Crispin Guest, a former knight who was stripped of his rank after being implicated in a plot against Richard II, now makes his living as a "tracker," the medieval equivalent of a PI, in Westerson's promising debut, set in 1384 London. Nicholas Walcote, a wealthy cloth merchant, hires Guest to investigate his younger and attractive wife, Philippa, whom he suspects of infidelity. Guest's cursory probe is derailed after his client is found stabbed to death in a locked room. Philippa retains Guest's services to find her husband's killer, who may have been motivated by Walcote's possessing a legendary relic reputed to force those in its proximity to tell the truth. While featuring a hard-boiled medieval sleuth instead of a monk or a nun may not be quite as groundbreaking as the author suggests in her afterword (e.g., Susanna Gregory's 14th-century Cambridge physician Matthew Bartholomew), this is nonetheless an entertaining read that makes the prospect of sequels welcome. (Nov.)Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
Veil of Lies: A Medieval Noirby Jeri Westerson
"A great read, through and through. Westerson's finely wrought portrait of gritty Medieval London is embued with great wit and poignancy. Crispin Guest is a knight to remember." -- Cornelia Read, author of A Field of Darkness, on Veil of Lies.
Crispin Guest is a disgraced knight, stripped of his rank and his honor - but left with his life - for plotting/p>
"A great read, through and through. Westerson's finely wrought portrait of gritty Medieval London is embued with great wit and poignancy. Crispin Guest is a knight to remember." -- Cornelia Read, author of A Field of Darkness, on Veil of Lies.
Crispin Guest is a disgraced knight, stripped of his rank and his honor - but left with his life - for plotting against Richard II. Having lost his bethrothed, his friends, his patrons and his position in society. With no trade to support him and no family willing to acknowledge him, Crispin has turned to the one thing he still has - his wits - to scrape a living together on the mean streets of London. In 1383, Guest is called to the compound of a merchant - a reclusive mercer who suspects that his wife is being unfaithful and wants Guest to look into the matter. Not wishing to sully himself in such disgraceful, dishonorable business but in dire need of money, Guest agrees and discovers that the wife is indeed up to something, presumably nothing good. But when he comes to inform his client, he is found dead - murdered in a sealed room, locked from the inside. Now Guest has come to the unwanted attention of the Lord Sheriff of London and most recent client was murdered while he was working for him. And everything seems to turn on a religious relic - a veil reported to have wiped the brow of Christ - that is now missing.
In medieval London, disgraced knight Crispin Guest, convicted of treason for plotting against Richard II and stripped of his estates, ekes out a living as the Tracker, finding things for people. In his first case, he is hired to determine who killed a wealthy merchant who is believed to be in possession of a religious relic-a cloth bearing the face of Jesus and possessing magical powers. Brimming with historical detail and descriptions of life in 1383 London, Westerson's mystery debut is a brilliant tale of survival in a hostile environment, where anything can lead to death. Fans of medieval mysteries will put this on their reserve list. Highly recommended. [See Prepub Mystery, LJ7/08.]
Jo Ann Vicarel
Read an Excerpt
Veil of Lies
A Medieval Noir
By Jeri Westerson
St. Martin's PressCopyright © 2008 Jeri Westerson
All rights reserved.
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."
The servant hesitated before bowing derisively with a "right this way, my lord" that had nothing of respect in it.
They entered a wide hall. Murals of hardworking dyers and weavers decorated both the plaster walls and rich tapestries. The friendly aroma of dried lavender and rosemary censed the cold rooms. The scent reminded Crispin of his long-lost manor in Sheen. Much the same finery adorned those halls and passageways. But that had been some eight long years ago, when he was still a knight.
They came to a door and the servant took a key from his belt. Once they passed through the archway, he stopped, locked the door behind him, and proceeded on.
