Veil of Lies

11

The thud of the men’s footsteps approached, and Crispin heard them enter the dead-end alley and stop. Crispin resisted the urge to look over the edge of the eave, knowing they would probably be looking up.

“Joseph Santo!” swore one of them. “Porcoddio!”

“Siamo nella merda!” said the other one.

By their voices he knew their exact location. He hurled the slates over the roof. They landed with a pop on each head.

Crispin heard the men swear and go down. He slipped over the edge to look. The smaller one raised his hand to his head and Crispin noticed he was missing two fingers down to the first knuckles.

Crispin leaped down and blocked the alley’s mouth. He drew his dagger. “Who are you?”

The smaller one glared at Crispin and drew his own long, thin dagger. “Devil take you, bastardo!”

“Wait,” said the other, holding the smaller one back. The wide-shouldered one straightened, still grimacing at the ache in his head. “We’re only here to talk to this stronzo, remember?”

The small one made a disgusted snort and slammed his dagger in its sheath.

“I ask again,” said Crispin. “Who are you?”

“I’m Sclavo,” said the large man. “And this,” he motioned to his companion, “is Two-Fingers.”

“Interesting. Here in England we only give our animals such appellations.”

Two-Fingers lunged, but Sclavo held him back again. “I may not stop him next time, Signore Guest. After all, he’s the one who tied your hands and feet good and tight, did he not?”

“Sì. You do not forget your midnight swim, eh?” asked Two-Fingers.

Crispin frowned. “No, I recall it very well.”

Sclavo chuckled. “Not many have escaped us. You embarrassed us in front of our master.”

“Indeed. Forgive me for surviving. Such bad manners.”

“No matter,” said Sclavo. “We have much to discuss. Shall we go elsewhere? This alley is damp.”

Not the Boar’s Tusk. Philippa was there. “Yes, after you, gentlemen.” He motioned with the dagger and stepped aside out of their reach.

With the two walking in front of him, Crispin directed them to the Dog and Bone, a tavern south of his lodgings and situated on Carter Lane, huddled in the shadow of St. Paul’s. They entered first and sat at a table close to the entrance. Should they turn on him, he’d need a quick escape, so he broke his usual custom and kept his back to the door.

The Dog and Bone was smaller than the Boar’s Tusk and much grimier. The great room always smelled as if something had died in one of its corners.

“Our master wishes to make negotiation with you,” said Sclavo. He rested his arm on the sticky table and hunched his massive shoulders. “He knows who you are.”

“I’m enchanted. But I have nothing more to say to Mahmoud.”

Sclavo looked at Two-Fingers and laughed. “Mahmoud? He is not our master. We merely do occasional tasks for him. On orders from our master.”

“Then who is your master?”

Sclavo chuckled. Two-Fingers made a sound like a laugh, but it was a noise more like a cat coughing up a hairball. “We do not speak his name,” said Sclavo.

“I won’t negotiate with men I don’t know.”

“Don’t refuse so quickly, Signore Guest. If you do not like our offer, you can go on your way.”

“Am I expected to believe that?”

Sclavo shrugged. “We have no orders to kill you. If we had…” He shrugged again. Two-Fingers giggled. “We would not be having this conversation.”

Crispin smiled. “Like the last time, eh?”

Two-Fingers stopped. He reached for his dagger, but Sclavo shook his head. “You are so hot-headed, il mio amico.”

Two-Fingers gestured with the two fingers of his other hand and spat at Crispin.

Sclavo smiled. “What would you say to bags of coins?”

Crispin lowered his brows. “Italian?”

Sclavo smiled. His thick, dark lips made a clownish show of it. “Italian, English. Whichever you prefer. Eight hundred pounds is easy to come by.”

Crispin leaned back and rubbed his mouth. “I am afraid, Master Sclavo, I do not understand you.”

Sclavo looked at Two-Fingers. “‘Pounds’ is the right word, no?” He turned to Crispin. “Our master offers you eight hundred pounds. It is an enormous sum, no? Eight hundred pounds would make you a great man of property. I understand your king’s laws allow for a man who owns eighty pounds worth of land to become a knight.”

Crispin scowled.

“But perhaps,” Sclavo went on, “he does not mean any man.”

“Where would your master get so many English coins?” Crispin snapped.

Sclavo only smiled.

Crispin had not seen such a fortune since his days as a lord. But more astonishing was Sclavo’s master willing to offer it—and in pounds. Crispin put a few thoughts together and didn’t like the implications.

He relaxed his face, made it as neutral as he could. “Indeed. And what are the other conditions?”

“No conditions. No percentages. An outright gift. It is my master’s way of an apology for trying to kill you. We thought, well, does it matter? It was a mistake. Our master wishes to make amends.”

“It matters to me. What ‘mistake’?”

