The Demon’s Parchment

13

It took some time for Jack to convince Crispin to come home to sleep and see about the clay on the morrow. Climbing the narrow stairway to their lodgings, Crispin had almost tumbled down the stairs, but Jack’s steady arm prevented his breaking his neck. He was grateful in the long run to settle into his bed, the scratchy blanket tucked under his chin, while Jack covered the embers with ashes. Crispin imagined himself to be warm, but he knew it was only due to his inebriated state.

But now that the morning had come, and with it the sharp lance of light piercing the shutters and the raucous clang of iron kettle against clay cauldron, he could no longer appreciate his perceived comfort. Not when his head felt leaden, swollen, and like a pot on an anvil, being beaten upon by an unsteady tinker.

“Jack,” he moaned. “Can’t you be quiet?”

“Sorry, Master,” said Jack heartily. “But it is morn and you said last night that we must get an early start. The water is almost hot for your shave and the peas porridge is ready when you want it.”

He offered Crispin a wooden bowl of ale. Crispin sat up and glared at it. “Where did you get this?”

“Master Kemp brought it up this morning. He heard how you were feeling poorly and said this was a good remedy.”

“I have only just awakened. How did he know I would be feeling poorly?”

“Well, when I came across him this morning I might have mentioned about how you were. . last night.”

Crispin did not question it further. He downed the ale and smacked his lips. It wasn’t enough to take off the edge but it was better than nothing.

Jack took Crispin’s cloak and draped it over his master’s shoulders as he hunched in the bed, trying to keep warm. The boy next pressed the bowl of porridge into his hand and Crispin drank the warm liquid. He wiped his mouth and handed the bowl back to the boy, who scooped up a helping for himself and sipped at it. “Your water, sir.”

Crispin muttered to himself as he slid out of the bed, the straw in the mattress crunching under him. He wrapped the end of his cloak over the kettle’s handle and poured some of the steamy water into a basin and took that to the shelf under a bit of shiny brass nailed to a post. He lathered his chin with a soap cake and hoped the razor was sharp enough. He ignored his shaky hand and did the best he could. He scrubbed his teeth with a finger and the leftover water, and spit it back into the basin.

Jack took the basin from his hand, swished open the back garden shutters, and tossed the water out.

“How do I look?” asked Crispin blearily.

Jack studied him and cocked his head. “As well as can be expected.”

“High praise,” he muttered and pulled the edges of his chaperon hood down over his cloak.

Jack fingered the book that lay on the table. “What is this, sir?”

He had quite forgotten about the book. Did he have time to look it over now? His hand inched over the leather cover and he found himself sitting before it with both hands at the leather ties.

He opened the cover, tsking at the water damage done when Giles’s cousin tossed it into the mud, and settled down to read.

Jack tinkered with the fire and rambled about, finally settling down in his corner to brush the mud vigorously from Crispin’s cloak hem.

Crispin read, and it wasn’t long before his ire pricked the back of his neck. The more he read, the angrier he got. He had thought little about Jews before, but that they would scheme to kill an innocent boy for their strange rituals was unthinkable. Yet it was all there, inked on this parchment. Yes, well. He’d have a thing or two to say to Julian about this!

Crispin got unsteadily to his feet. He wasn’t certain if it was still the effects of drinking or of his anger. “Jack, if we go we had best go now. While I am still upright.”

Jack mumbled something that Crispin did not care to hear and waited for the boy to don his own cloak and hood. There was much he needed to relate to Jack about the happenings of yesterday.

As they made their way down the icy steps, Crispin began his tale, and Jack listened wide-eyed to all its ups and downs, particularly when he came to the part about the dead servant. Several “God blind me” exclamations later, Jack drew silent.

There was slush upon the ground but the sky held no snow. It was washed in a mottled gray like the ocean after a storm. They moved south toward the Thames, making their way to Salt Wharf in Queenhithe. When they arrived, they hired a ferryman to take them across, and Jack stood at the bow like any other child excited to be making the trip. Crispin leaned on the side, looking out across the choppy, gray water. Skiffs speared the water beside them, their pilots glaring as if Crispin were invading their territory. Possibly, he was. He paid them no heed and pulled his hood down as far over his head as he could, trying to shield his face from the icy wind and spray. His mind was on death and blood and the treachery of Jews.

The Bankside suddenly loomed out of the mist. As they drew closer to the dock, fishermen mending their nets took shape out of the gloom.

He thought he could make out the smoke from the kilns though it might just be suspended fog. But perhaps it was only cooking fires from the row on row of houses and shops lining the riverfront. Crispin seldom traveled to Southwark. Not if he could help it. The stews did not interest him. At least that’s what he told himself. The truth lay more in practicalities. A tumble with a Bankside whore seemed less critical when one’s purse was empty.

As he stepped out onto the wharf and handed the ferryman a halpen, he could not help but feel surrounded by the low speech of Southwark such as came from Jack’s mouth. In his exile, Crispin had decided early on that he would not live in Southwark, no matter what it took. It was bad enough living on the Shambles, but to live on the Bankside with whores and thieves. .

His eye fell upon Jack springing forth from the ferry’s unsteady rolling bow and landing squarely on the wharf. The boy smiled up at him; a grin that was as wide as the Thames. So much for not living with thieves.

He raised his chin and took in the busy wharves and street above. The potters were not far, for indeed that had been smoke coming from the hardworking kilns of London. He could smell it now.

He followed his nose while Jack ran back and forth at his heels like a pup. He was quite proud of Jack for coming up with the notion. The boy was sharp, no question about it. It surprised him that a creature of such low beginnings could be so clever, but with a bit of gloating, he owed much of Jack’s shrewdness to himself and his careful tutoring.

