Crispin looked at the cloth in his hand, and tossed it to Lionel. He lifted the dagger from its sheath and held it a moment.
“No tricks,” said Lionel. “Kick the dagger to me.”
Crispin did as told and the blade rumbled across the plank floor.
Lionel chuckled and raised the sword blade until it was level with Crispin’s chest and maneuvered Crispin away from the door. Lionel closed and locked it and then backed Crispin toward the window. “Now what’s to be done with you? I don’t suppose a man such as yourself would be missed too much if you vanished. And I know the perfect place to hide you. Just so happens there’s a passage in this room that takes you down to the garden where I can easily bury your remains. No more Nicholas Walcote and no more Crispin Guest.”
“You have no morals whatsoever, do you?”
“None at all.”
“You’ll hang, you know.”
“Only if I’m caught. Clearly you don’t have enough evidence or you wouldn’t have resorted to this Mandyllon.” Lionel clutched the cloth to his chest and inhaled triumphantly before he stuffed it into his scrip. “This needs safekeeping. I can’t risk your making me confess in front of someone important.”
The wall creaked and the secret panel whooshed aside. Lionel jumped back. His red face turned a crabapple color and his double chins seemed to double again, quivering.
The sheriff stepped into the room and placed a fist at his hip. “Am I important enough?”
Lionel snapped his head toward Crispin and glared. His bushy brows seemed to reach out for him. “You son of whore!” He raised the sword and lunged, but Wynchecombe swung the bejeweled hilt of his sword at the back of Lionel’s head. Lionel’s momentum propelled him forward and he fell facedown on the floor. His sword flung from his hand, skidded across the planks, and slammed with a clang against the wall.
“Two murders are quite enough,” growled the sheriff.
29
When Crispin returned from Newgate, he was grateful to find Jack waiting for him at his lodgings with a decent fire and a bowl of wine.
Crispin took the bowl and settled in the chair. Jack shrieked and fussed at Crispin’s wound. He peeled the coat off and pulled back the shirt to dress the angry gash as best he could before he knelt at Crispin’s feet and pulled off the muddy boots. Crispin wiggled his toes toward the hearth, luxuriating in the feel of the warmth on his feet and the wine in his belly. He closed his eyes and leaned back. His shoulder throbbed, but the pressure of the dressing minimized the pain.
“What happened at the bridge? How about that John Hoode being an Italian! Did you get him, Master Crispin?”
“Yes, Jack. I got him. Whether he is poisoned by Lombardy spies or executed by English justice, his fate is sealed.”
“What about Master Lionel? Did the sheriff arrest him?”
“Indeed. All in all, Wynchecombe was pleased by the night’s proceedings. Not only did he foil a foreign conspiracy but he caught the killer of a rich merchant.”
“Him? He didn’t do nought. It was you!”
Crispin waved his hand. “I care not. I have my freedom and that is enough.”
Jack settled on the floor by the fire and rubbed his upraised knees. “Blind me! They’ll hang him, won’t they? That will make Master Clarence the master of Walcote manor, then.”
They sat for a time listening to the timbers creak and the fire whisper in the hearth.
“In the morning,” Crispin said softly, “I shall see how Philippa fares. You brought her to Master Clarence safely, I trust.”
“Oh aye, Master. But it is already morning.” He rose and cracked open a shutter and looked out at a misty dawn. He shivered and closed it again and returned to the fire. “What of that cloth? Who’s got it now?”
“‘An offering made to the Lord by fire.’” Crispin smiled. “It’s been offered back to God. I burned it.”
Jack stopped rubbing his hands and stared at Crispin. “’Slud! Master! What made you do such a thing?”
Crispin stared down into his empty bowl. The wet wood gleamed, seeming to ask for more. “You know I don’t believe in such things, Jack.” Though even as he said it he remembered with a shiver his hours in the cell. He shook it off and stared into the flames. “So many have died trying to possess the Mandyllon. It seemed more hazardous than holy.” He positioned the bowl on his upraised fingers and turned the object, toying with it. “Besides, if there was the least possibility that it did have some power, I couldn’t let it fall to the hands of anyone who coveted it.”
“Was there no priest, no church you trusted? What of the abbot of Westminster? Or the Archbishop of Canterbury?”
“Not even them. Power corrupts. ‘We must as second best take the least of the evils.’ So said Aristotle. I made the choice. I stand by it.”
Jack took the bowl from Crispin’s fingers and refilled it with wine. He shook his head. “I suppose that’s the difference between the likes of you and me, Master. I’d never be able to take such responsibility.”
Crispin took the bowl and sipped its contents. “You forget. I was trained for many years to be a leader. I led many into battle, after all. And I ran my own estates and oversaw Lancaster’s affairs.”
“Aye. Far from my like, to be sure. Lords and servants. Miles apart.”
Crispin frowned at Jack’s words and silently drank, immersing his thoughts and his nose in the wine’s tangy aroma.
A knock on the door made them both turn. Jack rose, straightened his frayed tunic, and opened the door.
Philippa stood on the threshold clutching her hood to her face.
Crispin snapped to his feet and pulled his chemise to cover his bandaged shoulder. He felt a little vulnerable in his stocking feet.
“May I come in?” she asked, her voice husky.
Jack looked at Crispin and Crispin nodded. The boy motioned her in and slipped through the door behind her, closing it, but not before Crispin caught sight of his smile in the crack between door and jamb.
Crispin stared at the back of Philippa’s head when she’d lowered her hood. The golden hair glimmered with rusty streaks. A tantalizing curl sat at the base of her neck where the hair parted. Crispin thought long and hard about pressing his lips there.
She stared into the fire. Their last awkward meeting when he left her at the Boar’s Tusk rose in his mind, and he tingled with the same discomfort.
“Philippa, why are you here? Did Master Clarence tell you to leave?”
“No. He did not. He was most gracious, in fact.”
He took a step closer. Her nearness felt like heat on his face. “What’s happened?”
“I had to come as soon as I could. The whole house was in an uproar with Lionel being taken away. Maude is having a fit.” She said it with a certain satisfied slant to her mouth. “Clarence is ready to cast her out.”
“I see. These are quieter surroundings, then. Peaceful.”
She turned. The satisfied smile left her and the usual slope of her lids was not there. “There’s nothing peaceful about your lodgings.”
He moved to stand before the fire but not quite next to her. Smoke rolled over the hearthstone and trembled up his thighs. He smelled the aroma of burnt dreams. “Then why are you here? I intended to come to you this morning.”
“This can’t wait, I fear.” She raised her chin. “You see, Clarence has asked me to marry him.”
Something seemed to rush past him. He wasn’t entirely certain what it was. He felt it like a blizzard of ice crystals stinging his face or the slap of a woman’s hand. “These are…sudden tidings.”