that.”
“Please, I’m begging you. Tell the sheriff to bring a garrison and meet me at London Bridge. Lenny, for the love of God!”
Lenny brushed Crispin’s hands away from him. “Don’t unman yourself. I won’t go to Newgate!”
Crispin straightened. “I see. You’re a coward.”
Lenny straightened as much as his bent posture would allow. “Aye, that I am. It ain’t a fitting place. I spent too many months there.”
“So did I.”
“Ah, now. Don’t be bringing that up.”
“What does it matter? If you won’t go, you won’t.” Desperation steeled over him with a hot flush. What could he do? He hadn’t any money with which to bribe the man and it seemed as if it would take a great deal. He felt like throttling him. He clenched his hands into fists and trembled his helplessness into his taut shoulders. “I’m done with you, then. Our agreement is dissolved.”
“Master Crispin, try to see it my way—”
“I haven’t time, Lenny. A woman’s life is at stake.” He speared Lenny with a last glare and spun. Damn Lenny! Cowards all. Was there no one man enough in London anymore? He stalked away, hearing nothing from the cowering man behind him. He didn’t look back. Perhaps Lenny’s conscience would get the better of him but he doubted it. So much for honor among thieves.
It was up to him now. He wished he had a plan.
Leaving Lenny far behind, he trotted toward Watling Street and followed his nose toward the Thames. Mist glistened off the slate rooftops and a slice of moon washed it in scattered light, making the roofs look like teeth knocked out of a drunkard’s mouth. Crispin trotted through the streets, feet sucking into the muddier places.
A layer of fog shrouded the city. Crispin perceived only dim, looming shapes of buildings on either side of him. A bobbing light appeared in the distance and Crispin slipped into an alley and pressed his back against a damp wall. The Watch. He knew it was well past curfew and he did not relish delay.
He watched the bobbing light pass—for that was all he could detect of the Watch—and waited several beats before plunging back into the street.
Muffled by the smothering weather, he heard the lapping of water and the tide softly hiss against the rocky shoreline. The Thames at last. He looked upward. The rooftops along London Bridge arose from the gray mist. Stone foundations upheld the miniature city within a city. Shops and houses lined the now narrowing bridge, some hanging precariously over the river. He saw glowing lights dulled from the mist in the vague shapes of windows, but for the most part, the bridge’s inhabitants slept, oblivious to what awaited.
One street away. Crispin hurried.
He turned at Bridge Street and paused. Ears peeled, he listened for any sound other than the persistent Thames and the creak of sheets pulling on masts and hulls scraping against docks.
He felt it. Someone behind him.
Soundlessly, he whirled and gripped the hapless soul by the throat.
He heard a choking whisper, “Master!”
Crispin released Jack Tucker and tried to see his face in the dark. The torches at the mouth of the bridge’s stone gatehouse did little to penetrate the fog beyond a few feet from the portcullis. All he could discern before him were two wide eyes. “Anything, Jack?” he asked, voice soft.
The eyes, like tiny candle flames, blinked out once and lit again. “There’s three of them. At the mouth of the bridge. I can’t tell who they are. Then there’s more up on the bridge. Maybe three dozen. They’ve managed to raise the portcullis. Either they’ve bribed the guards or—”
Crispin looked down the street one way and then the other. Nothing—no sound, no movement. Was Wynchecombe coming? “I suppose we can’t wait any longer.” Crispin straightened and walked out of the alley toward the gray shapes of the bridge’s gatehouse.
He moved precisely and slowly, well aware that they could see him or soon would.
“That’s far enough,” said a voice.
Crispin stopped. His fingers whitened on the box.
The voice had the wisp of an accent. Crispin thought it was Italian. Not Mahmoud? Then he recognized it as the voice in the stable: Visconti’s head of operations in England.
Three dark figures stood before the quiet gatehouse.
“Put the box down and step away,” the voice ordered.
“Where’s the girl?”
“Crispin! I’m here!” One of the figures tried to wriggle free from between the other two. The one on the left raised an arm. Crispin heard a smack. He jerked forward.
“Don’t!” warned the voice.
Crispin clenched his free hand. Definitely needed a sword in it. Four strides and four strokes would do it.
“Now do as you are told and no one will be injured.”
Slowly, eyes fixed on the middle figure, Crispin bent and put the box on the ground. He stepped back but not too far.
The man on the left moved forward. He was covered from head to foot in a cloak and hood. The cloak swished about him as he walked and pooled when he knelt at the box.
He looked up once at Crispin. Two-Fingers. Crispin didn’t wait. He swung his foot forward and kicked him in the jaw. The man fell back without a sound, out cold.
The voice laughed. “That wasn’t very sporting.”
“Now it’s even. Give me the girl and I’ll give you the box.”
“I don’t give a damn about the box. Open it.”
Crispin knelt and did so.
“Now take it out.”
“Where’s my eight hundred pounds?”
The voice laughed. “A man gets tired of waiting. I’m afraid it’s too late for that. Now it’s the girl. Unless, of course, I was mistaken and she isn’t worth the trouble. Mahmoud was very helpful in telling us how much she meant to you.”
Crispin grunted and said nothing. He reached in and lifted the cloth. In the misty light, it was the same color as bleached bones.
“Toss it to me.”
“No. Come get it.”
The man laughed again. “Why not?”
He dragged Philippa forward. When they got closer, Crispin could see the vague reflection of light on the blade held to her throat. He straightened and stood over the box. They were close enough now for Crispin to see her face. She held herself well.
The man’s face lay hidden by the shadows of an overhanging hood. He was tall and the hand that held the knife was long with slim fingers. Only the tip of a nose was visible from the shadows.
Crispin set his jaw in a grim angle and nodded toward the blade. “There’s no need for that.”
“On the contrary. She can be most vicious when provoked. I have the bite marks to prove it. But perhaps…I’m not the only one.”
Crispin refused to reply. He was busy glancing beyond them to the figures closing in from the bridge. He thought he recognized one taller shadow as Sclavo. “Had your say yet? It’s cold out here and I’d have it done with.”
“So bold when I have the upper hand. You are an extraordinarily arrogant man, Crispin Guest. I like you.” He shook his head. “I wish that my own henchmen were as clever as you. Oh, don’t mistake me. We are a family. But at times we must hire those outside the family, and they are not nearly so clever.”
“Like Mahmoud? I expected him here.”
“He’s been working both sides of the alley, I fear. We did hire him once, but it seems he’s been working for competitors. In Constantinople. They want the Mandyllon back.”
Crispin’s ears pricked, trying to make out any possible sounds in the distance. He stalled. “It comes from Constantinople? What is this thing? I have never heard of any ‘Mandyllon’ before.”
