The Demon’s Parchment

7

Impossible. Yet hadn’t Crispin witnessed many impossible things in the last few years? Was this not merely one more?

This was madness. There was a perfectly logical explanation for the presence of clay. His mind was simply having difficulty coming up with a plausible reason. He motioned for Jack to clean the clay from his hands.

“It’s the Golem!” rasped Jack, voicing both their thoughts and pushing his soiled palms down his cloak. “Holy Mother of God!” He began a litany of poorly mouthed prayers.

“It is no such thing!” Crispin blew a cloudy breath, one hand on his dagger hilt, the other holding his cloak closed. He peered again into the darkness, up the street and down. If he had not seen the man for himself, Crispin wouldn’t have believed he had been there. Except for those droplets of clay upon the snow like blood. That damnable clay.

“Let us get back to London, Jack. We need our beds.”

He pressed ahead but Jack still shivered in the snow, looking behind.

“Jack! JACK!”

A flicker of light sputtered to life in a window and its shutter opened a crack. Crispin grabbed Jack by his hood and dragged him into the shadows. A figure leaned out of the window and looked about before shivering and shutting it again.

“Come along!” he whispered.

He tramped heavily over the crunchy snow. After a time he no longer had need to drag Jack. The boy cleaved tight to him and they walked within the same shadow under the disappearing moonlight.

When they reached London’s walls they headed north to Newgate. Jack cringed on seeing the rigid towers crawl up into the sky, frost gleaming in pale patches across its stony surface. “Master Crispin! We ain’t going in there, are we?”

“It is the only gate I am certain to be able to pass through.”

“But can we pass out of it again?”

A good question. One he did not wish to ponder.

Without thinking further on it, Crispin raised his hand and knocked on the heavy wooden door. After waiting an interval he knocked again. This time he heard footfalls and a small door opened in the larger iron-clad portal. A man, face dented from sleep and wearing a skewed leather cap over scruffy hair, squinted at him. He held a clay oil lamp and pushed it forward. “Mary’s blessed veil,” he swore. “Master Crispin? What would you be doing here this time of night? And on the other side of the gate?”

“Trying to get in,” he answered curtly.

The man shook his head. “The sheriffs have gone home, Master. They wouldn’t like being sent a message at this hour.”

“I do not need to speak to either sheriff. I merely have need to pass through to London.”

The man scowled. “It’s past curfew.” But Crispin was ready with a farthing. The man’s face brightened when he saw the disk in his lamplight. “Aw now! Maybe it ain’t so far past!” His dirty fingers closed over the coin and snatched it from Crispin’s hand. With a mocking bow, he stepped aside. “Right this way, Master.”

Crispin urged Jack in ahead of him. He stumbled over the stone threshold. Crispin took the lead after that, trying not to think of what lay above him in the towers or below in the murky cells.

They reached the London side in a matter of moments. There, the sleepy porter gave Crispin a cursory glance before he grunted to his feet. “It’s past curfew,” he muttered.

“I know,” said Crispin. He waited while the man seemed to sample almost every key on his ring before opening the small door. “Mind the Watch,” cautioned the porter and gestured into the black hole.

Crispin looked and saw no one along the dark avenue. No lantern that would indicate the Watch, no footsteps, and definitely no hulking figures.

Jack poked his head out and looked, too, likely wondering the same thing.

Crispin motioned him to follow and they hurried through the battered snow down Newgate Market to the Shambles.

Once home, Jack stoked the fire until they were warmed through, then he banked it and they settled down for the night, but a disturbed sleep followed. When morning finally crept into the small room with gray light, Crispin rubbed the exhaustion from his crusty eyes. A quick glance into the straw-piled corner told him that Jack was not there. Where did that boy go? he wondered. A kettle hanging over the fire bubbled with something smelling like food and he threw his legs over the side of the bed and curled the blanket over his shoulders to lean toward the hearth and peer into the pot.

Turnip porridge. He cursed and rose, reaching for the spoon and the wooden bowl that was waiting for him by the hearth. He tipped the damnable porridge into it, blew on it, letting the steam warm his face, before he took a tentative sip. Awful. He downed it quickly.

Crispin heated some water for his shave and quickly finished his toilet, thinking all the while how he was to approach asking his questions at court.