Crispin watched and frowned. He wanted to ask but doubted he would get an answer. Instead, he simply observed the strange ritual repeated until they climbed a staircase and reached the warm solar. Why would the interview be conducted in the solar? Business discussions usually took place in the parlor. The intimate setting of the solar suited a family's more private society. Crispin shrugged it off as another eccentricity of his wealthy host.
The servant opened the solar's door. White plaster walls were swathed about the room with arcs of rich, blue drapery hanging mid-height by pegs. A large, carved buffet stood against one wall, reaching almost to dark ceiling beams marching in a row toward a large window, under which sat a heavy, carved table with parchments and leather-bound accounting ledgers spread across it.
The servant bowed perfunctorily. "My master will be in anon." He turned sharply and then stopped, leaning in toward Crispin. "Don't touch anything." He grinned at Crispin's narrowed eyes and left without locking the door behind him.
Crispin tugged at his tailored coat and sneered in the direction of the receding footsteps. He glanced at the lock and traced his finger around the black iron lock plate. New. And this one only bolted from the inside. Surely the solar was important enough to lock from the outside as well.
He strolled to the fire, luxuriating in its glowing warmth. The hearth, large, almost too big for the room, stood as tall as Crispin. The mantel boasted arms of the mercer's guild chiseled into the stone. "Merchant in cloth," Crispin snorted. He glanced again around the fine room of silver candlesticks and expensive furnishings, and nodded shrewdly. "I am in the wrong profession." He stared at the flagon across the room and licked his lips.
Last night he wondered at such a summons and felt a little trill in his belly. If all went well, this would surely be the richest client of his four-year career, and he needed that fee. The rent was overdue again and he owed Gilbert and Eleanor Langton a lengthy tavern bill as well. Where did the money go? Funny how it had never occurred to him how hard it was to make a living until he had to do it himself.
The door burst open and Crispin instinctively came to attention and faced his wealthy host. The man strode in, his shoulders almost as wide as the doorway. He took command of the space as a general takes command of the field, locking his eyes on Crispin before sweeping his gaze warily around the room. Crispin smiled in spite of himself. There was little doubt in Crispin's mind that such a man was used to barking orders and having them immediately obeyed. It was something Crispin appreciated. Something he had enjoyed himself in years gone by. But this man, this prosperous merchant, was not destined to take his place on any battlefield. His arena was commerce and his soldiers his bolts of cloth.
Crispin looked him over as well, trying to assess the man beneath the confident exterior. On second examination, the man did not appear to have the muscled heft of a mason or smith, but instead the corpulence of a man of leisure. His nut brown fleshy face crinkled at the eyes and met a tidy beard touched by gray. His deep green houppelande made of rich velvet and trimmed with miniver reached to just below his knees. The foliated sleeves touched the floor, and the stiff collar stood up straight and neatly covered the back of a beefy neck. He wore two gold chains across his wide breast as well as a dagger with a gem-encrusted hilt and a decorated scabbard.
Behind him, the same manservant who met Crispin at the main door followed his master into the room and stood by the door, awaiting instructions.
The wealthy man rested his gaze on Crispin once more and left it there. "Crispin Guest?" he asked.
"At your service, my lord," said Crispin and bowed.
The man nodded briskly before turning to his manservant. "Adam, you are dismissed. We will serve ourselves."
The servant, Adam, threw a suspicious glare at Crispin. He hesitated a moment. But there didn't seem to be any naysaying of this master, and the servant forced a bow before he trudged out, pulling the door shut behind him. The wealthy host strode to the closed door, grabbed the iron bolt, and locked them in.
Crispin glanced at the bolt but said nothing.
The man turned back to Crispin and hastily smiled. "I do like my privacy."
Crispin remained silent.
"Please" — the man gestured toward a cushioned chair — "sit. Will you have wine?"
The merchant poured and handed Crispin a bowl. Crispin sat and savored the feel of the silver bowl in his hand and almost closed his eyes at the aroma of the sweet berry flavors of good Gascon wine. The man sat opposite in a larger chair. Crispin took only one sip and reluctantly set the bowl aside.
