couldn’t afford to know, it was his true nature. Not now. “What are you?” he asked. His voice echoed softly in the dimming cell. “Is this truly the image of God?”
He ran his rough fingertips over the image, feeling nothing different in its texture. “If this is what everyone thinks it is, then what would you have me do with it?” He raised his face to heaven, but all he saw were dusty, wooden rafters. He looked back at the fire. “I would rather burn this than have it fall into the hands of the king—or any other villain. Tell me now, Lord, what you would have me do. Would this relic not be better out of the greedy hands of man?”
He waited, listening to the silence. He wasn’t certain if he expected a reply, but he caught himself holding his breath and expelled it unevenly. “Does your silence indicate affirmation? After all, I cannot speak an untruth in the Mandyllon’s presence. If this cloth is not of your doing then nothing is lost. If it is, then I say it is better destroyed.” He thrust the cloth toward the meager flames and waited.
He scanned the room. The gloom descended as the sun lowered. “You know how invincible Richard would become, he whose vain favorites rule the court. And these wretched Italians. Would you unleash them on the world?”
His hand clenched the fabric. He felt the smoke curl around his fingers, felt the warmth of the fire grow warmer on his wrist, but still he held the Mandyllon.
“The truth is not a blessing. It is a curse. Speak, Lord! Tell me! There is little time left.”
A clatter. A scrape. The key turned in the lock.
Crispin scrambled to his feet and thrust the cloth behind his back.
The door whined open and a silhouette blocked the door’s light.
“Well, Crispin?”
As close to the voice of doom as he had ever heard.
24
Simon Wynchecombe planted his feet wide apart. Crispin braced for an attack and flicked his glance toward the edge of the doorway.
No guards? The sheriff alone? What was Wynchecombe playing at now?
“Are you ready to talk?” asked the sheriff.
With one hand Crispin dragged his cloak over his shoulders, a poor substitute for dignity. “What shall we talk about?”
Wynchecombe strode forward and stood before the fire. He watched the small flames sputter for a moment before turning his back to it. “You know I will be fair with you.”
“I know no such thing.”
Crispin knew that his hair was mussed and his coat was spattered with dots of blood from the guard’s fists. His face was a quilt of purple and yellow bruises from old wounds and from the newest assault. Nothing lordly about him anymore, except his manner and his mind. But even those slipped under the weight of time and poor living. What did Wynchecombe see when he looked at him, he wondered. Was it a former knight or just another beetle under his boot?
The sheriff nodded grimly. “We are often at opposites sides of a dilemma, are we not? I am under the auspices of the crown, and you very decidedly outside them. I make no secret of the fact that I know on which side my bread is buttered. And I like buttered bread.” He crossed his arms over his broad chest and looked down his nose at Crispin, who stood shorter by half a foot. “If that makes me a tool of the king then so be it. When all is said and done, kings come and go. I plan to remain.”
Crispin said nothing. His fingers slowly bunched the cloth into a tight ball behind his back.
The sheriff grinned. “I know more than you think I do. About this syndicate, for instance.”
Crispin raised his chin.
“Why didn’t you?”
“It’s complicated.”
“The girl, Crispin? I’m surprised at you.”
“I’m a little surprised at myself.”
“We have known about this Italian syndicate for some time,” Wynchecombe went on. “We think they are responsible for a conspiracy to forestall goods, thus raising the prices. And for piracy. The king is not pleased. He has charged me with breaking up this ring. What can you tell me about it?”
“I have connections, my lord. What will it be worth to you to have this matter settled quickly?”
Wynchecombe’s face elongated with disbelief. “Are you trying to extort me?”
“‘Extort,’ my lord? That’s such a strong term. I prefer ‘negotiate.’”
Wynchecombe laughed, a deep, rolling sound that rambled along the walls and trickled out the open cell door. He wiped away his laughter tears with a gloved finger. “Crispin, if you weren’t such a traitorous bastard, I might actually like you. Very well. I might consider forgoing your surety.”
“My good Lord Sheriff, surely putting the king’s mind at ease is worth more than that! I am looking for coins.”
“You want me to pay you?” He laughed again. “And what good are riches if you rot here?”
“Good point. My freedom, then.
Wynchecombe’s smile fell. “I don’t believe you. I do not think you have these ‘connections.’”
“Oh, but I do. For instance, I happen to know that the duke of Milan is behind this syndicate.”
Wynchecombe scowled so deeply his mustache completely covered his lips. At last he exhaled, blowing out the cold, foul air in a plume of fog. “I will cover your surety, I will give you your freedom, and I will pay a
Crispin clutched the cloth. “You can be certain that it is
“How then does this cloth, this Mandyllon, cross paths with the syndicate?”
“They stole the original and commissioned a clever thief to make a copy.”
“And this clever thief? Where is he now?”
“Dead. The man erstwhile known as Nicholas Walcote.”
The sheriff whistled. “Christ’s toes.”
“Indeed.”
“But you claim they did not kill this mock Walcote.”
“Yes. The cartel killed the real Walcote by mistake. This thief—similar in appearance and age, apparently— simply took his place and ran off with the original Mandyllon. The syndicate wanted it back—for themselves, I imagine—and pursued him for five years. They finally caught up with him, I would say about six months ago. But they did not kill him. They wanted the Mandyllon back first.”
“And this cartel…run by the duke of Milan, is it? What does it hope to accomplish?”
“They want to stop our war with France in exchange for a deal for control of Calais. And on top of that, they want to bankrupt our wool market.”
Wynchecombe’s lips parted but he said nothing. He paced in a circle, head down, hands behind his back. Finally he stopped and looked up. “This cloth seems to be in the center of all these unholy tidings.”
“Yes,” said Crispin. “The Mandyllon has caused a great deal of the grief we now see. Were you able to discover its history?”
“No. Only that men die when associated with it. Wouldn’t you rather just hand it over?”
“Should I subject the king to such risks? What sort of loyal subject would I be?”
Wynchecombe merely stared at him, his fist at his hip.
Crispin shrugged. “So I am not so very loyal. Everyone knows that. But Simon, if it is authentic, do you
