Veil of Lies

“I’d never heard of it either until a merchant from the Orient told me the tale. Then I had to see it for myself. Once my master heard the legend, he simply had to have it.”

“The legend?”

“It is said that, centuries ago, there was a king of Edessa called Abgar and he was a leper. Even in the far reaches of his kingdom he heard of the miracles of Jesus of Nazareth. He sent his personal scribe Hannan to seek out our Lord and bring him back to heal his king.

“This scribe searched all over Judea and finally reached Jerusalem and found our Lord. But he was teaching there and could not come to Abgar’s aid. The scribe, desperate to help his master, attempted to paint a portrait of the Savior so that the king could venerate it and heal. But Christ, struck by the man’s sincerity, took a cloth and impressed his perspiring face upon it, leaving the image of his glorious features. This is the Mandyllon—the ‘little kerchief.’”

The man nudged Philippa forward and Crispin backed away the same number of strides. The man and his captive now stood over the box.

“The scribe returned to Edessa bearing the cloth,” the man went on. “With one glance at the cloth, the king was immediately healed and became a devoted Christian on the spot. All in his kingdom were baptized. The Mandyllon was revered for many years until the old king died and his son came to power. The infidel did not believe in our Lord or the image, and returned to pagan ways. The bishop of Edessa, fearing for the safety of the cloth, walled it up in the church.

“Emperor Constantine himself later purchased the cloth for two hundred Saracen prisoners and twelve thousand silver coins. It was most prized by the emperor because it not only possessed healing properties, as with most relics, but it was a very valuable asset to a king, because a man could not lie in its presence. So it is said.”

“Do you believe it?”

“Si. I’ve seen it work.” He stepped closer and pushed back his hood.

Crispin’s lips parted with astonishment. “John Hoode? What the hell—”

27

“I deceived you, I know, but it was necessary.”

Crispin stared at the man he knew as John Hoode. Gone was the facade of cowardice. He held himself differently; tall, confident. His smooth accent was full of golden, Mediterranean tones, not coarse and full of the smoke of Southwark.

“You’re not English?”

“No, and my name is not John Hoode. My name…is not important.”

“And this syndicate?”

“I work for it. I am one of many. We labor for one man who controls all. I think you know who.”

“Visconti. I always thought of him as a wily general, not a master criminal.”

“I should do you harm for such a remark,” he said without malice. “My master would expect it.”

“Visconti has always gotten away with murder. After all, ‘successful and fortunate crime is called virtue.’”

“And you quote Seneca. I knew I liked you.”

“The plan is soured now. I’ve discovered it and let the authorities know. Visconti can’t stop or even delay our conflict in France. France belongs to England and the crown will get it back. There will be no deal for Calais.”

Hoode frowned. “These are distressing tidings. You seem to know a great deal. My master will be very displeased. But at least I can present him with the Mandyllon. As a consolation prize.”

“Yes, the Mandyllon. You’ve come a roundabout way to get it.”

“We need not have traveled so far. The Mandyllon was in Rome. Until it was stolen by our thief some five years ago. We had a difficult time tracking him down, I’m afraid.”

“How did it get to Rome?”

“Don’t you know your history, Crispin? Rome sacked Constantinople a century ago.”

“I see. And such feelings still run deep. Is that why Mahmoud tries to return it to Constantinople?”

“Oh, I doubt he will be able to do so—from the bottom of the Thames.”

Philippa looked at Hoode. “He’s dead, then?”

“Si, senorina. Very.”

“I could kiss you.”

Hoode smiled, turning toward Crispin. “I like her. Teeth marks and all. Even at the manor, I liked her methods.”

“Why did you kill Adam Becton?”

Hoode’s eyes glittered in triumph. “You are clever. Poor Adam. He found me when I accidentally discovered the secret room. There are many such secret rooms in Italian courts, you see. I tried to bribe him, but he grew suspicious of me.”

“I see.” Crispin raised his head. His hand itched for his dagger. He wished for one of Mahmoud’s crossbows. “You are the customs controller. And accounting clerk, no doubt. You used your master’s initials when you made your entries in the ledgers—BV. Bernabo Visconti. Or are they yours as well?”

Hoode shook his head. “You are methodical. You would make an accomplished general.”

“Why did it take you so long to find your thief? If he looked so much like Walcote…”

“It took us some time to discover he had taken on Walcote’s persona. And then he was in hiding for a number of years, living abroad. We did not know when he slipped back to England, but once we knew, he never left his house.”

Crispin snorted. “Very well, then. You’ve got your cloth. Release her.”

Hoode looked at Philippa. He shoved her toward Crispin, who reached out and hauled her to him. She rested against his chest for a moment but he had no time to savor it.

Hoode moved forward and took the cloth from the box.

“Jack!” Crispin hissed into the shadows.

The boy crept forward. Hoode turned and caught Jack with his gaze.

Crispin whispered in Jack’s ear, “Take her to Master Clarence and only Master Clarence.”

“Aye, Master.”

“And Jack. What of Eleanor and Gilbert? Are they well?”

“Aye, Master,” he replied, puzzled. “No harm has come to them as far as I know.”

“Mistress Philippa was not at all concerned when her servant John Hoode came for her,” Hoode said by way of explanation. “It was a simple thing to get a message to your boy from the Walcote manor.”

Jack sneered at Hoode, grabbed Philippa’s hand, and rushed her away. She had the sense to keep quiet, though when she looked back, her face told Crispin she had much to say.

“And now we are alone,” said Hoode. “Crispin, may I be frank?”

Crispin nodded. He eyed Hoode’s men moving closer.

“The reason we as an organization have existed as long as we have is that we recognize opportunities and how to exploit them. We can use a clever man like you. Ever consider becoming a free agent?”

“I belong to England. I will not be hired against my own countrymen.”

“Nor kill? There is much money in killing for hire.”

“Even less appealing.”

“You are not an ambitious man. A pity.”

“Ambition has little helped me in the past. May I be frank?”

“In the presence of the Mandyllon, you can be nothing but.”