With these murders somehow tied to those missing parchments, they seemed to be beyond his ability to solve. He knew from past experience that without reliable witnesses, murders often passed without justice. A murder in a parish happened when two angry individuals fought. Or one party tried to cheat the other, or some other misfortune that was well known to all the inhabitants. It was easy for someone to point the finger on well-known circumstances.

But the secret murder of children. . This had gone unremarked for months! If witnesses there were, they were silent on it. Perhaps they lived in fear of retribution. Or had to protect someone.

This theft, on the other hand. Now this was something else, something Crispin could possibly sink his teeth into. A man invariably boasted about the thing he stole, giving himself away. But even if the thief did not boast, someone surely noted that another party was in possession of such a thing. A servant, perhaps? Yes, he would have to find servants and speak with them. And if indeed this theft was tied to murder then he would nab the miscreant himself.

Crispin waited impatiently for either Jack’s arrival or the servant from Lancaster. But when neither made an appearance by late morning, he grabbed his cloak and headed out. He could still talk to someone who might have seen something down by the river, someone he had missed before.

He trod quickly down the narrow stair and walked out onto the muddy street, heading toward Westminster.

He pulled his cloak closer. Damn but it was cold! Saint Nicholas’ Feast was close and that meant that another Christmas would come and go. Another solitary Christmas. Gilbert and Eleanor had asked him on more than one occasion to celebrate a humble Christmas dinner with them at the Boar’s Tusk. He had always declined. The memories were too dear of warm feasts in the company of his fellow barons and lords. The Yule log would burn bright and hot in those impossibly large braziers set all about the Great Hall in Westminster. The warmth and camaraderie would keep the winter at bay. Roasted boar’s heads would be served to one and all, along with cheese pies, pasties dripping with gravy, loaves of warm, white bread. Bittern and quail swimming in rich broth. And puddings with Spanish raisins along with honeyed cakes.

He was certain the fare that Gilbert and Eleanor served would be delicious. But it would be small portions of goose and cheese and perhaps coarse bread and a crumb pudding along with their sharp tavern wine, never tasting quite as good as he recalled from casks he had enjoyed from Gasconne.

No. He could not bring himself to go.

It began to snow. Not gentle, lacy flakes, but melting blobs of ice, smacking his cheek like a challenge from an opponent. He almost missed the carriage as it lumbered along the road in the opposite direction. A fine draft horse, a driver, the flaps secured tight on the windows to the barrel-shaped conveyance. Just another rich lord or lady taking a shortcut down Newgate Market.

The carriage slowed and then stopped. Crispin passed it without a second glance until out of the corner of his eye, a window flap rose.

“You there!”

Crispin kept walking, ducking into his hood so that the leather would take the brunt of the slushy flakes.

“You there!” said the voice more sternly.

A shadowy figure through the window beckoned to him. Crispin looked over his shoulder just to check that it was, indeed, himself the man wanted, and then he stopped. He stepped forward but kept a decent distance. “You called me?”

“Are you. . Crispin Guest?”

Like a cloak, a sense of caution enveloped him. “Who asks?”

A chuckle, deep and melodious. “May I offer you a ride?”

Crispin eyed the driver, who stared straight ahead, never looking down at him. He wore no livery, gave no clue as to the inhabitant of the carriage below him.

The doorway of the carriage lay open, a dark rectangle offering nothing. Were there more men within? An ambush, perhaps?

He studied what he could see of the shadowy face in the window. “You are not going in my direction,” Crispin offered.

The chuckle again. “We can circle about. Whither do you go?”

“To Westminster.”

“Mmm. Get in.”

Crispin stood his ground, the snow piling around his feet. “Who are you?”

“I would never have guessed that the great Tracker was so cautious.”

“Nor so foolhardy.” The man was baiting him. Was it worth it?

The gloved fingers on the sill tapped a drumbeat before gripping the side. “Get in,” he said again, sternly but still somewhat friendly.

Swearing under his breath, Crispin edged toward the doorway, hesitated one moment more, and then climbed in.

As soon as he sat, the carriage jerked and started again. He saw no one but the man. There was no attendant. No guard, save the driver.

