honestly want the king in possession of such a powerful tool? He would be virtually invincible.”
“I don’t want it in the hands of Visconti. Should I not want my own king to be invincible? And how many times do I have to remind you not to call me Simon?” Wynchecombe regarded Crispin a long time before he dropped his gaze. “I have no great love for Richard either.” But after he said it, his face broke into surprise and he looked up. He clamped his lips shut and turned his glare on Crispin. “That is a private admission. I do not expect it to leave this cell.”
Crispin bowed. “As you will, my lord.”
Wynchecombe stepped toward the bed and sat.
Crispin edged toward the wall and leaned against it, keeping the cloth behind his back.
They said nothing to one another for a long interval. Wynchecombe fingered the sleeve of his houppelande. “The king will be furious when he discovers your involvement in this,” he said quietly.
Crispin fisted the cloth tighter. “No more than he already feels for me.”
“His games are no longer your concern, Crispin. Court politics. I would think you were well rid of them.”
“It is true that in some instances I do not miss it. The backstabbing, the lies. But in other ways…” He lifted his free hand in a gesture of futility and let it drop again to his side.
Silence again. He felt Wynchecombe’s concentrated stare and raised his eyes to it.
“Why, Crispin? I have always wondered.”
“Why what?”
The sheriff’s countenance softened. It was something Crispin had not seen before. “Why treason?” The word, as always, caught him off guard. Crispin took a deep breath and stared up into the rafters. “I’d heard of you, of course,” Wynchecombe continued. “This when I was just a man of business. As alderman, I was rising in the ranks. And so, too, were you. We’d all heard of you. Protege to Lancaster. Some were saying that they expected you soon to be part of the king’s Privy Council.”
Like a wound stripped of its protective scab, Crispin flinched at the raw memories. “I might have been,” he answered in a coarse voice. “For Prince Edward, of course. He loved me well. As much as his brother Lancaster. And I would have counseled him to rein in his wife and son, who were not above their own plots or at least those they favored had a liking for such. But I was not yet that trusted to voice these concerns in public. I was still green. Oh how green! And then…Edward died.”
“Yes. Did it gall you that much for Richard to be king? That you would lose so much?”
Crispin snapped his head toward Wynchecombe. “It was never that! How little you know me. It was for England! Not myself. What did I care for myself if my country failed me? Lancaster was the better man and Parliament knew it, though the whoresons were too cowardly to set him on the throne. A boy of ten! Untried. Underaged.”
The sheriff ran a hand over his beard. “But he was the rightful heir.” There was an uncertain tint to his words. He grunted and flexed his hands. “He
“But he wasn’t yet king when I…” Excruciating, uttering the words even after eight years. He left the rest unsaid and allowed the echo of his voice to die away and leveled his gaze on the small window.
The sheriff cleared his throat. “Alas, Crispin. These are matters for philosophers, not men such as you or me. It is not for me to set up King Richard as emperor of the world, nor to decide against it. What are simple men like us to do? I must obey or I’d be where you are now.”
Crispin snorted.
“You blame me for arresting you? I had to do my duty. At least I had to try.”
Crispin rubbed his jaw. “And the beating?”
Wynchecombe smiled. “That was for me.”
Crispin grinned back. Then he removed his hand from behind him and eased toward the light of the hearth.
Wynchecombe rose. “God’s teeth, Crispin. Is that it?”
The smile fell from Crispin’s face, and he looked at the wad in his hand and nodded. “Yes.”
The sheriff’s foggy breath snarled from his nostrils and tangled in his black mustache. His hand fell lightly to the sword pommel. “Surrender it.”
Crispin raised his head and scanned the room. Quite possibly this could be his final domain.
Slowly, he shook his head. “Only to Hell.” He raised his arm and tossed the Mandyllon into the hearth. The wad of cloth followed a perfect arc and landed squarely on the burning peat.
Wynchecombe drew his sword but not on Crispin. He pointed it toward the fire and made as if to grab the Mandyllon.
But then he stopped.
Nothing happened right away. Smoke seemed to simply rise through the cloth. But soon the white cloth browned and the threads curled and ignited and then the smoke took hold of all of it in a white breath of curling clouds.
Wynchecombe’s blade hovered. Any moment now Crispin expected the sheriff to scoop it out of the flames. But he made no move to retrieve it. Instead, he stood silently and watched it burn.
Wynchecombe sheathed his sword at last. “That was a stupid thing to do.”
“Yes.” Crispin’s bruised cheeks glowed with a momentary flare from the cloth. “It might even be blasphemy. Why didn’t you save it?”
Wynchecombe could not draw his gaze away from the flames. He shook his head. “I don’t know.” He rubbed his beard.
“Then you agree. It’s too dangerous to pass this about from hand to hand. Better it were gone.”
“And your freedom along with it?”
“The cloth was not part of our bargain.”
“Wasn’t it?” Wynchecombe walked to the other end of the room. He pretended to look interested in the window and its narrow band of dying light.
Crispin folded his arms over his chest. “What will this cost me?”
Wynchecombe angled his face toward Crispin. “You can forget about the gold.”
“And the surety?”
“For you, I’ll forfeit—half.”
“So all that is left is my freedom, which costs you nothing.”
“Works out well, doesn’t it?”
“What of the king?”
Wynchecombe frowned. He seemed to remember he was in trouble, too. “I don’t know. Maybe he can be told it never existed.”
“Will the king accept that?”
“He must.” Wynchecombe moved back to the fire, leaned down, and kicked the gray ashes with his foot. “He doesn’t have much choice now, does he?” The sheriff leaned against the hearth and considered Crispin. The silence stretched between them. “Did it make me say it, Crispin?” he said quietly. “Did it make me speak treason?”
Crispin kept his eyes on the sheriff’s. “See how easily treason is spoken. Best not to dwell on it.”
Wynchecombe’s frown deepened. “Indeed! Best not to dwell on it. Yet the king will still be angry with me, and I do not relish that.”
“But you will be the one to break this cartel. As well as solve the murder of a prominent citizen.”
Wynchecombe looked interested. “You’ll give me the credit?”
“Where credit is due, Lord Sheriff. My only desire is to make certain you get all you deserve.”
“Ho, ho! I’ll wager you do!” He chuckled to himself until his gaze fell on the remaining ashes of the Mandyllon. He looked at it a long time. “Then I would say we have a bargain.” His features sobered. He took Crispin’s dagger from his belt and offered it to him. “We took many turns today, you and I.” The last scraps of cloth glowed portentously with angry red edges. “I’m releasing you, you whoreson. You have a lot to do. Don’t forget to do for me what you promised.”
Crispin turned toward the open doorway with a mixed sense of relief and anxiety. He sheathed his dagger, stopped on the threshold, and offered a beleaguered smile. “I would feel safer with the Mandyllon in my hands.”
