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 raised 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