"I have heard of your discretion, Master Guest," said the man at last. "And discretion is utmost in this instance."
"Yes, Master. That is true in most instances."
"Your reputation as an investigator — is it well deserved?"
"For four years I have been known as the 'Tracker.' I have heard no complaints about my service. My clients are well satisfied."
"I see." The merchant smiled with a contented nod, but then his face tightened and he fell into an agitated silence. They measured each other for a long span before the man sprang unexpectedly to his feet and nervously warmed his hands at the hearth.
"Perhaps," Crispin suggested after another long silence, "you should start at the beginning, and then we can discover what it is you would have me do."
The man sighed heavily and glanced once at the closed door. "My name is Nicholas Walcote."
Crispin nodded. This he knew. The richest mercer in London, possibly in all England. Reclusive. Eccentric. It was said Walcote hadn't been seen by his own guild since his boyhood, but his renowned trade in cloth kept his reputation intact. The man seemed always ahead of the trends, always importing just the right merchandise at the right time, cloth that the market seemed enraptured with. The man had a head for business like few others. Crispin mentally shook his head — the cloth trade was a complete mystery to him. There had once been a time when he followed fashions, but he did not have to heed courtly finery today, even if he could afford it.
The thought soured his belly as thoughts of King Richard's court often did. His history made Walcote his better and left Crispin in rags. But not for long. Crispin measured each man these days by the amount of gold they were willing to part with. And by the looks of things, Nicholas Walcote could afford to part with a great deal.
Canting toward the edge of his seat, Crispin schooled his features and pulled the hem of his coat down over his thigh to cover a hole in his left stocking. "What might these discreet matters be, Master Walcote?"
When Walcote met Crispin's gaze his face hardened. "It is my wife. I fear ... I fear she is unfaithful to me." His eyes filled with tears. Abruptly, he dropped his head into his hands and wept.
Crispin sat back and examined his nails, waiting for Walcote's tears to subside. He waited a long time.
At last Walcote raised his head and wiped his face with large, square hands. "Forgive me." He sniffed and rubbed his nose. "These are disturbing matters. Of course I am not certain. That is why I called for you."
Crispin reckoned where this was heading and didn't like it. "What is it you wish me to do?"
"Surely you have experience in these matters."
He narrowed his eyes. "You wish me to spy on your wife?"
Walcote crossed the room and stood above his untouched wine. The frost-edged window panes added a gray wash of faint light onto the polished wooden floor. The rest of the room lay steeped in shadows or the manicured halos of candle sconces.
"It is driving me mad!" he hissed. "I must know! The business, my estates. I must know that any issue from her is mine. We have been married so briefly and I travel much on business."
Love and jealousy were one thing, but the business of inheritance quite another. "Just so. What are your intentions if you discover an unpleasant truth?"
Walcote's ruddy countenance deepened to red. "That, Master Guest, is my business alone."
"I think you are mistaken. I do not care to be the cause of violence, no matter how justified."
Walcote glared at him, and suddenly the merchant's curled fists opened. He smiled apologetically. "Such personal matters. It is difficult to be rational. There would be words, certainly, and perhaps punitive action. But violence? No. You see, despite it all, I love my wife."
Crispin rose, crossed to the hearth, and warmed his back against the fire. His wet mantle dripped on the floor. "I have no stomach for such business, Master Walcote. I recover lost jewelry, stolen papers, and such like. Adultery? I leave that to clerics." He shook his head and moved to the door, but Walcote scrambled to maneuver in front of him and even spread his arms to cover the entrance.
Walcote weighed a good sixteen stone, but it was all easy living and heavy food. Trim and fit, Crispin did not doubt that if he wished to leave, Walcote could not impede him.
"Please, Master Guest. You know I am a wealthy man. I will pay any price. I cannot tell this story again to another. I beg of you!"
