Crispin nodded toward the cloth in Hoode’s hand. “Everyone wanted that. Looks like no one’s getting it.”
Hoode frowned. He clutched the cloth. “What is your meaning?”
Crispin listened and waited for the faint sound of Jack and Philippa to disappear. What made him especially smile was the other sound emerging from the distant streets. The heavy footfall of many boots; the clop of horses. He wasn’t the only one to hear it. Hoode’s men rumbled quickly from the bridge’s gatehouse.
“
“Who?” Hoode jerked his head toward the sound. Over the creaks of boat against wharf, the lapping of the Thames against the rocky shore, rose the unmistakable clatter of armor and weapons. It drew closer and Hoode took a step back, eyes rounding. Faint torchlight illuminated the rooftops of the houses along Thames Street just beyond sight. Many torches.
Crispin felt the hard steps in his gut as the line of men rounded the corner at last with a rider in the lead. Crispin was never so glad to hear Wynchecombe’s clear baritone as he was at that moment.
“Hold!” cried the sheriff, hauling on the reins of his skittish horse as it tripped this way and that. “In the name of the king!” The men flanking him surged forward, never slowing until they were no more than a stone’s throw from Hoode.
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…
“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
