Veil of Lies

7

Against Jack’s admonishment, Crispin rose early the next morning. He shaved quickly and carefully over his bruised chin, and examined his eye in the brass mirror. It wasn’t as bad as yesterday. At least he could open it fully now, but the bruise was still dark and puffy. If he could have afforded it, he would have called in a barber to leech the bruising from his eye. But as it was, cold compresses would have to suffice.

Crispin left his lodgings and plunged into London’s weather. Rain fell in indiscriminate sheets, pelting some streets and ignoring others. Huddled in his hood, Crispin trotted along the muddy avenue, grateful when the Thistle arose from the persistent drizzle. He ducked in the door and shook out his cloak, using the opportunity to scan the smoky room.

He saw the innkeeper and approached him in a swift, sure gait.

The man turned, and Crispin thought he detected the merest hint of recognition on his face.

“My good sir,” said the innkeeper. “How can I serve you?”

Crispin’s right hand toyed with his dagger’s hilt while he clutched the man’s arm with the left. “You can serve me right well,” he said in low tones. The man alternated between staring at Crispin’s hand as it tightened on his arm and his face. “You can tell me the name of the man in that corner room upstairs.”

“I-I told you before. There ain’t no one in that—”

“Then let us go now. If what you say is true, there will be no chest of clothes, no papers, no hearth embers—”

“No!” He pulled back from Crispin, yanking them both away from the stairs. “He’ll kill me!” he whispered.

Crispin let him go and stood back. He patted his dagger. “Either him or me.”

The man scanned the room and motioned for Crispin to come into the kitchens.

A short man sat beside a huge kettle hanging from an iron rod swung over the fire. The aroma of savory meat and spices bubbled from the steamy cauldron’s depths. Two assistants argued while they clattered iron pans and wooden bowls in a wide washtub, scrubbing the pans with large bristle brushes.

The noisy room seemed to convince the innkeeper he would not be overheard. In fact, Crispin found it difficult to hear the man.

“He paid me a right good sum to tell folk he weren’t there,” said the innkeeper, mouthing his words in exaggerated motions. “And he threatened me, too, I don’t mind saying.”

“Who is he?”

“He calls himself Smith.”

“‘Calls himself’?”

“Can’t be his true name. He’s a foreigner.”

“From where?”

“Can’t rightly say. Maybe he’s a Moor. He’s dark enough.”

“Maybe.” Crispin took a halpens from his pouch and gave it to the man. “It isn’t gold, but perhaps you will hold your tongue about my asking.”

The man nodded and clutched the coin in a whitening fist. “There’s no need to tell the gentleman aught.”

Crispin spent all day in the Thistle’s raucous tavern, drinking wine from a chipped horn cup and picking periodically from several pullet carcasses before him, now cold, their grease congealing on a wooden plank.

He sat in a far corner against the wall, watching patrons come and go while the frantic innkeeper moved nervously between the tables trying not to look at him.

Sitting low on his bench, Crispin spotted a hunched figure entering the tavern and trying to lose himself in the crowd. The man glanced once at Crispin then darted forward with all intentions of escape, until Crispin stuck out his foot. The man tumbled to the floor amid the laughter of those seated nearby and looked back over his shoulder from his place in the filthy straw.

Crispin looked down at him, his lips twisted in a smile. “Master Lenny. I thought it was you. Up to your old tricks?”

“Why it’s Master Crispin!” Lenny rose and shook the straw from his tattered cloak. “I didn’t notice it was you, sir.” He started to sit beside Crispin, seemed to think better of it, then gingerly took a place beside him after all. He cringed but managed a weak smile when Crispin put his arm around him.

“Skulking in a tavern,” said Crispin. “You can’t be up to any good.”

“Well, I could say the same of you”—he glanced up at Crispin’s face; his smile fell—“but I won’t.”

“How long has it been, Lenny, since I last sent you to gaol?”

“Oh, nigh on eight months, Master Crispin. The sheriff released me two months ago. I ain’t been arrested since. And look.” He raised his hand and wiggled the fingers. “I ain’t lost a hand or ear yet. Thanks to you, I hear tell.”

Crispin looked away. “What would the sheriff want with your grimy hand?”

Lenny laughed. He ran his hand over the stubble on his pointed chin. His hair receded, leaving a wide dome atop and stringy dark hair dangling down around it. His neck was thin and crooked like a buzzard’s. “I reckon you’re right there, m’lord.”

“Not a lord, Lenny.” He patted Lenny’s shoulder and released him. It had been many a year since he was “Lord” anything.

He cast his thoughts back to the present and gazed at Lenny. “I don’t think I’ll tell the sheriff I saw you,” said Crispin.

“Ah now! Master Crispin, that’s right Christian of you. Anything you want, anything you need, you just call on old Lenny.”

“I might need you at that, Lenny. Where do you call home these days?”

“Oh, here and there.”

“You don’t seem to understand. I may have a job for you. I know this inn is one of your favorite spots to cut a purse.”

“Ah now, Master Crispin! Such lies to tell about old Lenny. I think me feelings are hurt.”

“Put your feelings aside. I want information.”

“It’s that way, is it? Well then.” He sidled closer and spoke in low tones so that Crispin bent over. Lenny’s harsh, foul breath hissed in Crispin’s ear. “What’s that you’re looking for? Old Lenny knows, he does. He knows him what comes and him what goes.”

