? He told you?”
“Come, come. Surely you knew he was involved.”
The horror on her face proved she did not. “They tried to kill you?”
“Yes, but I escaped. Barely. I wouldn’t mind knowing what I risked my neck for.”
She had no breath with which to say it, but her lips formed the words nonetheless: the cloth.
“This syndicate wants the Mandyllon?”
She nodded.
“If you wish to be rid of it, then why not give it to them?”
“But I don’t know where it is!”
Crispin took another drink. He licked the wine from his lips and set the bowl aside. “I do.”
“What?”
He stood and pulled at his coat to straighten it. “I know where it is. Shall we go and retrieve it?”
Philippa shot to her feet. “How long have you known?”
“A few days.”
Crispin stepped over the bench and headed for the door, not waiting to see if the woman followed.
Hastily, Philippa yanked her hood over her head and scrambled after him. The rain gusted at them as he opened the tavern door and she paused to adjust her cloak. When she stepped over the threshold, he closed the door behind her and stood on the granite step. A misty rain sprayed t
heir faces, leaving tiny pearls of raindrops on her lashes. “You couldn’t have told me?”
He turned a smile toward her. “It wouldn’t have done you any good.” He stepped out into the mud and forged up the road.
She caught up to him again. “So they killed Nicholas for it?”
“Perhaps. But I don’t think it likely.”
“Why not?”
“Because they wanted to know where the Mandyllon is, and killing him made that impossible. Except for you.”
“Me?”
“They might think you know where it is.”
She put a hand to her throat and shook her head. Her feet worked quickly to keep pace with him.
“So I ask again: tell me about this syndicate.”
She glanced behind her into the gray mist. Crispin thought that was a good idea and did the same. Soggy Londoners traveled down the lanes, some with baskets tucked under their arms. Others milled near shop fronts and smoky braziers, but even though they wore blues and reds, the rain made all equal in waterlogged gray.
No sign of Sclavo or Two-Fingers or even men in livery.
“I don’t know much about the syndicate. Nicholas mentioned them only once. He hadn’t meant to. I think it was the power of the Mandyllon that forced it from him, though he was the only one I knew who could lie in front of it.”
“Don’t be a fool,” he muttered.
She tossed her head at him. “I do believe I am paying you. You do remember that, don’t you?”
“I recall something like it.”
“Then I suggest you act more polite to her what pays you.”
She made no more pretense of a cultivated accent. The sound of her plain Southwark speech caused an ache of revulsion in his chest. He tightened his jaw. At that moment, it was easier to visualize the chambermaid in her.
At last, they reached the Walcote gatehouse, but when they stood before the doors of the manor itself, Philippa hesitated. She stood rigidly under the comfort of the vestibule while the rain picked up momentum and hammered the gravel courtyard. Her features lay hidden by the drenched hood until she raised her head. Her face, flushed with youthful sincerity and just a touch of ingenuousness, caught his full attention. The cold kissed each rounded cheek with a red spot, contrasting the milkiness of her skin. Her lips were rosy and swollen from chewing them.
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