Veil of Lies

27

“I deceived you, I know, but it was necessary.”

Crispin stared at the man he knew as John Hoode. Gone was the façade of cowardice. He held himself differently; tall, confident. His smooth accent was full of golden, Mediterranean tones, not coarse and full of the smoke of Southwark.

“You’re not English?”

“No, and my name is not John Hoode. My name…is not important.”

“And this syndicate?”

“I work for it. I am one of many. We labor for one man who controls all. I think you know who.”

“Visconti. I always thought of him as a wily general, not a master criminal.”

“I should do you harm for such a remark,” he said without malice. “My master would expect it.”

“Visconti has always gotten away with murder. After all, ‘successful and fortunate crime is called virtue.’”

“And you quote Seneca. I knew I liked you.”

“The plan is soured now. I’ve discovered it and let the authorities know. Visconti can’t stop or even delay our conflict in France. France belongs to England and the crown will get it back. There will be no deal for Calais.”

Hoode frowned. “These are distressing tidings. You seem to know a great deal. My master will be very displeased. But at least I can present him with the Mandyllon. As a consolation prize.”

“Yes, the Mandyllon. You’ve come a roundabout way to get it.”

“We need not have traveled so far. The Mandyllon was in Rome. Until it was stolen by our thief some five years ago. We had a difficult time tracking him down, I’m afraid.”

“How did it get to Rome?”

“Don’t you know your history, Crispin? Rome sacked Constantinople a century ago.”

“I see. And such feelings still run deep. Is that why Mahmoud tries to return it to Constantinople?”

“Oh, I doubt he will be able to do so—from the bottom of the Thames.”

Philippa looked at Hoode. “He’s dead, then?”

“Sì, senorina. Very.”

“I could kiss you.”

Hoode smiled, turning toward Crispin. “I like her. Teeth marks and all. Even at the manor, I liked her methods.”

“Why did you kill Adam Becton?”

Hoode’s eyes glittered in triumph. “You are clever. Poor Adam. He found me when I accidentally discovered the secret room. There are many such secret rooms in Italian courts, you see. I tried to bribe him, but he grew suspicious of me.”

“I see.” Crispin raised his head. His hand itched for his dagger. He wished for one of Mahmoud’s crossbows. “You are the customs controller. And accounting clerk, no doubt. You used your master’s initials when you made your entries in the ledgers—BV. Bernabò Visconti. Or are they yours as well?”

Hoode shook his head. “You are methodical. You would make an accomplished general.”

“Why did it take you so long to find your thief? If he looked so much like Walcote…”

“It took us some time to discover he had taken on Walcote’s persona. And then he was in hiding for a number of years, living abroad. We did not know when he slipped back to England, but once we knew, he never left his house.”

Crispin snorted. “Very well, then. You’ve got your cloth. Release her.”

Hoode looked at Philippa. He shoved her toward Crispin, who reached out and hauled her to him. She rested against his chest for a moment but he had no time to savor it.

Hoode moved forward and took the cloth from the box.

“Jack!” Crispin hissed into the shadows.

The boy crept forward. Hoode turned and caught Jack with his gaze.

Crispin whispered in Jack’s ear, “Take her to Master Clarence and only Master Clarence.”

“Aye, Master.”

“And Jack. What of Eleanor and Gilbert? Are they well?”

“Aye, Master,” he replied, puzzled. “No harm has come to them as far as I know.”

“Mistress Philippa was not at all concerned when her servant John Hoode came for her,” Hoode said by way of explanation. “It was a simple thing to get a message to your boy from the Walcote manor.”

Jack sneered at Hoode, grabbed Philippa’s hand, and rushed her away. She had the sense to keep quiet, though when she looked back, her face told Crispin she had much to say.

“And now we are alone,” said Hoode. “Crispin, may I be frank?”

Crispin nodded. He eyed Hoode’s men moving closer.

“The reason we as an organization have existed as long as we have is that we recognize opportunities and how to exploit them. We can use a clever man like you. Ever consider becoming a free agent?”

“I belong to England. I will not be hired against my own countrymen.”

“Nor kill? There is much money in killing for hire.”

“Even less appealing.”

“You are not an ambitious man. A pity.”

“Ambition has little helped me in the past. May I be frank?”

“In the presence of the Mandyllon, you can be nothing but.”

Crispin nodded toward the cloth in Hoode’s hand. “Everyone wanted that. Looks like no one’s getting it.”

