“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.
8
Cold water lapped over Crispin’s nose and mouth, and he jerked awake, choking and spitting. He blinked, trying to make sense of his surroundings. He shivered from the cold and wet. Dark. He seemed to be moving, floating.
Slowly, he realized his hands were lashed behind his back and his ankles tied together. He bobbed in the water against something hard and jagged.
Now wide-eyed and fully awake, Crispin measured his predicament. Dead of night, floating in the Thames, and bound. His feet were tied to something. A weight? But if they were, shouldn’t he be in the bottom of the river by now?
He jerked his legs but they were caught on something. Whatever they had used hadn’t worked and his own natural buoyancy had kept him alive. At least for now. He had obviously drifted with the current and was deposited under a wharf.
A swell thrashed him against the crusty pier and washed over his face. He spat the brackish water and lifted his chin. If he did not drown with the tide, he would certainly be battered to death.
Night still hung above the lapping water in dense, bloated clouds of fog. To call for help was useless. No one would hear. He struggled with his bonds, but the water made the rough rope tight. His clothes added more weight. His belt cinched the wet garments to his waist.
The belt. His knife! Still there?
With cold-deadened hands, he felt with the tips of his fingers for the belt. Index and middle fingers grasped it. He pulled in his gut and managed to inch the belt slowly around his waist. Another swell made him rise and washed another brackish swallow of water in his mouth. He shivered but willed himself to stop, to calm his racked body. In such a state, the work would take longer, and he knew he didn’t have much time left. His whole body felt numb and heavy as if it had soaked up the entire Thames.