"This is unpleasant and personal business, Master Walcote." Crispin eyed his abandoned wine bowl. "In my opinion, you should talk to your wife." He placed his hand on Walcote's arm and squeezed, moving it easily aside. He reached for the bolt but Walcote grabbed his wrist.
"But how can I believe her answer?"
Crispin offered a smile. "She just might tell you the truth. Stranger things have happened."
"You do not know my wife," Walcote muttered. "I have tried, but the truth with her is different from others."
Walcote tightened his grip on Crispin's wrist. Crispin looked down at it. "Surely there is a servant you can send," he told his host.
"And be the laughingstock of the servant's hall?" He shook his head and released Crispin's wrist. "Have you never been betrayed? Would you not have wanted someone to intervene for you? To warn you?"
Crispin gnawed on words close to his heart. Betrayed? He had been betrayed twice in his life in the worst possible ways. Once by a man he trusted with his life, and the other by the woman he intended to marry. If he had only been warned. If someone had but said —
He lowered his hand from the bolt and stared at the floor, ticking off the advantages both for and against. He stood that way for a while, until a long breath escaped his lips and he pivoted to face Walcote. The man was desperate. No doubt of that. His ruddy face reddened and sweat shined on his nose and forehead. All his wealth was no surety of happiness. Crispin almost snorted at the irony.
Instead, he sighed his frustration, feeling the hollowness of the purse at his own belt. "Very well. What is it you wish me to do?"
Walcote's words spilled out. "Watch the house. See where she goes or who appears when I am out. Report to me what you find. I shall take care of the rest." He wiped the sweat from his upper lip. "What is your fee for such a commission?"
"Sixpence a day, plus expenses."
"I will pay that and more. Here is a good-faith payment." He reached into the purse at his belt and withdrew three coins. "Half a day's wages now. More for however long it takes."
Crispin looked at the coins in Walcote's moist palm. Three silver disks. To refuse them meant starvation. Nothing new. He had starved before. If he accepted them, it meant creeping in shadows, little better than a voyeur. But it also might lead to better appointments, better opportunities. Perhaps even through the Walcote household itself, and a rich household it was.
With a bitter heart, his fingers scooped up the coins and dropped them into his purse.
"How shall I know your wife?" asked Crispin. "May I see her?"
"Oh no! That will never do." Walcote went to the sideboard and opened the doors. He took a small object from a back shelf and cupped it in his hand, gazing at it. Reluctantly he handed it to Crispin. "This is a portrait of Philippa. It is the best likeness."
Crispin examined the miniature. A young brown-eyed woman in her early twenties looked out at him. Her hair was a brassy gold and parted in the middle. Two ring braids draped over her ears. A fetching lass. And younger than Walcote, who appeared to be in his late forties. Little wonder he worries.
Crispin handed the portrait back, but the merchant shook his head. "Keep that for now. I would have you be certain."
Crispin shrugged and stuffed the small portrait through the opening of his coat.
"I want you to begin tonight," said Walcote distractedly. "And tell me whatever you discover as soon as possible."
"Let us hope your worries are for nought."
"Yes." He wrung his hands and turned his back on Crispin to face the fire. "Adam will let you out."
Leaving the Walcote courtyard, Crispin could not help but look back over his shoulder at the grand stone structure.
He passed through the gatehouse and acknowledged the porter inside with only a curt nod. Pulling his leather hood up, he gathered his cloak about him. The autumn sky hung gray and sullen. He felt grateful the rain had stopped but his breath still fogged his face.
If Walcote wanted him to start tonight then now seemed as good a time as any. He walked across the street to warm himself over a shopkeeper's brazier and nodded to a man already standing there. The man gestured toward the house. "Been looking for a job?" A thick-as-fog Southwark accent, but his manner rubbed a little too feminine for Crispin's tastes.
Crispin gave a brief smile. "Yes. Do you know them?"
"Aye. Me cousin used to work for them."