The carriage’s shadows covered most of him, but as Crispin’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he detected more of the stranger. A man perhaps younger than Crispin, bundled in a black, fur-trimmed gown. A high collar came up under his clean-shaven chin. Blue eyes considered him under lazy lids. A felt cap covered his fair hair. He seemed small in his clothing, as if he were made of sticks, not flesh. He said nothing as Crispin studied him. The carriage pitched and rolled over the rutted street. It wasn’t a comfortable ride by any means, but it was better than walking. Just barely.

Crispin clutched the seat and sighed. “Well then? I am here. As you bid.”

The man leaned back and regarded Crispin leisurely. He smiled. Even as the carriage bounced and he along with it, he didn’t look ruffled. “You’re a strange man, Guest.”

Crispin shifted on his seat, looking for a comfortable spot on the scant cushion. He couldn’t find one. “As you say.”

He chuckled again. “And you don’t even bother to deny it. You don’t think that strange?”

“What is strange is this conversation. You have not yet introduced yourself, sir. Or is it ‘my lord’?”

A gloved finger traced down his chin. The ring on it bore no signet.

Crispin waited. He glanced out the doorway and saw that they were now headed for Westminster. He sat back. “Clearly there is something you want of me.”

“Clearly.”

Amused silence emanated from across the carriage. He clenched his jaw. If there was one thing Crispin couldn’t stomach, it was the playing of these games. He shifted again, making a show of impatience. But the stranger appeared to have all the time in the world.

Crispin started when the man spoke again even though he had been waiting for that very thing.

“I believe you are one of the few men who can appreciate order.”

Games, then. “I doubt I am one of a few. Most men crave order. God in his Heaven. The king on his throne. His lords around him. Even the lowliest villein appreciates order knowing that all is well.”

The man drew his hands together like a prayer, touching his lips with his fingertips. But he said nothing.

“I know you find this strange coming from the likes of me-” Crispin began, trying to bridge the unhelpful silence.

“No, I do not. As I said, I knew you could appreciate. . order.”

“And be wary of the lack of it?”

“Indeed.”

Their exchange was rather like moves across a chessboard; nothing to be revealed too soon.

Crispin watched the face that did not change. Perhaps his questions needed to be couched like chess moves. “And what lack of order, pray, must I be wary of?” he tried.

The smile was back. “A lack of order can be very bad. For a parish, for a kingdom. Those who do not follow the order defy God. Would you not agree?”

“The Almighty molds our lives. Those who rule over us are anointed to do so. Those who defy this order. .” Crispin offered a wry smile, “suffer.”

“Indeed, Master Guest. You know this well. A pity you could not have reminded yourself of that fact before you committed treason.” Crispin’s smile faded, but the man went on. “It is no matter. You have served London well in the years following your appalling disgrace.”

Much thanks, thought Crispin with a sneer.

“We must have order,” the man went on. “Without it, we are like a castle whose walls are undermined. The foundations crack, the walls topple, and the enemy rushes in.”

Crispin waved a gesture of agreement. He tried to surmise the man from his clothes, but there was nothing to indicate his affiliation or family name. Nor did his person boast of any parish fraternity. His pouch was simple, his girdle nondescript, his dagger plain. He was wealthy enough to own a carriage, but why not the usual display of his family’s arms all over it? Why was the driver not liveried? And why were there no other servants abroad with him?

The man also wore no sword. He did not feel the need to arm himself then. In a land where even the king wore a sword, this man had none. What manner of man did not carry a sword? Surely he could afford it, unlike Crispin who felt the lack of a sword daily as if a limb had been hacked off. The man was also young, though his age seemed indeterminate. He was younger than Crispin, older than Jack. At times, when he turned his head just so, he seemed quite young indeed, but at other times, when the dim sunlight caught his eyes, the intelligence there would seem to mold him into something a great deal older.

“At any rate,” said the man, “I want you to continue to do as you are doing.”

“As I am doing?”

Those blue eyes continued to stare. “Yes. Your investigation.” He polished the stone on his ring with his other glove, studying the effect. “Of the murders.”

A spike of something hot lanced through Crispin’s chest but his face remained cool. “What murders?”

The man threw his head back and laughed. Crispin crossed his arms over his chest and waited for the laughter to subside. “I was told to expect that from you,” said the man. “I am pleased to see you do not disappoint.” He smoothed out the cloth on his lap. “And the missing parchments, of course. I expect that you shall find them soon. And when you do, I shall be most grateful if you return them to me instead of the old Jew.”

