Veil of Lies

drawn and quartered.”

Crispin slumped and fisted the reins. The fool. Can’t he put his faith in me yet?

They rode under Newgate’s gatehouse arch and clattered into the courtyard. Two men rushed forward, each to take a horse as they dismounted. They eyed Crispin but he ignored their stares and followed the sheriff into the building, up the stairs, and into his chamber.

Wynchecombe stripped off his gloves and dropped them on the table. He unfastened his agrafe and tossed the cloak aside. He sat with a dissatisfied huff and glared. “Much thanks for helping with this murder.”

“It is my duty, my lord.”

Wynchecombe sat back and folded his hands on his belly.

Crispin watched him as a cat watches a mouse hole. He hadn’t long to wait for the rodent to emerge.

“Tell me what was in that box.”

Crispin changed his weight from one foot to the other. Wynchecombe hadn’t offered him a chair and it didn’t seem likely he would. “What box?”

“The box on the floor in the solar.”

“I don’t know. What was supposed to be in it?”

“Crispin, Crispin.” Wynchecombe shook his head and rose from his seat. He sauntered around the table and leaned against it. “You are a very poor liar.”

“My lord—”

Wynchecombe backhanded his face. Crispin was unprepared and cocked his own fist in retaliation before he remembered where he was.

Wynchecombe growled a chuckle. “Any intentions you may have had better be put to bed.”

Crispin cleared his face of all expression. His hand shook while he unwound his fingers and lowered his arm.

“I’ll ask you again—and you’d best think carefully about your reply. What was in the box?”

Crispin clenched his teeth. “I don’t know.”

Wynchecombe shook his head and bellowed for his scribe. “Bring in two of my guards.”

Crispin refused to rub his inflamed cheek.

“I think you know there was a cloth in that box,” said the sheriff. “And I think you know where it is now.”

Two men shouldered into the room. Both were tall and burly; each possessed big hands curled into fists, their knuckles crosshatched with scrapes and scabs.

Crispin debated with himself how much to conceal.

“It’s a special cloth,” Wynchecombe continued. “But you know that already, don’t you? You know that a man cannot lie in its presence.”

“I do not know your meaning.”

Wynchecombe moved to his sideboard and poured himself a cup of wine. He drank for a moment, savoring the liquor, before he nodded to the men.

This time Crispin was ready. He may not be able to defend himself against the sheriff, but he was damned if he was going to let the sheriff’s lackeys make sausage of him without resistance.

He blocked the first blow with his forearm and landed his own punch into the man’s gut. The guard tumbled back and slammed against the wall.

The second didn’t waste any time. His fist swung upward and caught Crispin on the side of his head. Crispin’s sight exploded in stars and he lost his balance, but only momentarily.

By then the first man recovered. He nabbed Crispin’s arms and in a struggle that left the man’s shins bruised, managed to pin Crispin’s arms behind his back. The second man snapped his fist at Crispin’s chin and the stars fluttered about him again. Crispin hit the floor like a sack of turnips.

He did not see Wynchecombe signal, but the men eased back. Crispin clutched his head and crawled toward the wall, leaning against it.

“I want it, Crispin. More important, the king wants it.”

Crispin raised his head and squinted. “The king?” he managed to say. “So that is who is behind your summons.”

“Yes, and you will obey or I will be forced to place you under arrest.”

Crispin laughed, though it was a chalky sound of sputters and wheezes. “The king wants it, does he? Well he can go begging for it, can’t he?”

“What does it matter who has it? You told me before you do not believe in the power of such relics. Then what harm would it do to turn it over to his Majesty?”

“I won’t give him the satisfaction.” And if there was the least possibility that the Mandyllon did have the ability to compel the truth from those near it, Crispin didn’t dare take the chance that Richard might possess that much power.

“You were once condemned for lese-majeste,” said Wynchecombe. “Do not force the king to look your way again. For all he knows, you may be dead.”

“He knows I am not dead.”

“Not yet, but soon, maybe.” Wynchecombe smiled without humor. “Crispin, I have done my best to keep this situation from occurring, but you have been stubborn in the extreme and refused to listen to my good counsel.”

“Were you counseling me?” Crispin rubbed his chin. “Just now, for instance?”

“Damn you, Crispin! Are you going to tell me where that cloth is or not?”

Crispin licked his dry lips. “I can’t help you, Wynchecombe.”

The sheriff straightened. His hand fell to his sword hilt and the fingers drummed. “Then you give me no alternative.” He motioned to the guards. “Crispin Guest, I hereby arrest you in the name of the king.”

23

Crispin stumbled after the guards. Each took an arm to drag him down the passageway. That son of a whore. The sheriff was the king’s tool, after all. But Crispin assumed he had more character than that. Wynchecombe hadn’t the stomach to stand up to Richard. Few men did and lived, he supposed.

The guards lugged Crispin a long way and tossed him into an empty cell. He rolled once along the straw- cluttered floor before righting himself. They said nothing and closed the door. He heard the key scrape in the lock, then their footsteps receded down the long passageway.

He sat on the floor, which seemed the most convenient, and gingerly palmed his head and then his chin. His head throbbed and ached. Feeling woozy, he stared at the blackened maw of the empty fireplace and willed it to ignite. When that failed, he laid back against the wall, the cold stone chilling his back.

“Why do I seem always to be on the wrong side of the king?”

He closed his eyes. It made the room seem less slanted.

The air thickened with the stench of frightened men. The last occupant of the room left behind his own odor of fear, marking the cell with a distinct haze of despair. Crispin tried to ignore it. No telling how long the sheriff would leave him here. When Crispin had been imprisoned for treason, he had languished in his cell for five months.

He allowed his heart its drumroll for several minutes before taking a deep breath. He was done with fear. Hadn’t he suffered enough humiliation? If they wanted to kill him then it was years overdue.

Bracing his back against the wall, he inched upward. “I’ll stand, thank you,” he said to the shadows. “I will die indeed before I ever give Richard the satisfaction of defeating me.”

“Ah, Lord Crispin,” came the voice from outside the door.