Crispin smiled. “I’d like you to keep an eye on the place for a few days. If anything unusual happens, let me know. I’m particularly looking for a foreign man. Looks like a Saracen.”

“A tall man? Swarthy? Bit of a mystery?” Lenny turned his head and Crispin followed his gaze. A man in a pointed oversized hood trudged through the door.

“In fact…that man,” Crispin said quietly. The man’s cloak reached the floor and seemed to cover him from front to back. Crispin caught the innkeeper’s eye but the man quickly turned away and scurried into the kitchens, pushing a befuddled servant out into the tavern in his place.

“You know my lodgings, don’t you? If you see him come or go, or discover his destinations, inform me.” Crispin managed to find a farthing in his scrip and pressed it into Lenny’s hand. “Get my meaning?”

Lenny’s face broke into a wide, toothless grin. “Thank you, Master Crispin! I’ve always said what a fine gentleman you are!” Lenny scooted off the bench and bowed, stepping backward toward the hearth. His gray clothes blended into the shadows and smoke.

Over his cup, Crispin hid his face behind his upraised hand and watched the hooded man make his way up the stairs. The man stood at the landing, glanced down with a shadowed face at the bustling patrons, and stepped quickly into his room.

Crispin set his cup down, belched, and rose. He looked around the tavern but no one was paying him any heed when he stepped lightly up the stairs. He knocked on the door. No reply, but the thin strip of flickering light below the door vanished. Crispin smiled grimly. He knocked again, and again received only quiet. He drew near the door, and in a harsh whisper said, “Smith! I know you are there. Best let me in before I call the hue and cry.”

For a moment nothing happened. Crispin waited, poised to knock again, when the latch lifted. The door opened to a thin slit. Crispin could just see the slim outline of half a face through the narrow opening. “What do you want?” said the voice behind the door. His accent reminded Crispin of his days in the Holy Land with the duke of Lancaster’s retinue. The followers of Muhammad were swarthy and dark-haired and spoke in a tongue like this man. Smith indeed!

“I would talk with you.”

“I will cut the tongue out of that dog of an innkeeper.”

“You needn’t. I can be quite persuasive in my own way.”

The single brown eye that studied Crispin blinked once. The voice grunted, “I do not care to talk to you or anyone.”

The door began to close, but Crispin leaned heavily against it. “I wish to speak of Philippa Walcote.”

The pressure on the door ceased. “Who?”

“She is a client of mine. I wish to ask some questions regarding your relationship with her.”

The man gave a lecherous chuckle behind the door and suddenly slammed it, throwing the bolt.

Crispin clenched his teeth and stared impotently at the closed door for a long moment. He flicked his gaze to a nearby rushlight and thought of setting the door on fire before a better plan occurred to him.

Hurrying down the steps, Crispin trotted out the door to the courtyard and found the same ladder from before leaning against the stable wall. He grabbed it and gently placed it under the window. The shutters were slightly ajar and he smiled as he climbed.

Once at the top rung he peered into the room through the cracked shutters and saw the man sitting before the fire. Crispin girded himself and leaped, shoulder first.

He crashed through the shutters and rolled across the floor before regaining his feet, pulling his dagger.

The man was up, his chair thrown down. He reached for his own dagger, but Crispin shook his head. “Too late for that. Sit down.”

The man scowled. Keeping his gaze glued to Crispin, he bent, righted the chair, and gingerly sat.

“Keep your hands where I can see them,” Crispin ordered, and the man complied. His face was round and flat, mouth wide like a frog’s with bulging amphibian eyes sitting below the dark crests of black, bushy brows. Bronzed skin tones told of sunny places. “Now then, Master Smith. What is your real name?”

“Does it matter?”

“I’m not a patient man. I begin by slapping, move quickly to my fists, and then to my knife. You won’t find it pleasant.”

The man registered no emotion except for a fleeting look of admiration. “Are you skilled enough to slice thin strips of flesh from the muscle? This is very excruciating and very effective.”

Crispin tightened his grip on the dagger. “Does knowledge of your name require such extremes?”

“Abid Assad Mahmoud. It is easier for you English to pronounce ‘Smith.’” When he said “Smith” his wide mouth stretched, revealing uneven, serrated teeth.

Crispin nodded. “You’re a Saracen.”

“I am of the fortunate race of the Prophet Muhammad, infidel. But who I am is of no importance.”

“What have you to do with Philippa Walcote?”

“That whore?”

Before he knew what he was doing, Crispin backhanded Mahmoud hard. He was satisfied to see blood on the man’s mouth. But Mahmoud seemed satisfied, too, and a smile grew on his features before he spat the blood onto the floor.

Crispin straightened, keeping the dagger at the ready. “I prefer a more civilized description.”

“Is there a more civilized description for her kind? A woman who would lay with a man for a price?”

How good it would feel, thought Crispin, to plunge his knife into the man’s eye. After thrashing about a bit, he would die as the blade slowly bored into his brain.

Crispin gritted his teeth again and sheathed the blade to remove the temptation. “She is a wealthy woman,” he replied more calmly than he felt. “She has no need to sell herself.”

“Did I say it was for money? Does not everyone have a price?”

Crispin drew aim down his sharp nose at Mahmoud. “You extorted her for sex? What kind of man are you?”

“The kind who gets what he wants.”

The door flung open. Two figures silhouetted against the bright doorway rushed forward. Crispin tried to draw his dagger, but one man closed enormous hands over his throat. The hands pressed tighter until Crispin could not take another breath. The already dark room sank to blackness and then nothing.