"Aye. He says they're a curious lot. I just girded me courage to ask for work there m'self, even though me cousin Harry warned me not to. A man can't be too particular when he needs to earn a living." He was a thin man with a hollowed face, pale hair, a hawk nose, and watery blue eyes. The man pulled his hood down to his brows with long fingers, and stiffly clutched the material closed below his chin.
"And the outcome?"
"I talked to the mistress of the house. She's a stern one, she is. I don't know what she thought. I'm to return on the morrow."
Crispin said nothing. He glanced back at the house. Its proud exterior slowly disappeared behind an encroaching mist, leaving only a hazy gray rectangle with darker rectangles for windows.
Excerpted from Veil of Lies by Jeri Westerson. Copyright © 2008 Jeri Westerson. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Meet the Author
Jeri Westerson is a journalist, first time novelist, and noted blogger on things mysterious and medieval. She lives with her family in Menifee, California.
JERI WESTERSON is the author of books featuring Crispin Guest, including Veil of Lies, Serpent in the Thorns, The Demon's Parchment, Troubled Bones, and Blood Lance. She lives in Menifee, California.
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If you are tired of trying new authors whose writing could not pass muster on a high school exit exam, then you are in for a treat because Jeri Westerson's debut mystery, Veil of Lies, is in the same literary league as Dorothy L. Sayers, Ruth Rundle and P.D. James. Swiftly paced and action packed, Ms. Westerson's novel readily meets the basic criteria for today's popular fiction, but more importantly, her prose waxes poetic with evocative descriptions of old, medieval London, dark, dank and dangerous. Memorable characters burgeon forth, drawn so effortlessly, so naturally, you will never spot the author's artifices. While protagonist, Crispin Guest, a former knight broken and disbarred from his previous station, who barely escapes with his life after plotting treason, is as dark and hard-bitten as any detective found in American pulp fiction. Cold, calculating, even cruel at times, hard drinking Guest finds himself delving into the shady lives and foul deeds of strangers he would have not deigned to acknowledge in his previous position of nobility. Now he not only lives amongst the lower castes, he must quarry their secrets to earn an ignominious living--six pence a day plus expenses.
Okay I admit it, the cover drew me in. Seriously what's not to love about the hot medieval guy with long hair and a sword? I don't know who he is, but I certainly wouldn't kick him out of my bed unless he had lice. Having said that, it was the blurb made me buy and I am SO glad I did. Being a fan of Ellis Peters and Sharon Kay Penman, I've been looking for something in this genre and through a twist of fate (or being bored on GR), I found it. Veil of Lies: A Medieval Noir is what you'd get if Cornell Woolrich decided to channel Geoffrey Chaucer. This is medieval London at its grittiest. Jeri Westerson does a fantastic job of recreating the sights, sounds and yes, even the smells of 13th century London--and trust me, Medieval Times wouldn't be as much fun if they were striving for historical accuracy *wink*. The hero of this tale is disgraced knight Crispin Guest, who's lucky to be alive after having been caught in a treason against a young Richard II. Crispin, once a scion of the nobility has taken a huge fall and now lives a hardscrabble existence in The Shambles--a place he'd never imagined he'd wind up. For all this, he still maintains that aura of superiority possessed by members of the ruling class, an aspect that can make him a bit of a jerk at times. He's also had to find a new occupaation as The Tracker, a man who's hired by others to find things. This time he's hired by a wealthy clothing merchant, Nicholas Walcote, to spy on his young wife Phillipa, whom he believes is having an affair. It's not a job that Crispin wants, but being bereft of funds and behind on rent, takes anyway only to realize there's a lot more than mere adultery happening and that the more he gets involved, the more his life is at stake. Through in religious relics and international intrugue and it doesn't take long for Crispin to realize he may be in way over his head. To say that I am so hooked on this series is an understatement. I love the medieval period, though I certainly wouldn't want to live in it. Crispin Guest is a wonderful character--caustic, flawed, but for all that, he's still very much that idealistic knight always ready to help a damsel in distress, even one who may be more than she lets on.