Jack raised his arm and pointed. “That’s the potters,” he said. “They’re the ones I seen yesterday. I watched them for a good long time, Master. I talked a fair bit to one of them apprentices, a boy named Wat. He told me about their trade. They make jugs and cooking pots and such. But business is getting poorly, so he says. His master is worried that they might have to find another vocation.”

“Business is that bad?”

“Oh aye. So he said. But he is just an apprentice.”

“I find the word of apprentices more and more valuable these days.”

Jack missed the compliment. His attention was taken by the many ovens as they cleared the corner, of the young men carrying buckets of clay hanging from yokes over their bent shoulders, of young boys balancing vast bundles of sticks on their heads.

It was hard to believe that this industriousness might all be for nought. Crispin watched silently from across the lane, staying in the shadows. Jack fairly vibrated beside him, no doubt impatient for Crispin to do something. But Crispin had no need to do anything as of yet. He, too, wanted to watch the work, especially the men and even women he could see through doorways, their feet pushing at a wheel while they worked their alchemy on a shapeless slab of clay. With hands drenched in murky water, they brought forth tall hourglass-shaped jugs and squat, round-bellied pots. Decorations were daubed onto the sides in diamond patterns and basket weaves, or merely rolled on with small wheeled instruments.

Quick as a wink, a pot was done, pulled from the wheel, and placed on a shelf. Another blob of clay was thrown to the wheel, and the potter began again, something new emerging from his clever hands.

“Aye, Master,” said Jack. “I could watch them all day. I nearly did. It’s a right fine skill, that is. But I ain’t clever with me hands. I’d best settle on using me mind and becoming a Tracker, like you.”

He snapped a sidelong glance at his young charge. “I know it is a step down from a potter, Jack.”

But Jack suddenly straightened and speared his arm outward. “There’s Wat now!”

A stick-thin boy with gaunt features and straw-colored hair staggered under the burden of a bundle of fuel a donkey might have balked at carrying. It was not an unusual sight to see such young boys working harder than beasts, but Crispin felt a strange sensation in his belly watching this lad. It seemed he noticed all the young boys in London now, seeing them as potential victims and wondering how on earth he was to protect any of them.

“Wat!” Jack sprinted toward him and immediately took the sticks from his shoulders, carrying them himself. Wat’s look of relief was heartbreaking.

“Jack,” said the boy. A smile spread on his face, stretching the chapped skin to a shiny sallow color. But when his eyes lifted to Crispin, the smile vanished.

“Wat,” said Crispin mildly. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Wat looked uncertainly at Jack. “This is me master, Crispin Guest. Worry not. He’s a good soul.”

The boy seemed disinclined to believe this and remained standing beside his stick bundle.

“This business of pot-making,” said Crispin, sweeping the row of ovens casually with his arm. “It is fascinating work. Your master must be very skilled.”

The boy said nothing. His hollow-eyed stare was becoming unnerving.

“And so,” said Crispin, trying like the devil to think of something to say to draw the boy out, “I am most interested in how it is done. Perhaps you can enlighten me.”

Wat’s glassy stare rested on Crispin for a long while before he turned it back toward the workers. “There ain’t much to tell,” he said in a slow, careful voice. “You get the clay and you keep it in the slip, and put it on the wheel and then. . you work it.”

“So I see.” Crispin nodded importantly, not truly understanding. He rocked on his heels. “And the clay. Where does it come from?”

The boy squinted. It ruined his already long face by twisting it strangely, and gave an expression that rather assumed Crispin was a simpleton. He thumbed behind him. “It comes from the Thames, don’t it?”

“That it does,” he said, feeling a bit foolish. “Perhaps I can talk to your master.” Crispin dropped his friendly tone and used one reserved for menials. The boy certainly recognized it. He snatched the stick bundle from Jack and hefted it up to his shoulders.

“I’ll take you to him.”

Jack scrambled happily beside his new friend while Crispin took up the rearguard. They threaded through the busy path of muddy snow and clay. Freshly fired pots stood in a row in the mud outside a few shops and huts. Women wove through the streets, bringing bread and salted fish to some of the men.

Wat lumbered on, finally dropping his bundle with a great sigh when they came to a hovel at the end of the row. He didn’t look back as he entered and Jack followed him right behind. Crispin was a bit more cautious as he ducked his head to enter the low doorway. He looked around, his eyes adjusting to the dark space. The floor was made of rotting planks covered in a layer of dust, except for the places where water had been sloshed or muddy footprints had tramped.

A man, bald except for a fall of ginger hair streaked with gray hanging down his back, sat at a wheel, urging its turning with his toes. He stared at the clay that climbed as he pulled it until it was shaped into a tall drinking jug. It was only then that he looked up and frowned.

“Eh? Wat? Who is here?”

Pained by the fearful look on Wat’s face, Crispin stepped forward with a slight bow. “I am Crispin Guest, good Master. And I have come to examine your wares.”

“My wares?” The man slowly rose and glared from Crispin to Jack. “My wares? They are just like everyone else’s.”

“Indeed.” Crispin looked idly at the tilting shelves of pipkins, bowls, and small jugs. They might not even be as good as some of the other wares he had seen, but he certainly did not voice this opinion. “Well, truthfully, there are a few things I am most interested in knowing. For one, if a man should want a large quantity of clay, how should he acquire it?”

Jack, who had been trying to chat with Wat, suddenly fell silent. His face was turned anxiously toward the potter.

