“What goes on with her? What about the murder? All of London is saying she did it.”
“She didn’t. I know her.”
“Begging your pardon, Crispin, but you have been wrong before. Especially about women.”
Crispin’s jaw tightened. “Are you implying something, Gilbert?”
“No, only that your judgment may be clouded. She’s a beautiful woman. Sometimes that’s the only weapon they need.”
“If you don’t want her here then say so.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Then what
Heads turned at the raised voices and Gilbert took Crispin’s arm to steer him to a darker corner. Quietly he said, “I’m saying ‘be careful.’ I don’t fancy the idea of your getting hurt over this.”
Crispin rested his hand on his dagger. “I take every precaution.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean here,” and he put his hand on Crispin’s heart.
Crispin sighed from his depths. “I am defenseless in that quarter.”
“Aye,” Gilbert sighed in return. “As are we all. But I don’t think it a good idea. She’s trouble.”
Crispin’s smile curved his lips. “When have I ever run from trouble?”
They both looked back toward the kitchen doorway as if Philippa would emerge from mere mention of her. “She is a fair lass,” Gilbert admitted.
“Yes,” said Crispin with a sigh. He began to feel that stupid feeling again and he turned briskly away. “I have much to do now. Send for Jack if you need me.”
He was out the door before Gilbert could stop him.
Crispin stood in the muddy street, glazed momentarily by his many thoughts. A horseman rambling past startled him awake, and he jumped out of the way, but not before kicked-up mud spotted his cloak. He looked down at the spatters and thought of blood. Blood on the floor in the secret passage. Someone lying in wait for the man everyone knew as Nicholas Walcote. Someone who viciously stabbed him in the back. If the death was an assassination, as the Italians wanted, a slit throat would suit better. No chance of noise, and with the victim’s back to the killer, it kept the culprit’s clothes clean.
But this was a stabbing, a crime of passion. And who was passionate enough in the Walcote house to do such a deed?
“Adam Becton is in love with Philippa,” he muttered.
He stared at the road before him. Gutter Lane. The Walcote manor was at least a quarter of an hour distant but worlds away from the inhabitants of Gutter Lane and the Shambles. Was there such a thing as justice for the likes of Philippa or even Crispin? He had dedicated the last four years of his life to that very ideal. Justice for all. His knightly code professed as much. But never before had it seemed to encompass those on the mean streets of the London he thought he had known those many years ago, this seamy side of the city he was only beginning to truly know.
“Justice it is,” he said. If not for himself, at least for the dead merchant.
He stepped into the street and headed south at a trot. He could save some time by taking the shortest cuts through alleys. He knew them all. He had learned the ins and outs of the city well. And a man on foot could easily find ways to elude anyone following him. More so than a man on a horse. He had learned that much in the eight years he was barred from court.
Crispin turned down the first alley he came to, barely the width of two men walking abreast. He ducked under a line of wash hanging low across his path and hurried through, taking another quick turn down a dark close seldom used by anyone except cutthroats clever enough to trick their victims down the secluded corridor.
Crispin lurched to a dead stop.
Three menacing figures blocked his path. They stood as black silhouettes against the sunlight of the street beyond.
His pulse raced. Their broad shoulders and wary stance did not signal to him that they were merely passing through. He looked behind, wondering if it wasn’t too late to retreat, when one of them spoke.
“Master Crispin?”
Crispin glanced swiftly around the narrow alley for weapons. Nothing looked in the least useful.
“Yes,” he said, his hand making its stealthy way toward his dagger. “You found me. What of it?”
“We want a word with you.” The man’s tongue twisted over the unfamiliar English. Crispin got the impression Italian was easier.
“Very well, then. Come see me at my lodgings—”
“We will see you now. You will come with us.”
“My apologies, but I’m on my way elsewhere. Later, perhaps.”
The unmistakable sound of a sword sliding out of its scabbard echoed within the tight passage. “Now, I think.”
Crispin felt the shadows closing in. With reluctance, he shrugged. “I think you are right.”
21
Crispin didn’t bother asking. The three men didn’t appear very talkative and he wasn’t interested in deciphering their grunts.
They followed every dim alley snaking through London and finally came to a row of abandoned stables. They urged him forward and Crispin listened to his steps echo along the narrow cobbled lane. Rickety structures stood on either side, their tiles drooping like a whore’s hair in the morning. One of the men motioned Crispin toward an open doorway.
Crispin’s heart pounded and his blood coursed hotly through him. If only his dagger would do him any good. His hand itched to grab it, to spin with it and see how many chests he could slash or how many ears he could slice off. But there were three of them and they had swords as well as daggers. He only hoped he wasn’t to expect another midnight swim in the Thames, because this time he didn’t think they’d make the same mistake twice.
Dark ahead and dark behind. Though long abandoned, the stable still smelled of manure and moldy hay. Crispin’s eyes slowly adjusted to the dimness. A cloaked figure appeared in the gloom. Only a smattering of daylight filtered through the broken roof, and he could not clearly see the man’s face.
A hand on Crispin’s shoulder told him to stop.
“That is close enough,
“I suppose it would be foolish to ask who you are,” said Crispin.
The man chuckled, a surprisingly soft sound. “Would I go to such elaborate lengths if I intended to introduce myself?”
“I’m interested to know—”
“I know what you want. But first I must apologize for my men. The two who tried to kill you. You see, we thought you killed Nicholas Walcote.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“We assumed you crossed us for the Mandyllon. Those who cross us do not live.”
“But now you’re convinced I didn’t kill him?”
“That is so. We aren’t interested in the details. Only in the Mandyllon. My men made an offer. Do you accept?”
“And if I don’t?”
The man laughed outright. He shook his head, which moved the hood from side to side. “You have an excellent sense of humor.”
Crispin forced a laugh. “Yes, so I do. Well then, eight hundred pounds for turning over the Mandyllon.”