Sclavo’s fingers intertwined and then opened. He did this several times in a row. Finally he leaned forward. “It was thought,” he said quietly, “you killed Walcote, and my master did not yet want him dead. Such an offense is punishable by death.” He smiled broadly and sat back. “Fortunately, you did not die.”

“Fortunately. Judge, jury, and executioner, eh? Your master must be quite a fellow. I should like to meet him.”

“Trust me. You do not.”

Crispin tapped his fingers on his scabbard. “Then what about this generous gift? Surely there is something your master desires in return other than my undying respect.”

“There is one thing. He would very much like the return of a particular piece of cloth he was promised.”

“I see. Eight hundred pounds is an amazing show of confidence in my abilities.”

Sclavo shrugged. “As I said, he knows of you.”

“Will you grant me time to consider?”

Sclavo sat back and opened his large hands generously. “Of course. We will give you a day.”

“A day?”

“Surely a man in your circumstances can decide in a day whether or not to become a wealthy man. When you’ve decided, send a message.” He looked around him and smiled. “To the Dog and Bone.”

“Not the Thistle?”

Sclavo smiled. “The Dog and Bone.” He rose. Two-Fingers stood beside him. He grinned insincerely and bobbed his head.

Crispin, too, rose. He nodded to them, slipped out of the bench, and left.

They thought he killed Walcote. Why did they even suspect him? And more important, why should they care?

He stepped out onto the muddy lane. Careful to skirt puddles edged in frost that the vague sun did little to thaw, he grimaced when his foot dipped into an icy rut. A hole in his boot saw to it that his toes quickly chilled.

He stepped up under an eave and looked behind him, shaking out his boot. They didn’t follow. He breathed a little easier and watched a cloud of breath swirl from his nose. Interesting. They were not Mahmoud’s henchmen, even though they had acted as such. Who was their true master then? There were a score of possibilities, but the bigger picture was becoming more intriguing. “What a tapestry is woven from a single piece of cloth!”

Ideas flitted through his mind as he strode down the lane toward the Boar’s Tusk and Philippa, when Crispin stopped in the middle of the street. A dreadful thought suddenly occurred to him. He pivoted away from the tavern and turned toward his lodgings instead. He had to have another look at those ledgers first.

He hustled down the Shambles and trotted up the stairs to his lodgings. When he opened the door his glance took in the table where he had left the books and he stopped dead in the threshold.

Gone.

He rushed in and looked under the table, under the bed, on the pantry shelves, at the window and finally stood with fists at his hips.

“Well,” he said to the vacant room. “That answers that question.”

Crispin trotted toward Gutter Lane and swore the whole way. He suspected the thieves were too clever to let themselves be seen. He even worried that Sclavo and the taciturn Two-Fingers were sent as a ruse to keep him out of the way.

No, there was too much sincerity, too much information in their directives. And they simply could have coshed Crispin on the head again. They were sincere, right enough. But what was the game?

He ducked his head into the drizzly weather, tossing his hood over his damp hair.

The Mandyllon. This most holy of relics was the prize to the man with the most ruthless agenda. That such treachery could be associated with something so opposed to evil! Walcote was murdered…but maybe it wasn’t for the cloth. Maybe it was for information he had. Maybe it was for what he discovered in those books. Those damned books that are now missing! There was corruption among the customs officers, or at least one who dealt in England’s fabric market. How far did the corruption reach? And what did this ultimately have to do with these Italians?

Crispin tried to remember back to when he was a player in the politics of court. Eight years ago—longer—the Lombardy region was ruled by Milan, and the duke of Milan was—

“Bernabò Visconti,” he murmured. He remembered him. He’d met him once while sent on a mission to Milan for Lancaster. Crispin was supposed to negotiate a port for trade.

Crispin recalled his arrival to Milan. He was treated well and there was a woman of the court he was particularly friendly with. He smiled. She was blue-eyed and golden-haired but was certainly no angel. The thought made him smile broader until his grin fell. The court of Visconti was not a place to let one’s guard down as Crispin had. The treacherous duke agreed to all Crispin laid out to him, but later Crispin was drugged and the tables turned.

Lancaster was angry but not at Crispin, and vowed revenge though he never quite got it.

Visconti would most certainly be behind this bid for the Mandyllon. He dabbled in acquiring territory and riches as other men played at chess, and all his minions and competitors were the pawns. Poisoning, torture, extortion, abduction—these were the rates of exchange to him. He thought nothing of conniving a war between his neighbors and, like the opportunistic rook, would take over the unguarded nest.

Visconti wanted the Mandyllon, but this export scandal also smacked of his doing. Visconti must have men placed in the controller’s office, possibly even the guilds themselves, and was stealing these taxes. Crispin knew the taxes were collected to fund King Richard’s war chest, but what if Visconti wanted to interfere with that? There was only one person to ask.

Lancaster.