The man rose to his feet and dipped his hands in a basin of clear water, washing away the layers of dried clay up his forearms. The water instantly turned brown. His sagging stockings seemed to have a perpetual splatter of wet clay. His back was to Crispin when he spoke. “I am only a poor potter, sir. I do my job, make my wares. That is all.”

“Yet if a man should want such a thing. . ” urged Crispin, stepping closer.

The man turned. His wide-spaced teeth bit into his lower lip. “It is a strange request. I remarked upon it the first time I heard it.”

Crispin felt a surge of excitement burn his chest. “The first time?”

“Aye.” The man reached up slowly and scratched his bald pate. “A man-oh, it was a good long time ago now-asked for bucketfuls of clay. Not from me, you understand, but from some of us. I remember hearing it. ‘Bucketfuls of clay?’ I asked. What would a body be doing with that? And him a gentlemen, so they said.”

“A gentleman? Who?”

He stuck a finger in his ear and reamed it good before pulling it out again. Crispin ignored the finger the man stared at before wiping it down his tunic. “He didn’t say. Now I ain’t the suspicious kind, mind you. But I did wonder, as did my fellows here. And there was only one scheme we could reason out.”

Crispin leaned in, curious. “And that is?”

“That whoreson wants to take our business!” He stood up properly and squared with Crispin. “And if you have the same intention, sir, you can be on your way. We potters aren’t getting wealthy here, but we’ll take no more money for our own clay.”

“He paid, did he?”

“Aye. But don’t be getting notions. I’ll not take a farthing.”

“You mistake me, Master. I do not wish to buy your clay. I have no use for it.”

The man looked Crispin up and down suddenly, as if registering him for the first time. “Truly?”

“Indeed. Did the man indicate that he was going into business?”

“I don’t rightly know. It wasn’t me talking to him, was it.”

“I suppose not. When did you say this was?”

The hand returned to the head again and rubbed slowly, back and forth. “I reckon it was before Michaelmas. I remember because I sprained me ankle and Wat here had to turn the wheel for me. You recall that, Wat?”

Wat nodded and offered nothing more.

Michaelmas. That was when the murders began, when the Jewish physician arrived from France. “I must know who talked to this man. Will you tell me which of your fellows it was?”

The man suddenly became reticent. He glanced at Wat before he turned distractedly toward his wares drying on a shelf. “I mind me own business, good sir. I don’t wish to cause trouble for any of my fellows.”

“No one is in trouble. I am not the law. I am merely here to see to these matters to make certain. . to make certain. . er. . ” He had no wish to go into specifics. He blurted the next thing that came to him. “That the guild is not being impinged upon.” It seemed like a poor excuse but it made the man ponder.

He brought up his head. “Aye. The guild, did you say?” He looked at Crispin anew. Yes, Crispin supposed he might look more like someone who might speak on behalf of the guilds. “We did not know this man who wanted the clay,” said the potter thoughtfully. “And we know many of our competitors. The Oxford men and the Kingston men. These Londoners,” he growled, “that they would buy the wares from far away over the good pottery we make right here in the city! It’s a shame, it is. There’s no loyalty at all anymore, is there?”

“Very little,” Crispin agreed. “But can you direct me to someone who spoke to this man?”

He nodded. “Oh aye. Come with me, then.” He ambled toward the door in a stooped posture that spoke of his years over the wheel and motioned for Crispin to follow.

Many eyes followed Crispin and his little company. The potter took the lead, hailing his fellows through their doorways as he passed. Crispin strode behind him with Jack in the rear, trying to urge a contrary Wat to follow.

After the man greeted what seemed like every potter in London, they finally arrived at their destination. Just another potter’s hovel, in Crispin’s estimation. The white daub had long ago turned gray. The thick mist could not hide the unnatural slope of the roof whose clay tiles were mostly broken or missing.

“A cobbler’s children,” Crispin muttered.

“Eh? What’s that, good sir?” asked his guide.

“Nothing,” said Crispin. “Is this the place?”

“Aye. But Bert does not look to be within. We will have to wait.” And then the man proceeded to push open the door.

Crispin stood on the lane as the man disappeared into the shadowed doorway and didn’t reappear again. He had time to share a look with Jack before the man poked his head out again. “Coming?”

Jack gave a shrug and gestured for Crispin to go first. Manners appeared to be a little less formal on the potter’s row. Crispin girded himself and stepped over the threshold, ducking his head under the lintel.

It was little bigger than Crispin’s own lodgings and as sparsely furnished. A cot, a potter’s wheel, and some makeshift shelves were all there was to it. The room itself was smoky from a neglected fire situated in a ring of stones in the middle of the floor. This particular potter did not appear to have an apprentice to keep the fires stoked and the rest clean.

“Should be nigh at any moment, I reckon,” the man said, pouring what looked like ale from a decorative jug into an equally decorative ceramic beaker. He drank up without hesitation as Crispin eyed the doorway. At length, a woman stepped through and Crispin straightened.

“Bert!” The potter wiped his mouth and set the beaker aside. The woman entered and stared suspiciously at Crispin.

“Dickon. What mischief is here?” She was carrying a heavy bundle and set it down by the smoky fire ring. When she rose she brushed back a lock of brown hair. Her face was plain, drawn. A small nose perched above chapped lips. Her squinting eyes, what Crispin could see of them, were light in color.

“This man is from the guild, Berthildus, and he would like to talk about that knave who bought your clay.”

Her head snapped up but her face did not lose its suspicious glint. When she crossed her arms over her chest and clutched her elbows, Crispin could see the dark clay imbedded under her nails. So this woman must be “Bert” the Potter.