Hoode frowned. He clutched the cloth. “What is your meaning?”

Crispin listened and waited for the faint sound of Jack and Philippa to disappear. What made him especially smile was the other sound emerging from the distant streets. The heavy footfall of many boots; the clop of horses. He wasn’t the only one to hear it. Hoode’s men rumbled quickly from the bridge’s gatehouse.

“Signore! They come!”

“Who?” Hoode jerked his head toward the sound. Over the creaks of boat against wharf, the lapping of the Thames against the rocky shore, rose the unmistakable clatter of armor and weapons. It drew closer and Hoode took a step back, eyes rounding. Faint torchlight illuminated the rooftops of the houses along Thames Street just beyond sight. Many torches.

Crispin felt the hard steps in his gut as the line of men rounded the corner at last with a rider in the lead. Crispin was never so glad to hear Wynchecombe’s clear baritone as he was at that moment.

“Hold!” cried the sheriff, hauling on the reins of his skittish horse as it tripped this way and that. “In the name of the king!” The men flanking him surged forward, never slowing until they were no more than a stone’s throw from Hoode.

Hoode drew his sword as he backed away from the solid line of men, and the cloth slipped through his fingers.

Crispin ducked, grabbed the false Mandyllon, and slipped back into the mob of soldiers.

The confused Italians were backed against the bridge. There was no signal. With cries lifting into the night—Crispin could not tell from which side they came—swords suddenly clashed and Crispin had only enough time to jump out of the way of a swinging club. He was suddenly in the midst of a melee.

The bridge erupted with swarming Italians like ants on an anthill and the sheriff’s men met them with bold battle cries and the clash of steel on steel.

The scattered, foggy moonlight and the flickering illumination of torches made it difficult to see, but Crispin saw the soldiers rush forward, slashing a path over the bridge’s broad avenue. Even Wynchecombe, mounted on his dark stallion, pushed his way into the thick of it. He slashed his sword downward into the opposing men. His white teeth shone against the dark of his mustache. He seemed to enjoy himself.

Candles winked on in the many houses along the bridge and the merchants living there were roused to their windows, rushing to open shutters in their nightclothes, shouting down directives to the fighters below. Still others cast open their doors and, brandishing what they could, joined in the fight. Unlike the soldiers who hacked and slashed with precision, the merchants reacted as any angry mob would. They wielded sticks like clubs, and many had swords that they used perhaps not as smoothly as the trained soldiers, but just as effectively.

The king’s men tried to gather the Italians to make arrests but soon found themselves fighting off the merchants, who perhaps saw their chance to wreak their own vengeance on the king’s men and any others they decided had done them wrong in the past. Like a wave, they gushed forward over the soldiers. Grunting bodies blundered together, and while the soldiers raised their swords, the merchants swung their fists. Blood spattered the cobblestones. Weapons clattered to the ground from wounded hands and more than one man fell headlong into the dark Thames below with a cry and, if they were lucky, a splash.

Crispin, armed only with his dagger, stood motionless. But it was the sound of clattering steel and the coppery scent of blood that made his own blood pound in his veins.

An unmistakable animal scream sliced the night even above the noise of battle. A spear had pierced Wynchecombe’s horse and man and beast sank to the ground. Crispin ran and snatched up a bloody gisarme from the mud. He swung it at the head of the Italian spearing the horse and sliced a good portion of his scalp from him. Blood sprayed, flecking Crispin’s face. The horse rolled and Wynchecombe yelled as the beast landed on his leg.

“Simon!” Crispin offered his hand and Wynchecombe grabbed hold. Pulling and bracing with the weapon, Crispin yanked the sheriff free. The man stood unsteadily but none the worse.

He stared at Crispin unabashedly. “Much thanks.”

“Think nothing of it, Lord Sheriff.”

Wynchecombe stomped his leg, testing it. “These damned Italians!” He swiped the sweat from his face and glared at his twitching horse. He drew his sword. A man sailed toward him uttering an ear-piercing shriek and Wynchecombe hacked downward, stopping him for good. Crispin stood at his back and swung the gisarme. A clumsy weapon, one with which he was not familiar, but it felt good to fight again. Too many years had passed since he found himself in battle, and the fact of the matter was, he missed it. The surge of adrenaline; his muscles straining as he swung sword or ax; the fierce battle cries of his fellows urging him on to conquer. Banners, gonfalons. Heralds and pages crossing the lines. That was where he belonged. Not on the filthy streets of the Shambles.

