Veil of Lies

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The rain didn’t bother him, even though London’s rain fell thicker and harsher than country rain. Full of the city’s stench, the drizzle descended in matted wires, pricking the skin. Crispin’s leather hood took the brunt of it. The beaded water ran off his head in long rivulets and pooled at his feet. The cloak did not fare as well, and clung in heavy, wet drapery to his shivering shoulders.

Even this didn’t bother him.

What bothered him was standing in this unholy rain while a mere servant boldly appraised him as if he were a stable boy or a tradesman; looked Crispin up and down from his shabby knee-length cotehardie to his patched stockings.

The manservant’s face, square and strong, spoke of country stock rather than those hard faces etched by city living. “What do you want?” the servant asked after his prolonged assessment.

Crispin leaned forward. “What I want,” he said in a clipped tone that made the servant stiffen, “is for you to announce me to your master, the man who summoned me in the first place. The name,” he said, advancing to take possession of the threshold, “is Crispin Guest. Do not keep your master waiting.”

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