“Damosel,” said Crispin, dipping his head in a slight bow, “I am investigating whether certain men are bypassing the guild to make and sell their own wares. Can you tell me what this man looked like?”

Slowly, she bent to her sack and withdrew her shopping; a stringy-looking pullet, some eggs, and a bundle of onions tied together by their dried stems. She set them into a basket under her cot. Wiping her hands on her skirt, she looked from Dickon to Crispin. She had a shrewd look in her eye. More so than the gullible Dickon.

“ ’Bout time our guild fees showed for something,” she said with a nod. “Aye, I recall him right enough. He was a short man, birdlike. Very young. A gentleman. All golden. And foreign.”

Crispin’s breath caught. He certainly knew this man. “And so. He wanted a quantity of clay?”

“Indeed he did. Six bucketsful. And he paid well for it.”

“Did he say what it was for?”

“Alas, no. I was suspicious at the time, but what is a poor widow to do?”

“Indeed. What did he pay for this bounty?”

“Two shillings. I wish I had those shillings still. Business is poor.”

“Did you, by any chance, catch his name?”

“He did not offer it and I did not ask it. It is rare indeed that a gentleman comes down to the potter’s row to buy anything at all. When I discovered he wanted clay and not pots, I wasn’t keen on it. But coin is coin.”

“Coin is coin,” echoed Crispin. How well he knew that particular chant. “How did he transport this clay? Surely he did not carry it himself. Did he have servants?”

“No servants. I sent my boy after him.”

“And where did your boy deliver these buckets?”

“To Westminster Palace. The boy had a lot to say about it, he did. Took him three trips.”

“Where is the boy now? I would speak with him.”

Berthildus gave a proud smile and her hard face softened. “Hugh, that’s my boy, he was told that he had promise. A gentleman of the court, taking him on as a page to teach him to read and write? I could scarce believe it. I gave my consent at once. You never saw a boy more excited than my Hugh.”

Her words settled in and a chill of realization rippled slowly up Crispin’s flanks. God’s blood! Was it as easy as that? Rather than snatched, were these boys lured away with the promise of a better life right under their parents’ noses? By all the saints! How diabolical! They would never be reported missing. They had been given away! And these simple folk could not expect a letter they could not read. Nor any other message from so far away. These boys were gone, never to be seen again. But for all their parents knew, they were simply in a better place. Little did these trusting parents know that that better place was Heaven.

Crispin glanced at Jack to see if he had caught on, but apparently he didn’t. Crispin licked dry lips. Should he tell her? Could he dash her hopes and bring the roof down upon her? On any parent?

“Master?” Jack was at his elbow, touching his sleeve. His voice was soft. “Master, what is amiss? You are pale.”

“Nothing,” he said hastily. He raised his head and nodded to the woman, saying slowly, “Life as a page is difficult. He will have much to learn but it will be rewarding. He. . he will have little time to communicate with you. There is the possibility that you will see him no more. . ”

She nodded and wiped at her eye. “Aye. But it’s a small price to pay for a better life, I say.”

Crispin gritted his teeth and couldn’t help but offer a bow. “I thank you for your time.” He thought of offering her a coin and wondered if it might seem more like blood money. In the end, he could not leave her without offering something. He dug out two farthings and handed one each to both potters. “For your time,” he said lamely and staggered out of the hovel. He walked quickly over the clay-slick lane. Jack ran raggedly behind to catch up.

The boy seemed to sense his mood and said nothing until they were well away and on the Bank, hurrying back to where they could catch the ferry across. When they reached the wharf they had just missed it and had to wait for its return.

“Master,” said Jack soberly. “You know something, don’t you?”

“Yes, Jack.” With a sigh, he leaned against the damp pier jutting up from the wharf. “Did you not hear what she said? She gave her boy away, thinking it was for the good of him.”

It took only a moment. “Oh! Oh my God!” Jack began to tremble and Crispin almost wrapped an arm around him. Jack was not an infant. He was nearly a man, having lived as a man for some years. He could deal with this knowledge as a man.

“You don’t think-” Jack struggled with the notion. “Why did you not tell her, sir?”

The sick feeling would not leave him. “What would be the use in it? Her child was gone. Dead. Worse than merely dead. It could not help her to know the truth. It might even destroy her.”

“ ’Slud! That’s a sore, sore thing.” He chewed on his fingers and stared out onto the gray water. Perhaps Jack was thinking the same thing as him: that had Jack consorted with the wrong man instead of Crispin, then he, too, might have been found floating in the Thames.

“Do you know who did it?” he said after a long pause. His voice was roughened by anger.

“Yes. It is Julian.” The satisfaction that he had not been wrong settled in his chest.

“Aye.” There was recognition in the one word. “That was his description right enough. What are you going to do now?”

“I’m going to haul him to Newgate before I do something.”

Jack made an affirming sound. They said nothing more as they waited for the ferryman slowly making his way across the choppy river.

Crispin did not allow Jack to accompany him. He didn’t want Jack anywhere near Julian. It was nearly Sext when he reached the gates of Westminster. He still wore his livery from Lancaster over his cotehardie but his hood was drawn low over his face, as always. A light dusting of snow helped to disguise him. He joined a group of pages filing in through the great hall like a pack of sheep.

Westminster Hall was nearly as grand as a cathedral. It was as wide as a row of infantry lined up shoulder to shoulder. The roof reached upwards on columns into a ceiling of wooden beams and trusses. A remarkable space, to be sure, and one that Crispin had enjoyed at many a feast when he was still in the good graces of the old king, Edward of Windsor.

Crispin kept his head down, well acquainted with the high ceilings and hanging banners and shields. He recalled all too well the last time he had been in this hall facing King Richard. It was an event he did not willingly wish to repeat.