Wynchecombe panted and looked over his shoulder at Crispin. “I never would have believed it if I did not witness it for myself.”

Crispin swung again and then jabbed at his retreating attacker. “What is that, Lord Sheriff?”

“You, coming to my aid.”

“We are on the same side, are we not, Simon?” he answered hurriedly, straining as he swung the weapon forward to fend off more foe.

“Sometimes I wonder.” He drew forward and slashed at a man with his blade, each stroke in time with his words. “And how…many times…must I tell you…not…to call me…Simon!” At the last, he thrust home.

“Forgive me, Lord Sheriff,” said Crispin, aiming his weapon toward a man with a club, who changed his mind and skirted him. “I must have been distracted.”

“You annoy me, Guest.”

“Oh? What have I done this time?”

Wynchecombe mopped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. “You put great demands on the office of the Lord Sheriff. Expecting me to come with an army on the say-so of one of your street urchins.”

“Lenny,” Crispin breathed with satisfaction.

“Nameless beggars, cutthroats, thieves,” Wynchecombe went on. “I expect jackals and buzzards next.”

Crispin almost laughed outright. But he smiled anyway at the sheriff’s declawed banter. It felt good to swing a weapon again, to be useful. “Why did you come?”

The sheriff shook his shaggy head. “I haven’t the slightest idea!” He swung his sword two-handed at a man with an ax and laid him low. Crispin felt each shock with his shoulder blades pressed against the sheriff’s back.

“Couldn’t be that you have come to trust me, Lord Sheriff?”

The man’s gloved fist swept back to box his ear. Crispin winced from the blow and glared at him over his shoulder.

“Don’t be a fool.”

Crispin thought that was sage advice and scanned the crazed scene, searching for Hoode among the fighters.

“There’s more work to be done here,” said Wynchecombe, sizing up the battle.

“Yes,” Crispin agreed, about to offer more when he saw them. There! Sclavo. Moving forward up the bridge along with the roused Two-Fingers. They made their way to Hoode, but their master found himself surrounded by angry merchants and fought for his life. He swung his sword. The blade flashed in the moonlight. His fierce swings cast shorter swords and daggers aside.

“An accomplished swordsman,” muttered Crispin. He would have liked the opportunity to go head to head with Hoode, but he hadn’t a sword of his own.

Hoode slashed a path to the bridge gatehouse. Once there, no one barred his way and he trotted unimpeded under the shadows.

“I must go!” shouted Crispin to Wynchecombe and pressed forward, thrusting men out of his way. He tightened his grip on the gisarme. He did not need a sword to stop the man. Leaving the sheriff to his own fighting, he took off at a run, zigzagging through the melee.

He skidded under the gatehouse arch and spied Hoode running up the bridge and across toward Southwark. Crispin pursued, and when he got close enough, swung the gisarme low at Hoode’s feet and upended him. Hoode fell but kept his grip on his sword. He righted and glared at Crispin. His face was dark from other men’s blood, but his teeth caught the moonlight when his lips parted in a smile.

“Well now. What are your intentions, Master Guest? To fight? Don’t let my slight figure fool you. My master the duke would never hire a weakling to do his bidding. I have killed more men than you have ever met.”

“Then it’s high time I overtake that score.” He swung the heavy weapon at Hoode’s midsection, hoping its blade side would slice him. But Hoode saw it coming and jerked back out of the way.

“You’ll have to do better than that.”

Crispin raised the gisarme to jab with its long point. Hoode’s sword chopped downward, blocking it. Holding the weapon like a quarter staff, Crispin swung the blunt end toward Hoode’s head, but the sword backhanded it out of the way. The blade flashed. Before Crispin could elude it, the sword’s point stabbed him in the shoulder.

Crispin staggered back a few paces. “Son of a whore!” The pain shot all the way down his body. His fists whitened over the staff. The throbbing wound left his arm numb and his belly sick.

Hoode raised his weapon, lashing sidewise toward Crispin’s rib cage. Crispin blocked the blow with the staff and felt the shock run through the wood.

No recovery time. Hoode retaliated with backswings that slashed the air with an unmistakable whistle. Crispin could do nothing but use the staff to block and step back in retreat. Hoode was as good as his earlier boast.