While searching for a historical mystery that I had not yet read, I came upon the suggestion of Jeri Westerson's Medieval Noir, Troubled Bones. Since Troubled Bones was the fourth in the series I decided to read the first book, Veil of Lies. With the writing success of CJ Sansom and Arianna Franklin, this series holds its own. The main character, Crispin Guest, a disgraced knight, is flawed, funny and is well aware of his short comings. The book is well paced and the mystery is suited to the medievel age. I will definitely read the other books in this series.
Veil of Lies is the first installment in Jeri Westerson’s medieval mystery series featuring Crispin Guest, a disgraced knight now turned private investigator long before the elusive named profession was ever coined! Venture back to 1384 England, Crispin Guest was once raised in the home of the Duke of Lancaster, once thought to be his protégé and as such followed at the Duke’s side into court under Prince Edward. At the death of Prince Edward, Crispin believed Lancaster; uncle to the current young King Richard should rightfully be sitting the throne. Aligning himself with a group he thought would make Lancaster king, the plot once discovered, taken as an act of treason, soon found Crispin stripped not only of his title of knight but of all the riches once bestowed upon him including his barony in Sheen. Left penniless and renting a small room in the Shambles, the poorest part of London, Crispin has made his way using his unique deduction skills gaining a reputation for “finding things” which have penned him with the professional name the Tracker. Oftentimes finding himself in the company although through an uneasy alliance with the Lord Sheriff Wynchecombe who would enjoy the notoriety from the fruits of Crispin’s labors while Crispin would often find himself black and blue from the Sheriff’s hand. It is upon an inquiry requesting his services to gain answers for one Nicholas Walcote, a rich cloth merchant that finds Crispin embroiled in a plot more treasonous than he found himself eight years ago. The search for a holy cloth that would give the holder ultimate power, for rumor claimed one could not lie in its presence. Crispin and his rag-tag band of associates will keep you amused as well as intrigued into discovering who really did it.
This is the first in the Crispin Guest series and it's very engrossing. Although I could figure out some of the major clues, the author does a wonderful job of keeping you guessing till the end. We also learn about the protagonist as he learns of himself. I recommend this series to anyone looking for a different type of detective novel.
I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but this book just didn't enthrall me. The characters were one dimensional, and I never felt as though I knew them. I will be buying the next book, because I think the story has promise. Perhaps the main character will make enough money as a 'tracker' so that he can afford a new pair of stockings. And the woman of his dreams with the Cockney accent? Unbelievable. I hope the next book in the series is more convincing.
Crispin Guest has had better days; in fact, he's had an entirely better life. Once a knight and member of the inner circle of the second most powerful man in England, he struggles to make the rent on his slum apartment and spends his days with common criminals ducking the long arm of the London sheriff. Fortunately, he has found a niche as the Tracker, an investigator for hire. His latest job has him following around a wealthy merchant's wife suspected of infidelity. It's a simple, albeit boring and degrading assignment--that doesn't last long before he's got a dead body on his hands and a slew of folks after his head. Ms. Westerson does a great job fleshing out her characters, and it's the play between each of them that really makes me recommend this, the first novel in the Crispin Guest series. Unlike many historical mysteries, she does not expend the bulk of her prose in a living history lesson, but instead briefly sketches the setting for the real focus of her work, which is her plot and characters. It works well, and I highly recommend her book for a few enjoyable hours with some tasty brain candy.
