Veil of Lies

Crispin dropped his gaze. His voice took on a gentle quality. “Philippa, why did you do it? Who are you protecting? If it was for Nicholas Walcote’s sake there is no longer a reason to protect him.” He wasn’t surprised that she did not answer him. He surprised himself, however, for the next words coming from his own mouth. “For what it’s worth, I believe you must have had a very good reason.”

He recoiled slightly when her hand touched his face. He hadn’t expected it, hadn’t anticipated the gentle touch, how the fingers delicately stroked over the many bruises. But still she said nothing and finally let her hand fall away.

“Dammit, woman. Don’t you want my help?”

“I want you to find that cloth.”

Crispin opened his mouth to impart an indelicate phrase when Eleanor arrived with a leather flagon of wine and a bowl. Eleanor had the sense to say nothing, but she made an approving nod toward Philippa before she left them. Crispin frowned, poured the wine, and took up his bowl without waiting for Philippa. He drank deeply, emptied it, and poured another. Sliding his arm across the table, he leaned on it and looked into the wine. “I nearly got myself killed for you,” he hissed. “The least you could do is cooperate.”

“Is that what happened to your face?”

He snorted, almost a laugh. “You should see the other fellow.” His face dipped into the wine again. He licked his lips. “Tell me about this Italian syndicate.”

His words finally provoked a reaction. Philippa’s fingers clawed into his arm. “What do you know about them?”

“Only as much as our friend Mahmoud would say, which was not much.”

“Mahmoud? He told you?”

“Come, come. Surely you knew he was involved.”

The horror on her face proved she did not. “They tried to kill you?”

“Yes, but I escaped. Barely. I wouldn’t mind knowing what I risked my neck for.”

She had no breath with which to say it, but her lips formed the words nonetheless: the cloth.

“This syndicate wants the Mandyllon?”

She nodded.

“If you wish to be rid of it, then why not give it to them?”

“But I don’t know where it is!”

Crispin took another drink. He licked the wine from his lips and set the bowl aside. “I do.”

“What?”

He stood and pulled at his coat to straighten it. “I know where it is. Shall we go and retrieve it?”

Philippa shot to her feet. “How long have you known?”

“A few days.”

Crispin stepped over the bench and headed for the door, not waiting to see if the woman followed.

Hastily, Philippa yanked her hood over her head and scrambled after him. The rain gusted at them as he opened the tavern door and she paused to adjust her cloak. When she stepped over the threshold, he closed the door behind her and stood on the granite step. A misty rain sprayed their faces, leaving tiny pearls of raindrops on her lashes. “You couldn’t have told me?”

He turned a smile toward her. “It wouldn’t have done you any good.” He stepped out into the mud and forged up the road.

She caught up to him again. “So they killed Nicholas for it?”

“Perhaps. But I don’t think it likely.”

“Why not?”

“Because they wanted to know where the Mandyllon is, and killing him made that impossible. Except for you.”

“Me?”

“They might think you know where it is.”

She put a hand to her throat and shook her head. Her feet worked quickly to keep pace with him.

“So I ask again: tell me about this syndicate.”

She glanced behind her into the gray mist. Crispin thought that was a good idea and did the same. Soggy Londoners traveled down the lanes, some with baskets tucked under their arms. Others milled near shop fronts and smoky braziers, but even though they wore blues and reds, the rain made all equal in waterlogged gray.

No sign of Sclavo or Two-Fingers or even men in livery.

“I don’t know much about the syndicate. Nicholas mentioned them only once. He hadn’t meant to. I think it was the power of the Mandyllon that forced it from him, though he was the only one I knew who could lie in front of it.”

“Don’t be a fool,” he muttered.

She tossed her head at him. “I do believe I am paying you. You do remember that, don’t you?”

“I recall something like it.”

“Then I suggest you act more polite to her what pays you.”

She made no more pretense of a cultivated accent. The sound of her plain Southwark speech caused an ache of revulsion in his chest. He tightened his jaw. At that moment, it was easier to visualize the chambermaid in her.

At last, they reached the Walcote gatehouse, but when they stood before the doors of the manor itself, Philippa hesitated. She stood rigidly under the comfort of the vestibule while the rain picked up momentum and hammered the gravel courtyard. Her features lay hidden by the drenched hood until she raised her head. Her face, flushed with youthful sincerity and just a touch of ingenuousness, caught his full attention. The cold kissed each rounded cheek with a red spot, contrasting the milkiness of her skin. Her lips were rosy and swollen from chewing them.

“I’m frightened,” she said.

Her words snuffed Crispin’s anger as cleanly as fingers suffocating a wick. He drew his hand over his dagger’s hilt and rested it there. “I will let no harm come to you.” She continued looking at him with a renewal of something he had no time to explore. That look caused him to blush. He hid it by advancing on the door. “Let us get it done quickly, then,” he said.

14

Crispin and Philippa approached the solar and she dropped her stride, slowing as they neared it. “The solar?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“But he is still there.”

“Walcote? When will you bury the man?”

“The funeral is tomorrow. The guild, the servants—there was so much to be done. I-I had to do it all myself and I wasn’t certain of—Believe me, I wanted it much sooner!”

“I do believe you.” Crispin entered the room and grimaced at the smell. All the rosemary and spices in the world could not mask the odor of decay. Only two candles were lit and the sheet was drawn up over the shrunken features of the dead merchant. Burial tomorrow would not come soon enough.

Crispin turned toward the wall. Movement. A figure lurking in the shadows. Crispin pulled his dagger and regretted for the thousandth time that he no longer carried a sword.

“You there! I see you! Make yourself known!”

Candlelight cast a wan glow on the man’s features.