Crispin saw an opening and thumped the staff’s blunt end into Hoode’s chest. Now it was Hoode’s turn to stagger back. He recovered quickly and came at Crispin again with a two-handed blow. Crispin countered with a block from the staff, but this time the wood cracked and broke in two.

Crispin stared at the pieces in each hand. “God’s blood!” Without thinking, he used both sticks like clubs, catching Hoode on either side of his neck. Hoode spun away, gasping. Crispin swung at Hoode’s unprotected scalp, but even injured and blinded, Hoode managed to fend off Crispin with the blade.

Hoode turned. His face wore a malicious scowl. “You’ll die painfully. And you’ll also die knowing that the girl’s life is forfeit.”

“And you’ll die knowing that the Mandyllon is no more, and that you failed your master. It’s a copy, a fake. I burned the true one.”

“You burned it! Are you mad? It’s worth a fortune!”

“To keep it out of the hands of madmen like you? It was well worth it.”

Hoode’s thoughts played across his eyes.

“Yes. You’ve absorbed it at last. Visconti won’t be very pleased with you. What does the duke do to servants who displease him?”

Crispin saw it all on his face. In many ways the Italian courts were far worse than England’s. The dukes and princes of Italy were more like thugs with their own code of laws.

Hoode looked toward the sheriff’s men.

Crispin could tell Hoode was considering his options: Was it better in an English prison, or the Lombardy court? Hoode decided. He took off at run up the bridge, sword in hand.

Crispin gripped the staff, cocked back, and let fly. With a thump, the long point struck Hoode’s calf and he went down. He lost the sword this time and fell face first across the cobblestones.

Crispin trotted to catch up and picked up the sword, aiming the tip at the back of Hoode’s head. The gisarme’s point pierced Hoode’s calf and blood covered the leg. When Hoode raised his head, he encountered the sword tip and froze. “Let’s try it my way,” said Crispin, panting. “I arrest you in the name of the king.”

Crispin yanked him to his feet and lugged him toward Bridge Street and the sheriff.

By now the merchants and the soldiers surrounded the dwindling number of Italians. The English did not give them quarter until Wynchecombe signaled his captains to force a surrender. The merchants seemed reluctant to capitulate until they were convinced by a party of archers approaching over the hill. Wynchecombe warned the merchants in a loud voice that carried beyond the bridge that he would have no compunction about allowing the archers to fire at will. The merchants pulled back and allowed the sheriff to do his work.

Hoode’s feet dragged along the pavement, the broken spear dangling from the wound in his calf. He made no protest, made no sound at all. They met the sheriff directing his men.

Sweat ran down Wynchecombe’s face and blood stained his coat where the material was slashed. He turned toward Crispin. “What’s this?”

“The feather in your cap, my Lord Sheriff. Visconti’s right-hand man in London. And Adam Becton’s killer.” He tossed Hoode to the ground where he stayed. Hoode twisted and groped for the broken spear but dared not yank it out himself. Crispin dropped the sword behind Hoode.

“Indeed?” Wynchecombe turned toward a bloodied William. “Shackle him,” he ordered. Wynchecombe nodded toward Crispin. “Weren’t you here to rescue your chambermaid? Where is she?”

“She’s been rescued. All that remained was for the king’s men to clean up these Italians, and that you have done. Much thanks to Lenny.”

Wynchecombe shoved his sword into his scabbard. “Damn you, Guest! I’m not your lackey.” But there was little of the former sting to his words.

“No, my lord. But you have accomplished much tonight. You’ve made the Italian cartel ineffectual here. You’ve arrested his minions. I’m certain the king will be pleased.”

Wynchecombe’s grimace opened into a grin. He glanced about the square again, at the soldiers securing what was left of the Italians. “Yes, that he will be. Perhaps even pleased enough to forget that fantastical relic, eh?”

Crispin pressed his hand to his wounded shoulder.

“You’d best get that looked at.”

“There’s no time. I must still capture Walcote’s murderer.”

“You do not forget our bargain?”

“No, as long as you do not forget your part in it. You get the credit, I get my freedom. And my surety is paid.”

“Ha! I said half.”

“Oh, but my lord—”

“Very well, very well.” Wynchecombe waved his hand. “This fight has put me in an agreeable mood. I agree to default all your surety. Now begone before I change my mind. And Crispin.” There was a sincere glint in his eyes. “Good luck.”

Crispin patted the false Mandyllon beneath his coat. “I’ll need it.”