He’d gotten halfway across the hall when he heard Giles’s voice hailing Lancaster. The hall was crowded with those begging audiences, clerks, servants, pages, and lords. One more liveried servant would be beneath Giles’s notice, and, Crispin hoped, Lancaster’s.

The duke turned a narrowed-eyed gaze toward Giles. “De Risley.”

Giles was with that thin, wheat-haired man, and the stockier dark fellow, Radulfus, who had taunted Crispin in the courtyard.

“Your grace,” said Giles with a deep bow. His compatriots followed suit. “I wondered. Had you had an opportunity to look into the monies the king promised to me from my uncle’s estate?”

Crispin could only see the back of him, but he recognized well the stiffening in Lancaster’s shoulders and the growl undertone to his voice. “I was not aware, my lord, that I was your personal banker.”

“No indeed, your grace,” he said. “It is just that you have the ear of the king, and since these funds were promised to me-”

“You throw the term lightly, my lord. ‘Promised?’ I know of no such promise from his Majesty. Your relations had the greater right to your uncle’s funds and lands. I think, rather, that you should take it up with them.”

“But your grace! That is impossible, as you surely know! They have turned their backs on me, foreswearing their oaths as kinsmen-”

Lancaster yawned. “That is troubling news. Then I am at a loss, de Risley.”

“But your grace-” Giles reached for Lancaster’s arm. The scowl the duke delivered was monumental. Giles slowly unwound his fingers from Lancaster’s sleeve.

The duke said nothing more, did not even grace de Risley with a look, before he swept away.

Giles grimaced after him. His fellows crowded closer and spat an oath. He talked in bitter whispers to his companions. “And so you see my dilemma.”

“The bastard,” said Radulfus, sneering after Lancaster. Crispin felt an unnatural rage, but held himself back from knocking the man’s head with his dagger hilt. “So our little games continue.”

“As entertaining as they are,” said Giles, worriedly, “they are not working!”

“I have told you, my lord,” said the birdlike, fair-haired man. “These things take time.”

“I spent everything I had on the Guest Manor,” he growled. Crispin stiffened. He could not help taking a step closer. “And some money I took that was not my own,” he said, voice lowered. “It was supposed to be temporary. I was supposed to be able to pay it back without notice. You promised me-”

“I told you, my lord, that the planets were not yet aligned. We should have waited until the next new moon-”

“You and your star charts!” Giles looked around and Crispin turned swiftly, feigning a search across the crowded hall. Giles clutched the man’s arm. Crispin surmised this small fellow to be his astrologer. The man always did have a soft spot for such foolery. But what was this about borrowing money? Had Giles paupered himself buying Crispin’s lands? It warmed Crispin’s heart that Giles somehow wished to preserve his estate from other snatching hands. But Giles should not have overextended himself.

He took a quick glance at the cousin, Radulfus, who was adjusting the long liripipe of his scarlet hat. Perhaps he had put Giles up to it. Giles always was gullible about certain things, especially about money. More often than not he took up with the wrong sort, making the wrong choices.

Carefully, Crispin backed up until he could hear them again. “I must do this thing. We must be able to call upon our lord. Only He can help me. Our funds are dwindling.”

So Giles had a patron? That would explain where he got the extra money for the lands. But had he borrowed a little too much? Apparently, Giles had wagered on this uncle’s funds that had not been bequeathed to him. Foolish. What was Radulfus urging Giles to do?

Crispin shuffled as close to them as he dared.

“I think you are a fool, Cornelius,” said Radulfus to the astrologer. “What have the stars to do with it at all? You are a liar. You have always been a liar!”

The young astrologer ruffled like an affronted guinea fowl.

“Now, now, dear cousin,” said Giles. “Keep your voice down. You know his Majesty barely tolerates us. And for that, I lay the blame at your feet!”

Radulfus snorted. “Blame me all you like, but it does not change the fact that we have not been invited to Christmas in Sheen.”

“But fear not, coz. We will be at my home at the Guest Manor.”

“When will you stop calling it the ‘Guest Manor’?” spat the man. “Is it not the de Risley Manor now?”

Giles made some sort of noise and Crispin smiled to himself. It will always be the Guest Manor, he chortled inside.

“Of course,” said Giles, recovering. “The de Risley Manor. We will be a stone’s throw from his Majesty. We will be close enough when the festivities begin and he will not notice one more lord at his feast.”

“Two, you mean,” said the cousin.

“Th-three,” ventured Cornelius, glaring at the two of them.

“Of course, my dear Cornelius,” said Radulfus. “What would we do without you?” His hand slid around the man’s collar.

The young man did not seem pleased by this knowledge. Perhaps it was the odd tone that Radulfus invoked or the leer he gave him. Cornelius pulled his furred collar and looked around. “At any rate,” he said angling away from Radulfus, his Flemish accent growing stronger the more agitated he grew, “The Feast of Saint Nicholas will be the time. I am absolutely certain.”

“You were absolutely certain the last time, too,” said Giles.

“And the time before that,” said the other man.

Giles hooked his thumbs into his belt. “And there is no new moon on the feast day.”

“No,” said the astrologer. “There is no need. The stars are in the proper position. It will work.”

“It had better. I have risked too much as it is.”

The cousin chuckled. “And a great strain it has been.”

Giles sneered, broke away from them, and crossed toward the exit. They moved on and Crispin watched them go from under his hood. What mischief was here? It worried him that Radulfus seemed to be drawing Giles into his schemes. What could he do to warn Giles? He did not trust this cousin.

