Veil of Lies by Jeri Westerson Read Free Book Online Page B

second time.”
    Grumbling, Jack moved back into the inn followed by Crispin. The boy slipped through the crowd and handed each pouch back to its rightful owner, explaining how he’d found them on the floor. The men thanked him and suspiciously tucked them away in their coats, except the last man. He withdrew a farthing and handed it to Jack, thanking him for his honesty.
    Jack returned and showed Crispin the coin. “Now look at that! For my honesty. The Lord does forgive!”
    “Yes. And you’ll repay Him by dropping that in the alms basket next Sunday.”
    “But Master! What good is an honest living if you can’t keep a day’s wage?”
    Crispin hid his smile by turning away. A day’s wage. How hard it was to earn one honestly. He could almost sympathize with Jack. He stared at the boy in all his bland simplicity; a boy who wanted to become what Crispin once was to his former lord John of Gaunt, duke of Lancaster. Crispin, too, had followed his lord about, seeking encouragement and flattering words. He had worked hard in Lancaster’s service, though not for a wage, for Crispin had been wealthy enough on his own, being Baron of Sheen. But after Crispin’s disgrace eight years ago, Lancaster did not welcome Crispin’s company. Yet there was a time when they had been so close. Like father and son. Yet even father and son can have a falling out. Crispin only wished it hadn’t involved treason.
    Treason. He was the only man he knew who had been found guilty of it and yet lived. By all rights, his body should have been strung up at Smithfield, his entrails dangling from a battered corpse, dead eyes plucked out by ravens. But it was Lancaster who had begged the king. Though he could not save Crispin’s knighthood or his title, he had at least saved his life.
    He sighed. Ancient history. Best forgotten.
    Jack was no page to Crispin’s lord. There would be no lands to inherit for him, no battalions to lead in war. Crispin did not even pay the lad, but instead compensated him for his time and his company in food and lodgings, and those were poor wages indeed. In many ways, he envied Jack Tucker his blissful ignorance.
    Crispin well remembered the day he had caught Jack stealing Crispin’s meager purse. On that day several months ago now, the boy had been more animal than man. Eleven years old, possibly twelve, Jack was dirty with mud and lice. An orphan, a street beggar, and thief. Bound for the gallows, Crispin had rescued him from Sheriff Wynchecombe’s clutches only to be rewarded by the boy’s unexpected and unflagging devotion. One day he found the boy in his lodgings cleaning the place and the next thing he knew the knave had moved in. An opportunist, was young Jack.
    Crispin turned from the boy’s concentrated gaze and looked back at the inn’s hall with its revelers and quiet sorts drinking at their places, stuffing their mouths with food.
    Philippa’s lover was lodged here. The more he thought about him the tighter the knot in his neck became. Who was he? Did she harbor a murderer? He could call in the sheriff, but the thought left a sour taste in his mouth. He couldn’t merely forget it or leave it to the sheriff, especially when his client was killed right under his nose.
    That was bad for business.
    He pushed his way deeper into the room, searching for the innkeeper. Jack scrambled to keep up with him. “What are we doing, Master?”
    Crispin jabbed his finger at Jack’s nose in warning. “ You are being quiet.” He hailed the innkeeper.
    The innkeeper’s plain face resembled a hound’s with its long features and jowls. His oversized hands hung from hairy forearms. “Aye, good Master. What can I do for you?”
    “I would know who is staying in the room at the top of the stairs,” said Crispin. “I think it is an old friend of mine. Dark hair, ruddy complexion…”
    The innkeeper glanced up the stairs and turned a perplexed expression back on Crispin. “But Master, there is no one staying in