Veil of Lies by Jeri Westerson Page A

clasped his cloak up to his chin.
    Crispin heaved a sigh, but it sputtered unsuccessfully when a bruised rib twinged his side. “Nicholas Walcote hired me to spy on his wife. He feared she was unfaithful.”
    Wynchecombe rocked back in his chair and smiled. His mustache bristled. “And was she?”
    He took so long deciding what to say that Wynchecombe pulled his dagger and aimed it at Jack. “I’ll wager I can get him from here. Pin his shoulder to the wall, maybe.”
    “Yes!” Crispin hissed with as much scowl as he could muster. “I saw her with her lover.”
    “Well! Now we’re getting somewhere.” Wynchecombe sheathed his knife smoothly. “Certainly she must have killed her husband.”
    “No. There is something odd about that. She’s afraid of something. She’s more afraid now that he’s dead.”
    “Crispin, I do believe starvation has affected your mind. There are a host of motives for a wife to kill. Or hire someone to do the killing for her.” He shook his head. “Could it be you have lost your touch?”
    Only my self-worth . He tried to glare at the sheriff but the left side of his head hurt too much, and now he felt dizzy and nauseated.
    “The guild has been breathing down my neck for weeks, and now this Walcote business. I tell you, I cannot draw breath without some whining merchant complaining of this shipment and that shipment arriving with less than promised. Now I ask you: what the hell am I supposed to do about a shipment to Calais when I am in London?”
    The sheriff droned on. Crispin desperately wanted to hear what he was saying but he found he could no longer understand him, and realized, belatedly, that he was blacking out.

6

    Crispin awoke in his own bed and wondered if he dreamed it, though when he tried to move his head, the pain told him otherwise. Only one eye worked and he hazily recalled why. “Jack?”
    “Beside you, Master.” Jack put his cool hand on Crispin’s forehead. “Are you feeling better, sir?”
    “I do not know if ‘better’ is the word for it. Conscious, perhaps, but little more.” He tried to rise, but it felt healthier not to. Jack agreed by pushing him gently back.
    “You was thrashed right good. You done it to protect me.” He sniffed. His eyes were wet.
    “Pull yourself together, Jack.”
    Jack ran his finger under his wet nose and took it the length of his sleeve. “I’m right grateful, I am. And as for her. You must truly think she’s innocent to try to protect her from the sheriff. No one blames you for telling him after all.”
    Crispin stared up at the ceiling. Jack’s words jabbed at a place in his hollow insides. He had to admit that he didn’t know what he thought of Philippa Walcote. In fact, he hadn’t wished to consider her guilty at all, and that was not like him.
    He glanced at Jack’s hopeful expression. Since Crispin was incapable by his rank of striking back at the sheriff, though he dearly wanted to and replayed in his head exactly how it would be done, he couldn’t allow Wynchecombe to hurt the boy. Not on his account.
    “Jack, would you do me a favor?”
    Jack knelt by the bed and rested his clasped hands on the straw-stuffed mattress in a prayerful posture. “Anything!”
    “I want you to go to the Thistle and see if our friend is still lodged in that room.”
    “The innkeeper will not say. You heard him.”
    “And so did you. Did you believe him?”
    “Not when I seen the man with me own eyes.”
    “Then do not ask the innkeeper. Look for yourself. Ask the servants. Perhaps they will be more willing to speak of that room to you.”
    “I’ll need a bribe.”
    Crispin looked down for his belt but Jack had removed it. He saw it and his purse on the table. “Take a few small coins from my purse. There’s a good lad.”
    Jack turned to stare at the pouch but did not move to fetch it. He pressed his teeth into his lower lip. “You want me to get money from your purse.”
    Crispin chuckled through his aching face.