He gazed at the portrait for a long moment before embarrassment stiffened his shoulders and he stuffed the miniature back in his purse. He heaved a sigh, stood, and decided to start a fire in the hearth.
One of the better cells designed for nobler occupants, it boasted a fireplace and a bed. The other cells had no such luxuries. Most of London’s thieves and murderers shared a communal dungeon where food was scarce and warmth a mere memory. That Wynchecombe bothered to retain any proprieties and place Crispin in such a cell surprised him, but maybe the sheriff simply did it on instinct. Surely if Wynchecombe remembered, he’d move Crispin to a less hospitable place.
He found in the hearth small squares of peat left behind by the previous occupant, but the tinderbox was damp. He might ask the guards for dry tinder when they revisited, though if it were Malvyn who returned, he knew he could kiss a fire farewell.
“Well,” he said. “If I freeze to death then my worries are over.”
He decided to try to ignite the fire and covered the peat with the driest straw he could find. Spotting Malvyn’s whip, he took particular delight in tossing it on the fuel. Taking the tinderbox, he tried to ignite the straw.
He worked diligently for half an hour before the dry straw smoldered. Bending forward, he puffed a breath across the small flame. The peat began to burn but it was a cool fire. He sat with his back to it and rolled his shoulders into the small portion of warmth and watched the light from the arrow slit turn gray and slip slowly up the damp wall.
He stared at the wall opposite the fire—each carefully laid stone one more piece in the edifice that was Newgate, all flush against one another—and one irregular stone that refused to lay as flat as the wall.
“Christ!”
He rushed to the wall and felt the dried mud with his fingers. “I’m in the same damn cell!”
Behind that crude mortar that he placed himself lay the Mandyllon.
Peering through the spy-hole in the door and seeing no one in the passage, Crispin reached for his knife before remembering the sheriff had taken it. Instead, he used his fingernails to pry the stone loose and dropped it into one hand. He thrust a hand into the hole and touched the cloth with his fingertips. Dragging it out, he stoppered the hole again with the stone.
His thumbs rubbed the smooth cloth and he turned toward the fire and sat before the weak flames. Unfolding the cloth he first laid it on his lap and then raised it. The reflected light caught the image, so faint it was barely recognizable, yet it was recognizable enough to Crispin.
The Mandyllon. “Vera icona. True Image,” he snorted. If there was one thing he couldn’t afford to know, it was his true nature. Not now. “What are you?” he asked. His voice echoed softly in the dimming cell. “Is this truly the image of God?”
He ran his rough fingertips over the image, feeling nothing different in its texture. “If this is what everyone thinks it is, then what would you have me do with it?” He raised his face to heaven, but all he saw were dusty, wooden rafters. He looked back at the fire. “I would rather burn this than have it fall into the hands of the king—or any other villain. Tell me now, Lord, what you would have me do. Would this relic not be better out of the greedy hands of man?”
He waited, listening to the silence. He wasn’t certain if he expected a reply, but he caught himself holding his breath and expelled it unevenly. “Does your silence indicate affirmation? After all, I cannot speak an untruth in the Mandyllon’s presence. If this cloth is not of your doing then nothing is lost. If it is, then I say it is better destroyed.” He thrust the cloth toward the meager flames and waited.
He scanned the room. The gloom descended as the sun lowered. “You know how invincible Richard would become, he whose vain favorites rule the court. And these wretched Italians. Would you unleash them on the world?”
His hand clenched the fabric. He felt the smoke curl around his fingers, felt the warmth of the fire grow warmer on his wrist, but still he held the Mandyllon.
“The truth is not a blessing. It is a curse. Speak, Lord! Tell me! There is little time left.”
A clatter. A scrape. The key turned in the lock.
Crispin scrambled to his feet and thrust the cloth behind his back.
The door whined open and a silhouette blocked the door’s light.
“Well, Crispin?”
As close to the voice of doom as he had ever heard.
24
Simon Wynchecombe planted his feet wide apart. Crispin braced for an attack and flicked his glance toward the edge of the doorway.
No guards? The sheriff alone? What was Wynchecombe playing at now?
“Are you ready to talk?” asked the sheriff.
With one hand Crispin dragged his cloak over his shoulders, a poor substitute for dignity. “What shall we talk about?”
Wynchecombe strode forward and stood before the fire. He watched the small flames sputter for a moment before turning his back to it. “You know I will be fair with you.”
“I know no such thing.”
Crispin knew that his hair was mussed and his coat was spattered with dots of blood from the guard’s fists. His face was a quilt of purple and yellow bruises from old wounds and from the newest assault. Nothing lordly about him anymore, except his manner and his mind. But even those slipped under the weight of time and poor living. What did Wynchecombe see when he looked at him, he wondered. Was it a former knight or just another beetle under his boot?
The sheriff nodded grimly. “We are often at opposites sides of a dilemma, are we not? I am under the auspices of the crown, and you very decidedly outside them. I make no secret of the fact that I know on which side my bread is buttered. And I like buttered bread.” He crossed his arms over his broad chest and looked down his nose at Crispin, who stood shorter by half a foot. “If that makes me a tool of the king then so be it. When all is said and done, kings come and go. I plan to remain.”
Crispin said nothing. His fingers slowly bunched the cloth into a tight ball behind his back.
The sheriff grinned. “I know more than you think I do. About this syndicate, for instance.”
Crispin raised his chin. I’ll wager you don’t. Aloud he offered, “If that is so, then why didn’t you speak of it before?”
“Why didn’t you?”
“It’s complicated.”
“The girl, Crispin? I’m surprised at you.”
“I’m a little surprised at myself.”
“We have known about this Italian syndicate for some time,” Wynchecombe went on. “We think they are responsible for a conspiracy to forestall goods, thus raising the prices. And for piracy. The king is not pleased. He has charged me with breaking up this ring. What can you tell me about it?”
“I have connections, my lord. What will it be worth to you to have this matter settled quickly?”
Wynchecombe’s face elongated with disbelief. “Are you trying to extort me?”
“‘Extort,’ my lord? That’s such a strong term. I prefer ‘negotiate.’”
Wynchecombe laughed, a deep, rolling sound that rambled along the walls and trickled out the open cell door. He wiped away his laughter tears with a gloved finger. “Crispin, if you weren’t such a traitorous bastard, I might actually like you. Very well. I might consider forgoing your surety.”
“My good Lord Sheriff, surely putting the king’s mind at ease is worth more than that! I am looking for coins.”
“You want me to pay you?” He laughed again. “And what good are riches if you rot here?”