around the hilt.
A disorienting wave lifted him and he hit the pier. Barnacles cut into his shoulder, exciting a wave of pain. He spat water, forgetting the ache and numbness, and concentrated on the dagger’s hilt.
Slowly, he edged the knife from the sheath. The hilt danced on the tips of his deadened fingers. Then the knife slipped. He clenched his hands. They were so cold he wasn’t sure if he had it. He squeezed with all his might and detected something there.
The knife hilt.
He forced his lungs to breathe fully and evenly against his shivering. He inched the blade from its sheath, using his heartbeat as a measuring guide. Slowly…slowly. He felt the tip linger on the edge of the sheath and teeter once free. The knife hung for a moment in his hands. He blew out a breath just as a swell covered his mouth and his breath came out as bubbles. He crashed against the pier again, numbing the scratched shoulder. He tightened his grip on the knife, thankful to have a hold of it.
Though he could no longer feel his knees, he bent them so his knife could reach the tether at his ankles. The action rolled his back and pulled his face below the water. He held his breath for as long as he could and sawed at the wet rope.
Flexing his knees again, he popped his face above the water, took a deep breath, and plunged again, straining his shoulders to saw his feet free from behind his back. Back and forth he bent and flexed and then rested. It seemed to take hours. Was it taking hours? Crispin’s mind unfocused, and he shook out his head to sharpen his concentration again. If he let his mind go he would certainly die.
The rope snapped and his numb feet floated free. He rested a moment before he pulled his knees to his chest and rolled in the water. With a grunt, he yanked his bound hands up from under his feet to the front. One hand hung on his boot. The effort tired him and he bobbed in the water for a span, spine curled, one leg straight with the other gathered to his chest. He breathed, gazed for a moment at the stars, and wondered, only briefly, if it was the last time he would see them.
With waning strength he pulled his hand free. Both legs were now straight and his arms hung forward. With hands still bound, he swam to shore, unsure where along the Thames he was, and crawled up the bank. He lay on the rocky beach, shivering and panting. Gathering what was left of his strength, he drew the knife blade down with his fingers and sawed at the bonds at his wrist while lying prone, the waves lapping at his boots. And then…
Free.
Crispin sprawled on his back, arms splayed like a damp crucifix, the stones of the shore digging into his spine. But he did not care. He was alive. Finally he turned over and rose on his hands and knees, spitting out the last of the Thames. Unsteadily he regained his feet and wrapped his sodden cloak about him, though its icy dampness did little to protect from the cold.
He staggered up the bank and glanced up the road, recognizing Thames Street at the mouth of the Walbrook. At least he landed on the correct side of the river, though he had a long way to go to the Shambles.
Crispin gathered his cloak and hugged himself, dragging his numb feet one in front of the other. Vaguely, he thought of seeking shelter in a tavern, but those establishments were surely barred at this time of night. He saw no lights in any windows.
The wind gave no quarter and whipped about his wet clothes, encasing him in an icy cocoon.
Somehow he managed to get to the Shambles, to ascend the stairs of Martin Kemp’s tinker shop. But when he reached the landing he was unable to uncurl his claw of a hand to open his own door. Out of the wind but far from warm, Crispin collapsed at his threshold just as Jack Tucker opened the door.
Crispin dreamed of the giant hearths at Lancaster’s palace. Sheathed in a large fur robe, he settled on a cushion before the blazing fire. A pot of mulled wine warmed soothingly near the flames and its aroma of spices and cinnamon melted his humor into a mellow mood.
Someone nudged his shoulder. “Master,” he said. “Master Crispin.”
Crispin opened his sticky eyes and slowly recognized Jack. The robes wound round him were not fur but woolens, and the spiced aroma from the fire was little more than his steaming clothes drying before the hearth.
“My lord,” said Jack, kneeling by the bed and ignoring Crispin’s admonitions not to use the latent title. “What happened to you, sir?”
Crispin pulled the warm, dry blanket under his chin. He looked down at his wrist and the raw weal encircling the bone where the ropes had been. “Our friend at the Thistle,” he began, in a raspy whisper, “has even bigger friends. I do not think I was meant to survive.”
He recounted to Jack all he knew, from the first moments of his encounter with Mahmoud to his struggle in the freezing Thames.
Jack did not close his mouth throughout the telling, shaking his head and muttering prayers. When Crispin finished, Jack frowned. “So Philippa Walcote sold her body to this pagan—not for money, but because…because why?”
“An interesting question. One I shall put to her the moment I am able to stand.”
Jack rubbed his mouth and squinted. “But Master. Might she be in danger now that this man has told you their doings?”
“They think I am dead. But she needs to be warned that perhaps Mahmoud’s intentions have changed. You’d better give her a message.”
Jack nodded, his hand on his knife hilt.
Crispin thought of asking Jack to get his writing things, but he worried at Philippa’s reading skills. “Get her alone, Jack. Tell her that the man at the Thistle has told me all and her life may be in jeopardy.” He lay back and licked his lips. They tasted of fear. “Go quickly, Jack.”
9
Crispin awoke the next morning. No sign of Jack, and the fire dimmed to a few halfhearted flames. Crispin wrapped the woolens about him and staggered toward the hearth. He grasped the poker and broke up the slabs of peat mingled with bundled sticks, renewing the fire’s fervor. He stood unsteadily and stared into the hearth, hoping Jack’s message was made plain enough to Philippa. His heart buffeted his chest when he thought of her. Why was she giving herself to this man? Was she mad? What did she need to protect so badly that she was willing to subject herself to Mahmoud’s lust? Was it the Mandyllon?
He straightened. He still felt shaky but wanted to get to Philippa himself and talk with her. She must not go back to Mahmoud…or did she already know that? Better yet, he’d rather pay a visit to Mahmoud and find out what the man was hiding. If it was something about the Mandyllon, perhaps he could bargain.
After all, Crispin knew where it was.
He threw off the blankets and carefully dressed. The clothes were dry but still smelled of the Thames, though with a smoky tinge.
He descended the steps unsteadily, resting halfway. He supported himself with a hand to the wall and continued down until he reached the bottom.
He lifted his head and stared down the avenue. He hadn’t felt this weak in a long time and wondered if this were the best time to face Mahmoud. But then the scene of Philippa in Mahmoud’s room filled his mind. Damn her and her secrecy! If only she would say. How he hated secrets.
The Thistle had never seemed farther.
He trudged down lane after lane, hugging his cloak against the shrill wind that snaked through the twisting streets. It brought with it a cascade of whirling brown leaves plucked from autumn-dead trees. They rambled about