He’d have to think on it. There was nothing to be done now. He had other business to attend to.

Down the long corridor he went, lowering his face when he neared others wearing the duke’s livery. The young pages, too young to recognize him, praise God, stared hard at him as he passed, but he skirted by, hoping to escape another encounter with the duke.

The Jew’s door stood at the end of the corridor in the gloom of oil lamp smoke. Crispin flipped his knife from its sheath as he strode toward it and rapped on the door with the hilt.

Julian answered and appeared to be alone.

He pushed his way in and before Julian could shoot him an impertinent remark, Crispin grabbed his collar with his free hand and pushed his knife up to his face. “You are under arrest in the name of the king. I suggest you go quietly, for I do not mind in the least shoving this down your throat.”

Julian stared cross-eyed down at the blade and stammered in French. Even as Crispin dragged him toward the door he dug in his heels and began to struggle. He grabbed the edge of the door and it slipped from his fingers, slamming shut. He wriggled completely out of Crispin’s grasp and ran behind a chair.

Crispin laughed unpleasantly. “You wish to play games. You will not escape me.”

White fingers clutched the chair back. “Why are you so determined to accuse me? I did nothing. My father-”

“Doesn’t know you as I do. Doesn’t know you are a lying, murdering sodomite!”

He shook his head furiously, his brown hair wisping over his angular cheeks. “I am none of those things! Why won’t you believe me?”

“You went to the potters to buy clay to make your own Golem. You stole your father’s parchments.”

“No! I do not know what you are talking about.”

“Still lying. It will avail you nothing. The sheriff does not abide liars any more than I do.”

The young man looked down and bit his lip, leaving it red. “But you are lying to make me seem guilty. Why? Because you dislike Jews? You took my father’s hard-earned silver! He trusted you. He was only worried about your countrymen; men who would just as soon spit on him than help him.”

“Is that why you killed those boys? Because you hate Christians so? Or was it to experiment on them in your vile ways? Oh, I know about you Jews and your Passover sacrifices. The lots that are drawn to determine which town will do the slaughter. The drinking of blood. The eating of human flesh.”

“Seigneur Saint! I would never-!” His eyes flew open and his mouth slackened. For a moment, Crispin thought he might finally see a flicker of honesty on the man’s face. But the door closed quickly and Julian raised that pointed chin of his and pressed his trembling lips together. “Who has told you these lies?”

“They are not lies. This is evidence written down from reliable sources.”

“Reliable sources. And what are these ‘reliable sources’? Christians?”

“Of course! Who else would they be?”

Julian measured Crispin steadily, his eyes narrowing to slits. His nostrils flared and his chest rose and fell in quick succession. “What an absurdity! I do not know from what source you say you read such nonsense, but it certainly is not the Scriptures. Do you even know the word of the Lord?” He waved his hand impatiently. “Never mind. I know that you must. A man who troubles himself to quote Aristotle would take the time to know Scripture. If you want evidence to the contrary, then you had best go there.”

“You waste my time.” He made a move toward the young man, amazed at the coolness of the boy’s demeanor, even as he seemed on the verge of bolting. Julian raised a steady hand and for some reason unknown to Crispin, the gesture made him pause.

“Scripture,” said the boy, voice trembling. “Let us take Leviticus. The Law. It is in Leviticus that the Lord says to Moses, ‘It shall be a perpetual statute throughout your generations in all your dwellings, that ye shall not eat neither fat nor blood.’ And so, consuming blood, any blood, is one of the greatest prohibitions. ‘Whosoever it be that eateth any blood, that soul shall be cut off from his people.’ ”

Crispin listened in spite of himself. He dearly wanted to grab the boy by the neck, but he hesitated. And he listened.

“Do you need more?” said Julian, inching closer. “Hosea. ‘They that sacrifice men kiss calves.’ But we cannot forget the last instance that a Jew even tried to sacrifice another living man. That was in Genesis and it was Father Abraham laying a blade to his son Isaac’s throat. ‘And the angel of the Lord called unto him out of heaven, and said: “Abraham, Abraham, Lay not thy hand upon the lad, neither do thou any thing unto him; for now I know that thou art a God-fearing man, seeing thou hast not withheld thy son, thine only son, from Me.” ’ ”

Julian shook his head, tearing his eyes away from Crispin who stood dumbly before him. “We draw lots, do we? Such fascinating organization. Across seas? Across borders? How do we accomplish this feat, we who are watched wherever we go? It is decided that this year a boy in. . in London, is it?. . is to be sacrificed, no? For the Passover? Is your Michaelmas near Passover, our feast held in the spring?”

“That is all very well,” said Crispin. “But an angry youth will kill in the foulest of ways for his own vengeance. Murder is against God’s law as much as this blood prohibition you so passionately plead.”

Julian returned a scathing glare. “You’re not even listening. You, a man of facts. A man of logic. Is it logical to kill four boys, to sacrifice them far from the paschal season, if sacrifice it was? They were crucified, I suppose, as your libels say? You did not mention that. For I have heard of these foul lies before.” He threw up his hands and stalked to the fire. “I weary so of Gentile lies. You claim to be holy and then unjustly slaughter my people to satisfy your own superstitions. Because you do not have understanding. These facts are in the Hebrew Scriptures that even your people consider holy. And yet you do not understand them.”

Julian stared into the flames. The fire played over his cheek. A flicker. A shadow. His skin seemed to glow warm with the fire. Crispin watched and felt a strange clenching in his gut. He did not like these tangled emotions that Julian seemed adept at wrenching from him.

Julian turned to Crispin suddenly, realization awakening in his eyes. “You do this to hurt my father. You steal his money and then extort him for more. This is your plan. I knew it was foolish to hire some outlaw!”

