Veil of Lies

19

Crispin sauntered down the dim corridors, the guards nodding to him in recognition of his uneasy relationship with Simon Wynchecombe. That alone allowed him free rein in Newgate, though it wasn’t his favorite haunt. Usually he headed directly for Wynchecombe’s hall in the corner tower, but today he swallowed his own revulsion of the place and strolled among the few cells, each arched portal closed up tight. Black iron hinges, double, triple strength, bolted tightly to the heavy oaken doors. Some doors had smaller, barred spy-holes, yet still others had none, making them dark and lonely places of despair.

He traveled down the passage lit only by an occasional pitch torch or cresset. All the doors seemed to be closed until he reached the end of the passage. One cell stood open. The straw that served as bedding and toilet sat in an unattended dung cart. Crispin darted a glance down both sides of the empty passage before slipping into the cell, cold with its open arrow-slit window. Embedded grillwork in the stone sill made certain the prisoner could not escape even if it were possible to squeeze through the tight window. If he managed even this feat, he would plunge four stories down, though a death in freedom was often preferable to the uncertain future of prison walls.

Crispin knew the feeling.

He ran his hands along the stone walls, looking for crumbling mortar. Reaching above his head, his fingers caught on a loose stone and he used his nails to pry it free. A hole barely big enough for his purposes, he nevertheless took out the folded cloth and did his best to stuff it in the hole. “If this is your face on this cloth, Lord, then I beg your mercy,” he grunted, pushing the stone block back into place. It teetered, trying to fit. Crispin withdrew his dagger and used the pommel to pound it in the rest of the way. He craned his neck to look at it and decided it needed mortar.

Under the window, a permanent mud hole collected from streaks of dribbling rain running down the discolored wall. He used his dagger again to scrape some with his blade and pasted it between the joints. He worked at it for a few minutes and then stood back to admire his effort. I’m no mason, but if no one is looking for it, then I have nothing to fear.

He wiped his blade on his coat, sheathed it, and clapped the mud from his hands.

“Miss the place?”

Crispin stepped back, his hand on his dagger. He looked up at a squint-faced guard with a three-day beard and a leather cap slightly askew on his head. Ginger hair peeked from a tear in the cap, sticking out straight from his head like a sentinel.

“I am only looking around, Malvyn.”

Malvyn tapped his knife on the side of his face, scratching his unshaven chin. The blade was nicked and stained. Crispin wondered if he ever cleaned it.

“And here is his lord, standing in a cell again. What do we make of that? Shouldn’t you be in the sheriff’s hall?”

“I am not seeking out the sheriff today.” Crispin crossed the threshold and stood upwind of the gaoler before he turned his back on him.

“Now, Crispin. I thought we had become friends while you was here.”

Crispin chuckled with bared teeth. “We were never friends. I loathed the air you breathed.” He waved his hand before his own sharp nose. “I still do.”

“Now, now. Rudeness? That was never tolerated when you was a prisoner here.” He grabbed Crispin’s arm.

The cold feel of the man’s fingers closing over his skin flooded Crispin’s mind with memories he had no desire to revisit. He stiffened and spun. With a much stronger grip than Malvyn’s, he captured the man’s wrist and twisted until he sank down on one knee with a yowl.

“I am no longer a prisoner here!” Crispin growled. “And I will thank you not to touch me.” Crispin twisted the arm once more simply because he enjoyed it. With a feral grunt he released him, tossing the captured hand aside.

Clumsily, the man rose and found his footing. He scowled, face reddening as he wobbled toward Crispin to spear him with his finger. “You’ll come to regret this,” he snarled.

Crispin straightened his coat and turned on his heel. He didn’t look back as he strode down the passage. “That I doubt.”

Crispin took the stairs to his lodgings two at a time. He was anxious to see Philippa and tell her…tell her what? That he loved her? He’d said it once and didn’t know how it could be true. But didn’t he feel his heart leap when he looked at her? Didn’t he admire how she had lifted herself from her hardships? He wouldn’t speak of it again. Maybe she wouldn’t either. He chuckled at that. Wishful thinking. At least she would be relieved the Mandyllon was gone.

He opened his door carelessly, expecting to find both Philippa and Jack.

He did not expect the man across the room or the one behind the door.