VEIL OF LIES ( a Medieval Noir) is the first book in a series by Jeri Westerson. Crispin Guest is a man without a place in the rigidly stratified world of England in 1384. Crispin had been the protege of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, uncle of King Richard II. He had been knighted when he was 18 but an accusation of treason had cost his his lands, his money, and his knighthood. In need of an income, Crispin becomes the Tracker, the man who uses the fighting skills he learned as he moved through the ranks of Lancaster's men. Nicholas Walcote, a successful cloth merchant, hires Crispin to follow his wife whom he suspects of infidelity. Walcote is a strange man who locks doors as he enters and leaves, fearful of something or someone. Crispin discovers that Walcote was right in his belief that Philippa was meeting another man and in the morning he brings the information to Walcote Manor only to discover that Nicholas has been murdered, sealed in a room that had been locked from the inside. Philippa is devastated, claiming to have truly loved her husband. She hires Crispin to find the murderer and the plot takes off to include treason, espionage, murder, and a plot to destroy England's position in Europe. And, of course, there is a mystery about a relic, a piece of cloth said to hold the image of Christ's face. This image is truly miraculous because no man can tell a lie when in its presence. Westerson blends historical figures with fictional ones seamlessly. Relics abound in Europe, captured during the Crusades. The cloth of truth, the Mandyllon, is one of a number of pieces of cloth or veil that surfaced in Europe, the validity of which was debated throughout the Middle Ages. VEIL OF LIES is an interesting look at a period that hasn't figured in mystery fiction thus far.
This book had such potential. Sadly, it reads like the amateur hour, as if the author followed a template from a bad fiction writing class. The cliches abound, the syntax is stunningly awkward and I abandoned this book a quarter of the way through it. Especially annoying is the author's annoying attempts to convey historical accuracy by regaling the reader with the specific term for nearly every component of medieval costume, however obscure. Another inspiring entry in the "If This Can Get Published, Anything Can" hall of shame.
Bought the hard cover and it went through the readers in our house quickly. When will the paper back come out? Love to give this as a unique gift. I'll never look at a pickle the same again! Write more please. :)
I found this to be as well done as the books by Sansom.It was original with a ex Knight as the key character in the book
In 1384 disgraced former knight Crispin Guest lost his rank after evidence arose that he was part of a plot to dethrone King Richard II. Guest makes a living as a tracker of lost items or people.
In London, believing his spouse is cuckolding him, affluent cloth merchant Nicholas Walcote hires Guest to look into the affairs of his much younger beautiful wife, Philippa. Guest begins his inquiries only to learn he no longer has a client; someone stabbed Walcote leaving him dead in a locked room. However to his shock, the widow hires Guest to investigate her husband¿s murder. She believes a magical artifact her spouse owned that propelled people to always tell the truth was the reason for the homicide. As Guest gets closer to the truth, someone wants him stopped by any mean necessary.
VEIL OF LIES is an intriguing medieval Noir starring a disgraced former knight who has become a private investigator. The story line is fast-paced but totally owned by Guest who as a warrior is used to hand to hand combat; he takes that in your face methodology to his new occupation. The whodunit is fun to follow, but it is the kick butt Guest who brings late fourteenth century London to life.
I love medieval mysteries and the jacket promised an intriguing tale. Alas, it was not. The plot is plodding, with too many sub-plots that don't mix well together. Clues are thrown out early on but it takes the author forever to incorporate them and since the reader has already guessed, it's rather boring to wait for the characters to figure it out. The identity of the murderer is resolved almost as an afterthought with no real bearing on the main plot; the murderer was a cardboard character who seemed to have been introduced solely for the purpose of being the guilty party. Another minor character turned out to be a key player; but we saw so little of him that it was a deus-ex-machina type of surprise. Overall characterizations are shallow, uneven and unbelievable. If you like medieval mysteries with royal intrigue, a better bet are the books by Sharon Kay Penman.
Crispin Guest, the disgraced knight at the heart of Veil of Lies, could make me a medieval mystery fan.
He carries his disgrace with the wry stoicism on a hard-boiled detective and travels with a sidekick who could be the prototype for the artful dodger. He has an eye for the ladies, has a quick wit and can more than hold his own when things get physical.
The plot is fast paced, surprising and logical. Wrapped in a medieval setting grounded in historical detail, Veil of Lies is page turner. A highly recommended debut novel that left me wanting another, immediately.