Her expression did not change except to cool. “I have taken the time, Master Guest, to visit these…lodgings. And I have precious little time to give.”
“You would protect a murderer?”
She turned her face away and he stared instead at a soft cheek and a braid looped over a pink ear. “I protect no one but my husband. Now he is beyond my protection.” She whirled. “What good would it do anyone to kill Nicholas?”
“Why Madam, then your lover could have you for himself.”
She shook her head. “Nonsense. He don’t want—” She pressed her lips closed. This time one edge of her mouth turned up in a smile.
“Then I have another question,” he said, monitoring her reactions. “Did you kill him?”
The smile vanished. “No!”
He moved nearer. Her expression remained cool. She seemed aware of his closeness, and like a feral animal, attuned herself to it. One shoulder rose and she tucked her chin down. She looked up at him through a veil of lashes. He detected the faint, sweet scent of elderflowers and found himself leaning closer.
She blinked, slow and even. Her gaze seized him, as if drawing him into a secret she was not yet willing to reveal. He could not help but lose himself in those lustrous eyes.
“I know I can trust you,” she rasped. Could those lips truly go unkissed by other men? He tried to imagine what her lips tasted like, how they felt. Were they soft and pliant, or merely flat and moist? He found he wanted to know. He wanted to taste them, to bite them, to feel them like petals running down his flesh. He wondered if she felt the same for him—and then with a jolt he reminded himself of her husband.
He retreated deliberately.
She took a deep breath and the neckline of her gown rose and lowered. Her face grew somber. “What I am about to say, well. It is plainly unbelievable. But you must believe it. If you don’t, then I might as well leave now.”
“How can I promise before I hear?”
Her eyes searched his. They seemed to drag him forward and shake him, willing him to listen. “Do you believe in the power of holy relics?”
He ran his hand over the back of his neck to wipe away the sweat. “I may have had a run-in or two with relics.” He nodded. “But I do not know whether I believe in their power or not.”
“But you must believe in this. Have you ever heard of the veronica?”
“Do you speak of Veronica’s Veil?”
“Aye. But there are supposed to be many veronicas. They take the words from the Latin and Greek, vera icona. It means—”
“True Image,” he finished. “Yes, Madam. I know my languages.”
She nodded. “There is one veronica’s veil that our Lord encountered while on his way to the cross. The woman Veronica offered her veil to wipe our Lord’s face, and his image was miraculously imprinted upon it. The other was the shroud from his tomb. But there were others that came before.”
“I never heard of these.”
“Few have.”
“How do you know of them?”
“May I sit?”
He motioned her to take the only chair. He sat on the edge of the chest.
Methodically, she folded her hands on her lap. She took her time as if she were recounting exactly how to sit and how to place her hands. Finally she raised her head. “Six months ago Nicholas returned from a long journey on the continent. When he returned, he was a changed man. Nervous. Afraid. Oh, I know what they say. He never leaves the house except to travel. He was always cautious of strangers. But this was different. He was different. I begged him to tell me what vexed him but he would not. Soon he had locks affixed to every door, and me and Adam Becton were given the only other keys and told to lock the doors after going through each of them.”
“Adam Becton? The steward?”
“Aye. You met him.”
He frowned. “Yes. Becton. Go on.”
“There isn’t much more to tell. Nicholas told me about this Mandyllon, that’s what he called it, and that he kept it in the house. I want it gone.”
“But why should you fear such a thing? Surely your husband was duped into believing it was authentic. There is much traffic in so-called relics—”
She shook her head. “No. It is authentic. And it is dangerous.”
“In what way?”
“It does things to people.”
“What sort of ‘things’?”
“Please! Can’t you find it and rid me of it? I will pay you.” She rose and fumbled at her scrip. Crispin watched dispassionately while she spilled a handful of coins on the table, more money than he had seen for a long time. She raised the coins in her cupped hands and thrust them toward him. “Take them! And I will no longer be cursed!” He said nothing and her face became fierce. “You need it, I have it. Take it and do as you are bid! Are you so rich that you would refuse a Walcote?”
The words stung that sore place on Crispin’s pride. He lunged forward and grabbed her wrist. The coins jangled and hit the table, some spinning across the floor. He tightened his grip. “I work for myself. I do what I like, when I like. And I need not abide a lying, adulterous serpent of a woman filling my head with straw and nonsense about cursed relics. I care not how wealthy you are. You reek of blood. It could be mine next.”
Fear changed her expression to something wild and distant. She stared at his whitened fingers wrapped around her wrist. “You are hurting my arm,” she said.
He chuffed his displeasure and threw her hand aside. “Our business is over. Take your coins and be gone.”
She blinked hard in succession. Her red lips grew darker when she mashed them together. “You won’t help me?”
“Why should I? You come to me with a ridiculous story to hide your own wantonness. I do not wish to waste my time. Good day.”
“I cannot go to the sheriff.”
“That is not my affair. Good day, Madam.”
She raised her chin and gathered the coins. He helped her find those on the floor and dropped them smartly into her open scrip. She said nothing more and strode in harsh steps to the door, yanked it open, and stomped through.
Crispin stood for a moment looking at the open doorway.
“I’m hungry,” he decided.
He sat by the fire in the Thistle and stared up the staircase to the door of Philippa Walcote’s most recent tryst. The thick broth he ordered tasted savory, its flavors melting on his tongue, but he found no pleasure in it when considering the possible identity of her dark paramour. With a hunk of brown bread, he sopped the rest of the pottage out of the bowl and looked up from his meal with a belch before he spied a familiar face that had obviously not yet noticed him.
A ginger-haired boy threaded through the crowd, squeezing through with apologies on his lips. Unseen by the patrons, his hand with the small knife slipped down and up, neatly slicing purse from belt on one man after another without detection. It was something quite amazing to behold and Crispin couldn’t help admiring the boy’s skill even as he grew more annoyed with him. The boy zigzagged quickly through the throng and slipped outside.
Crispin followed hard on his heels, came up behind him, and nabbed his hood. “Jack Tucker.”
Jack spun. “Master! What are you doing here?”
“Working. And so are you, I see.”
“W-what? Me?” He tried to hide his hands as if their mere presence made him guilty. “I gave up me thieving ways when you rescued me from the sheriff, remember? All I want in this life is to serve you.”
“And I told you I don’t want a servant.”
“Now, Master Crispin. A man like you ought to have a servant.”