Crispin bristled. “Do not accuse me, whelp. You do not know me. I am not an extortionist.”

“And I am not a murderer!”

“I am done arguing with you. I have witnesses who took your money for their clay. Golem or no-and I still do not believe in your Jewish magic-you were intent on foul deeds. Was your false Golem designed to lure these boys? To ensnare them? You tricked them with your ghastly tales and they were enticed to see this monster that you made, is that it? And after you had entrapped these boys, how did you murder them without your father knowing?”

But Julian’s features suddenly became surprised again. He even took a step forward, putting himself within Crispin’s reach. “You. . you are serious? I thought my father was exaggerating the case, worrying over some foolish parchment. But. . This is horrible.” He grabbed Crispin’s tabard, shaking him. “You must stop these killings! I swear I will help you prove it has nothing to do with Jews.”

He grabbed both the boy’s wrists in one hand. “You do not play the fool well,” he snarled.

“I play at nothing,” he beseeched in a startlingly sincere fashion. His eyes were strangely luminous and very green. But then his earnest expression slowly changed to one of resignation. He sighed deeply. “Your heart is like a lion, to be sure, to protect those weaker than you. Even these slain boys. I. . I suppose, after all is said and done, my father was wise to trust you.”

Crispin’s grip loosened. “What?”

“You tear at the truth like a dog on a bone. There are few men as tenacious or as clever as you. You must be very clever, indeed, to have discovered all this for yourself.”

He shook out the confusion in his head. “Yes. I discovered you.”

“No. These things. These secret things. You discovered them. This is the sort of thing you do to earn your coin? It is very unusual. Surely you see that. You would seem to be a very intelligent man. For a Gentile.”

“Hmph! Useless flattery. And now you will come with me.”

Julian did not resist but Crispin was not moving. His fist was still wrapped tight around both the boy’s thin wrists. But Julian’s expression no longer held fear or anger. Instead, it was suffused with awe. His manner had transformed to one of curiosity and composure. He studied Crispin with disquieting steadiness.

“I’ve never met anyone like you.”

“Ha! You mean someone who would arrest you?”

“No, imbécile. Someone who uses their mind as their sole vocation.” Julian stepped closer even with Crispin still griping his wrists. “You must know that I am not guilty,” he said softly. “Your logic tells you.”

“The witnesses-” said Crispin halfheartedly, compelled by that gaze.

“The witnesses are wrong.” He looked down at his sash, the red cloth wound about his waist. “You thought I had used my sash for some vile purpose. But when you looked at it I could tell you knew it was a lie. Why do you believe that lie now?”

“Because of the witnesses. The. . the witnesses who described someone like you.”

“Someone Jewish?”

“No, you fool! Why would they know you were a Jew if you did not tell them? She said you were small, foreign, all golden-” Crispin pulled up short. Golden? What had she meant by that? That he was wealthy? Because of the yellow rouelle on his chest and the gold jewelry around his neck? Yes, of course. What else could it mean?

But Julian had grasped at his words. His hands slipped easily from Crispin’s yielding grip and he picked up his lank hair in his fists. “Golden?” he asked, shaking his brown locks, locks that could not by any means be mistaken for golden. Julian chuckled, but for once, it was not sarcastic. “You are mistaken.” Crispin’s chest began burning with undirected emotion, even though Julian was not even goading him. The boy nodded almost sympathetically. “I can see where you might have misread it all. What a grand jest. My journals, the jars, the strange nature of the parchments. . my father’s unusual request. And then that description of this purchaser of clay. Logically, it all seems to fit. And yet, it does not.”

Julian did not act in the least like an accused murderer. He had the appearance of a man who knew himself justified, and Crispin was seized by a sinking feeling. He had been so certain of his guilt, but when laid out logically, it did not seem to fit. He had wanted the boy to be guilty. But why? Because he was a Jew? Despite Julian’s earlier demeanor, he had seen the intelligence in the youth’s eyes, his determination. . and even saw a bit of himself there.

Crispin blinked and looked at the boy anew. Julian had perched on the edge of the table, rubbing his smooth chin and studying Crispin with bright eyes. “This curious vocation of yours. ‘Tracker,’ you call it. I can see why a man of intelligence would find his place in such a profession. Are you truly good at what you do?”

Crispin’s arms swung flaccidly at his sides. “I am beginning to wonder.” Either Julian was an extremely clever killer or. . or. . dammit! There was no denying it. Julian might just be innocent. The sash-that perfect murder weapon-had not been used as such. There was no evidence on the cloth itself. And Julian’s manner. Crispin had never seen the like. He exuded confidence and, frankly, lack of guilt. These things of themselves were not proof of innocence. But Crispin had not been at this vocation for four years for naught. He recognized when he had made a fool of himself.

He stared hard into the flames until he was blinded.

“No,” said Julian. “I can see you are good at your vocation. And Father said he had heard of you from many sources. You seem to be well respected. I. . I apologize for treating you so foully before. I thought you were just another greedy Gentile out to ruin us.” His voice grew weary when he said, “I have met so many, you see.”

Julian slid off his perch and strode forward. Crispin turned to him. He could not speak, either to offer an apology or another accusation. Neither seemed appropriate.

“You know,” said the boy thoughtfully, “I now recall those men behind me in the corridor, overhearing you and that servant. There was one man who might very well fit your witness’s description. He, too, is slight, like me, and foreign. And. . he has blond hair.”

Was this merely a ruse? The boy could be making it up. Checkmate, Crispin. The game is over. And yet he could not stop himself from saying, “Prove it.”

