“A moot point. You just burned it.”
Crispin stared at the ashes and smiled.
25
Crispin obtained a piece of muslin from a puzzled Eleanor and used a bit of charcoal to fashion a face very lightly on the fabric. In the right light, it looked very close to the one he destroyed.
Whenever he thought about the real Mandyllon curling and blackening in the fire, his gut twinged. He could never be certain whether he had done the right thing or not. Even if he did not believe in its power, he felt a wave of anxiety at destroying it. High-handed and perhaps petulant, he nevertheless knew he could never turn over such an object to the king.
He had to get to the Walcote manor. He wanted the box that contained the Mandyllon. It would give it the authenticity he needed. There were many fish to catch, and the bait needed to be as enticing as possible.
Crispin arrived in the misty courtyard and approached the front door. The nervous Matthew recognized him, grumbled a greeting, and led him to the parlor.
Crispin turned to the sideboard and poured himself a bowl of wine as Clarence Walcote strolled through the archway.
“Well, don’t stand on ceremony,” Clarence said sourly. “Go on, make yourself at home.”
Crispin did not turn. He tilted back the bowl and drank its contents. As good as he remembered. He poured another before he looked over his shoulder at Clarence. “I warned you I’d be back.”
“But you didn’t say you’d be taking up residence.” Clarence snorted. “Well, why not? The more the merrier.” He joined Crispin at the sideboard and gestured to an empty cup. “Never drink alone, friend. Fill it up.”
Crispin obliged and set aside the flagon.
“Besides,” said Clarence, knocking back the bowl, a draught worthy of Crispin, “that bruised face of yours looks like it could use it.” He belched and shouldered Crispin aside to pour another. “Wish these cups were bigger,” Clarence muttered.
Crispin listened for the customary sounds of servants moving about and the conversation and laughter of the manor’s wealthy occupants. But this house seemed smothered under an eerie quiet. “How fares everyone here in the Walcote manor?”
Clarence eyed Crispin from over the rim of the bowl. “It’s crowded. And chilly. It looks like Clarence is one too many brothers for this household.”
“Oh? Why do you say that?”
“Because my dear brother and his wife would happily settle here rather than return to Whittlesey. They’ve all but packed my bags.”
“Are you going?”
“And let Lionel get all the inheritance? Not likely.” Clarence moved to a chair and sat, sliding down to stretch out his legs. “I’m afraid I’m having a bit of sympathy for that chambermaid we rousted out of here. I’m beginning to know how she felt.” He ran the cup’s rim against his lips in thought. “She was a pretty thing. No wonder that impostor took a liking to her.”
Crispin stood stiffly near the sideboard, opening and closing his fists.
“I’ll say one thing for her,” Clarence went on. “She knew how to run a manor right well. Maude doesn’t know a blessed thing about it.” Clarence wiped his lips with his fingers and looked over Crispin as if remembering his purpose. “So, still investigating these murders, are you? Come to arrest someone?”
“Maybe, but I have a question—and a favor to ask.”
Clarence tightened his shoulders and stared down his nose at Crispin. “Oh? What’s that?”
“That box found in the solar—when we discovered the steward. What happened to it?”
“Maude took it. Using it for her jewelry.”
Crispin measured Clarence before turning back to his bowl. “You do not seem to have much love for your brother nor his wife.”
“Why should I? They are a pair, those two. Meant for each other. He’s the jackal and she’s his bitch. They’re poison, they are. Poison to everything they touch.” He lifted the cup to his lips. “Maybe it’s best I do get out of here before something happens to me.”
“Do you think something will happen to you?”
He chuckled. “That’s only talk.” The cup stopped before it reached his lips. “Hold. You don’t think Lionel —”
“Don’t I?”
“By my Lady!” He gnawed on his lip. “You know,” he whispered and gestured with the cup, sloshing the wine on the floor. “He just might have done it at that.”
“The both of you were aware of the secret room. It’s obvious the murderer entered and exited from there. And Lionel was here in London at the time. Or should I suspect you?”
“God’s wounds! You are an impudent fellow, aren’t you?” Clarence’s hand wandered toward his dagger but then lost impetus. He scowled instead. “What do you want me to say? Plead my innocence? Very well. I so do. I did not kill that insolent fraud. I admire the hell out of him.” He saluted with his wine, tilted the bowl back, and drank it down.
“No one knew he was a fraud. Not until you and your brother denounced him.”
“That’s right. No one knew. So why—if Lionel—”
“Lionel thought it was Nicholas. Too late he discovered he was a fraud. By then, of course, it didn’t truly matter.”
“He thought it was Nick.” Clarence stared into the room with a haunted expression. “How proud Father would be. What a den of wolves are we.” He rose and approached the sideboard, reaching for the flagon again, but paused halfway and lowered his hand. He dropped his cup on the sideboard. The bowl spun, wobbled, and finally stopped. His face grew long, and though his eyes seemed lazy and saturated with drink, Crispin noted a change in his mood and the first sincere expression he’d seen Clarence wear. “I think we Walcotes deserve each other,” said Clarence softly.
“I need that box, Master Clarence. Can you get it for me?”
He faced Crispin and seemed to slowly rise from his melancholy. “That will make Maude madder than a wet hen.” He smiled. “I’ll gladly do it.” He marched toward the archway, but before he crossed under it, he turned to Crispin. “By the way, what happened to her? That chambermaid?”
Crispin stiffened and scowled. “She’s found temporary employment. But I fear for her safety.”
“What? Why? She’s got nothing.”
“She is a pawn in a much larger game. That box might help her.”
“An
“Just trust me, Master Clarence. I know she harmed your family. She perpetrated fraud. But I do not think you would wish to see her killed, especially for something for which she is entirely innocent.”
Clarence screwed up his mouth and toyed with his dagger. He nodded and left the parlor.
Crispin felt the need to pace and made several circuits of the room. Philippa. He wanted to concentrate on Mahmoud and the Italians, but such thoughts proved impossible once her image slipped into his consciousness.
She looked so forlorn when he left her at the Boar’s Tusk. Why didn’t he take her in his arms? Why make such a fuss about a kiss? Plenty of men kissed their women on the streets. Plenty of plain, hardworking men.
Knights kissed women on the streets, too. But those women were last night’s conquests at stew houses, not courtly women.
He looked up at a wall painted with a family scene of people romping in a garden. Painted servants worked nearby dyeing fabric in vats. The wealthy family was turned out in their best furs and scarlets. The female servants
