Crispin rose.
Mahmoud raised his hand in defense. “If you kick me again, I fear I shall have no more teeth left to tell you what you wish to know.”
Crispin deliberated and took his time. Was Mahmoud’s information more important than Crispin’s desire to batter him to death? In the end, he decided he’d at least listen first. There would always be more time later for violence.
He sat and pulled the chair closer and rested a taut fist against his thigh. “I’m all ears.”
Mahmoud licked his lips before spitting another tooth into his hand. He looked at it, sneered at Crispin, and threw it over his shoulder. “It is best you do not know too much. What these men did to you—what they tried to do to you—is nothing compared to what they might attempt this time.”
“Are you trying to warn me off?”
“It is for your own good. You are obviously a very clever man. You must know that staying alive is the best trick of all.”
“What makes you believe you can frighten me?”
“Frighten?” He shrugged. “Very well. What is your price, then?”
“There is something called honor, you bastard. I do not have a price.”
“I understand your price is sixpence a day.”
Crispin’s grin returned. “That is my fee. As for my price, there is none high enough.”
“So I am told.”
“So you know me.”
“I know of you. And so I tell you truly, man to man, you must not pursue this.”
Crispin rose but only to pace. Mahmoud kept a nervous eye on him.
Crispin glanced at the light from under the door and saw no shadows of men lying in wait. Neither did he see anything at the shattered window. “Pursue what?”
Mahmoud’s frog’s mouth slid open, the widely spaced teeth now wider. “I will give you nothing more.”
Crispin looked down at the blood on his boots. “My foot is not in the least tired.”
“Do with me what you will. I am trained to withstand it.”
Crispin appraised the man, certain he was telling the truth. “A pagan bedding a Christian woman. Give me a reason why I should not kill you now.”
“If I die, so does the woman.”
A chill vibrated down Crispin’s spine and radiated to the back of his knees. Now more than ever he wanted to kill him. He did everything he could to control that urge, including putting the chair and table between them.
“So you see,” continued Mahmoud, “there is nothing more to discuss. My associates will be surprised to hear of your recovery, but I will tell them, if you make no more provocative moves, to let you be. Should it appear that you are uncooperative, then your resurrection will be short-lived.”
“
“It is a small price to pay. And my associates are many. My employers have long arms.”
Crispin chuffed a laugh. “Italian syndicate indeed! What nonsense. A mob of Venetian merchants!”
“Lombardy.”
“Lombardy, is it?”
Mahmoud’s smile dimmed. “Perhaps.” He shrugged, a little nervously, Crispin thought. Had he given away too much? “If you don’t believe me, well then. You must certainly kill me.”
Crispin’s lip curled. He approached Mahmoud with steady steps. His naked hand curled into a fist.
“Yet I see in your eyes that kernel of doubt,” said Mahmoud quickly. “Do I speak the truth? If she died it would be your fault. And you are the kind of man who possesses the luxury of guilt. Whereas I am not.”
Crispin did not stop his advance. He grabbed the man’s hair, yanked, and pulled his dagger, close to sliding its sharp edge over his throat. Mahmoud never took his gaze from Crispin’s.
The blade poised at Mahmoud’s throat a long time. Crispin watched the play of firelight undulate on the knife’s shiny face.
But as much as he desired to spill the Saracen’s blood, to let it run hot and fast across the floor, he worried Mahmoud might have spoken the truth. He could not let harm come to Philippa. The thought curdled his blood.
He withdrew his blade and backed away. “You will have no more congress with her.”
“Perhaps.”
Crispin decided to play his hand. “Is it the cloth you want?”
Mahmoud blinked slowly but betrayed nothing, neither recognition of the cloth nor puzzlement.
“Did you hear me?”
“Quite well, Lord Crispin. I simply have no reply.”
Mahmoud’s loosened tongue had fallen silent and there was nothing more Crispin could do. But there was one thing he could make certain of. “Nevertheless, you will have nothing more to do with Philippa Walcote.”
Mahmoud smiled.
“There is worse I can do to you than kill.” To emphasize the point, Crispin crouched beside Mahmoud, picked up a cucumber from the floor, and beheaded the tip with the sharp knife.
Mahmoud’s smile faded.
“We have an understanding,” said Crispin through his teeth. He tossed the cucumber aside and rose to his full height. Crispin wiped the knife, sheathed it, and strode with deliberate indolence to the exit, slamming the door behind him.
His only thought was to get to Philippa as quickly as possible, but the rain was rasping harder, making the heavily trodden street a slurry.
Crispin finally arrived at the Walcote manor and made his way to the kitchen entrance. He felt relief at seeing a friendly face.
“John Hoode!” he called and the man stopped.
“Crispin! Tut! Your face will never heal if you keep getting into fights.”
Crispin touched his swollen cheek. In his confrontation with Mahmoud, he’d forgotten it. He took Hoode aside and spoke in low tones. “Never mind that. I know you are here in the kitchens, but I want you to do your best to keep an eye on your mistress.”
Hoode’s tone dropped to match Crispin’s. “Whatever for?”
“Her life may be in danger. Since you are here in this house when I am not, I ask that you be vigilant.”
“Bless me!” he whispered in an irritatingly high tenor. “I won’t have to fight anyone, will I? I don’t mind saying that I’m not made for that.”
Crispin eyed his long hands and tapered fingers. “I hope it will not come to that. Just make certain to send a message to me if any foreigners come to call.”
“What sort of foreigners?”
“Saracens. Or Italians. Both are dangerous.”
“Can you tell me what this is about? I’ll feel a bit of a fool jumping at the merest shadow, thinking the worst.”
He eyed Hoode and forced his lips into a tight line. “Perhaps it is best not to speak of it. Only inform me if these strangers intrude.”
“I don’t know how I’m to do that, unless you let your man stay.”
“Is Jack here now?”
“Oh aye. I thought you knew.”
“Where?”
Hoode led Crispin into a storeroom. Jack sat on a firkin, his face bulging with food and a half-eaten pasty in his hand.
“Master!” he sputtered. Food dribbled down his shirt when he shot to his feet. He swallowed hastily and wiped his mouth with his hand. He looked down at the pasty and stuffed it in his scrip. “I thought I’d find you here anon. I’ve been looking for you. I’ve got something from the sheriff.”
Crispin watched Jack wipe his hands down his tunic. It did not bode well that the sheriff was sending him written messages.