“I do not know his name. But he is one of three men who make themselves a nuisance at court. There are more whispers about them than there are about my father and me. I surmised that they are not well liked.”

A stirring in his chest was almost like a tickle, warring with a darker sensation. “Who?”

“As I said, I do not know his name. But the man he is always with; his name sounds something like. . ‘rizzy’?”

It sprang off Crispin’s tongue without a second thought. “De Risley?”

Julian nodded slowly. “Yes. I think that is the name, but I cannot be certain. I try not to listen too much to those around me at royal courts. It is never wise to mix too much with court politics. We do our task and hide in our chamber.”

But how could that be? Was Radulfus a murderer and sodomite? God’s blood! Right under Giles’s nose! But wait. Giles had mentioned “our lord.” Perhaps he was speaking of a nobleman, one above him in rank who would secure him wealth in exchange for pandering. Someone like a lord in a mysterious carriage. A lord who wanted those stolen parchments.

How could Giles be involved except as a dupe? Crispin felt a miserable sense of guilt that one of his acquaintances could be used so, even though he couldn’t possibly have known or done anything about it.

Well, that was before. This was now. He could certainly help Giles now. After all, the man was living on Crispin’s old estates. Under his jealousy, he was grateful it was Giles.

But this Radulfus was another matter. Crispin would see him hanged or worse for what he was doing. If it was him. For as cruel as Radulfus was to him, was he capable of such acts as stealing boys for profit? The astrologer certainly fit the description that Berthildus the Potter offered. But even if they were stealing boys by treachery, what did that have to do with clay and a Golem?

Julian spoke again and Crispin started, not realizing how close the boy had maneuvered. He was right at his elbow, looking up at him. “Did you truly see the Golem, Maître?”

Suddenly the boy used a respectful title. Well, the entire tone of their exchange had taken a turn, to be sure.

“I don’t truly know what I saw. But there was clay. . ” It could not be denied. He had seen the clay on Jack’s fingers but the clay could have. . could have. . No. It couldn’t have. He lowered his head. “I do not know.”

“An intelligent answer from a man who does not believe. Tell me, Maître. Do you believe in such things at all?”

It was his turn to lean back against the table and slump. He ran his fingers through his thick hair, letting his hand fall back to his thigh. “I have seen. . many curious things. But I do not know whether I believe in them or not. Mostly, there is an explanation that is plain and simple. But this situation. There does not appear to be anything simple about it.”

Julian fell silent for a long time. The silence grew uncomfortable, in fact, and Crispin was deciding whether or not to simply depart when Julian raised his face. “Why don’t you like me?”

Crispin gazed at him sidelong, surprised by the sudden question. “I wasn’t aware by your manner that you aspired to be liked-by me or anyone else.”

That seemed to throw the lad and he looked thoughtfully into the corner. Crispin studied his profile with its angular nose and sharp chin.

“I don’t aspire to be disliked,” he said softly. He turned. “I. . have had to fight for everything in my life. Because I am a Jew, even in Avignon, my opinions are less than that of other men. Am I not clever? You seem the sort to appreciate cleverness.”

“An open mind can fascinate,” Crispin found himself answering, “but I do not know if I find you open or not.”

“Because I am a Jew.”

“I don’t-” Care? But he did. He knew he did. And he knew it mattered to Julian. “You care that I am a Gentile.”

“True. But these truths can be overlooked in the throes of intelligent discourse.”

Crispin couldn’t help but laugh. It bloomed a wounded expression on the young man’s face and he was surprised he regretted causing it. “You would seem to prefer to argue with me.”

“And you would seem to prefer to manhandle me and accuse me of murder.”

Well played. “Then tell me, what do you make of these murders?”

Julian tapped his lip. “It would be difficult to comment knowing little of the facts,” he began. But that one statement impressed Crispin like none other. God’s blood! Was he in danger of liking this youth?

“Do you believe I am innocent?” Julian suddenly blurted.

Crispin stared. The young man gazed up at him with intense eyes. How Crispin had wanted him to be guilty! But it was not as simple as that. William of Ocham be damned.

Julian drew closer. His face seemed to know the answer before Crispin spoke it.

“I. . suppose. . so.”

Green eyes sparkled with sudden delight. “A man of honor!” he breathed. “I knew it!”

Crispin was going to comment, planned on saying something noncommittal and vague, perhaps even scathing to put the youth back in his place. But he never got the chance. Julian grabbed him suddenly, pulled him forward, and kissed him hard on the lips.

Crispin pushed him off as if he were on fire. Julian staggered back and lifted a hand to his mouth, horrified.

Crispin lurched back. “You kissed me!”

“I’m sorry,” he said behind his fingers. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

“You. . you are a sodomite!”

“Please, you don’t understand-”

Crispin drew back his balled fist and swung. The smacking sound of knuckle hitting flesh should have been more satisfying. Julian went down, hitting the floor on his backside. He quickly scrambled backward until he was almost under the table. Blood oozed from his lip and a bruise was slowly forming on his jaw.

Crispin charged toward him, bent on more violence, but those widened, frightened eyes made him hesitate. His face felt suddenly hot. He looked around the room in a daze and pushed his way toward the door. He had to get out. He couldn’t breathe. Yanking open the door, he stumbled into the corridor, leaving the Jew’s door far behind. He did not stop until he was out in the cold air of the courtyard, where he inhaled great mouthfuls while leaning hard against a plinth.

“God’s blood!” Julian had kissed him. Kissed him!

And God help him. But for a fleeting moment, the tiniest of flickers that lasted only the blink of an eye. . Crispin had liked it.