The man seemed to know far more about Crispin’s doings than Crispin was comfortable with. “Forgive me.” Crispin leaned forward and rested an arm on his thigh, keeping a steady eye on the man. “I think it best you tell me who you are. Now.” It was a risk. The man was obviously wealthy. And his accent was not lowborn as so many rich merchants and alderman were, though it was distinctly foreign. From the north, perhaps? If the man were a nobleman, Crispin’s tone might get him tossed out. Or worse.

Instead of some angry retort, the man merely looked out the window. “Oh. We are here.”

Crispin twisted his neck, looking out the bright doorway. The carriage stood at the gates of the palace. “How did you know this was my destination?”

But the man’s face was now closed. The finger ran softly over his lower lip.

Crispin snorted and rose, keeping his shoulders bowed for the short ceiling. He waited. The man was as tight as a portcullis. The whole matter annoyed. He was being manipulated and he had had quite enough of that. “Well,” said Crispin sullenly. “I thank you for the ride at least.”

“Not at all. I suppose you will need a surety from me.” He reached for the bag at his belt, took out a small pouch, and tossed it to Crispin. Crispin caught it one-handed and felt the many coins within. But before the man could blink, Crispin tossed it back. The man stared at the pouch where it landed in his lap.

“I know you not. Nor your reasons for hiring me. When you wish to make that clear-as well as your name, sir-contact me again. I can be found on the Shambles.”

The man smiled. “I know well where you live.” The phrase unexpectedly chilled. The man took up the pouch and stared at it, still smiling. He did not look toward Crispin when he dismissed him with a chuckle. “Fare you well, Crispin Guest. God keep you.”

“And you.” He stepped out of the carriage. He turned to ask one more time, but it jerked ahead, rambling back down St. Margaret’s Street toward London. What the devil?

Who was that man? And how did he know of the murders when even the duke of Lancaster had not? And how the hell was he privy to the missing parchments? Did he, too, wish to make his own Golem. . or had he already?

Briefly, he considered following the carriage, but gave up the idea as fanciful. What could he discover if the man would not even deliver his name? Besides, the broad-shouldered carriage driver did not look to be one who would allow such liberties.

He tugged at his cotehardie to straighten its creases and scanned the streets. Did this man in the carriage know Jacob of Provençal? A chill rippled over him as he recalled where he had spotted the strange figure from last night. The physician was certain that this was his fabled Golem, but in the light of day, Crispin wasn’t convinced. True, he had seen the figure with his own eyes, but eyes can be deceived or misdirected. It had been late, cold. One’s imagination can thrive in the fertile ground of shadows and anxiety. What they had seen was not what they had thought. But Jacob was convinced it was. Why? He held much store by his Jewish magic, of course. Crispin shook his head at it. Gullible. His thoughts fell again toward the son, the one who could not be as trusted as the father.

Crispin swore, causing a young boy carrying a basket of eggs beside him to turn to give him the eye. Idiot, Crispin told himself. He should have searched their room! Well, there would be time for that once Lancaster made good on his promise to send that livery. If the duke could be trusted.

He sighed. Intrigues. They bedeviled him wherever he went, it seemed. The only thing worth trusting was facts. Facts stared you in the face. They did not try to deceive. Yet even facts could be twisted. It took a judicious eye to winnow out what was fact from lies.

So the facts of the case were these: four dead boys. He could only make a judgment about the fourth boy, having witnessed the body for himself; he was a beggar or a servant. The other three he did not know, for the Coroner’s notes did not take such details into account. No child had been reported missing, which meant that these boys were alone and unwanted. But was that the case? Might it be that these boys came from afar and would not be missed for some time? If this were true, then their identities may never be known. Facts.

Second, Jacob of Provençal claimed that stolen magic parchments unleashed a murderer into their midst! At this, Crispin scoffed.

From the Coroner’s rolls, he knew about the incisions on the abdomens of the boys and the removal of their entrails, though not all the same ones were missing. It seemed to Crispin that someone for some reason wanted these prizes. Someone very like a physician. Someone like the peevish Julian. A would-be physician. An angry young man with a purpose.

Surely their deaths were to hide sodomy. A would-be physician might use their deaths as an excuse for vivisection. And for other nefarious reasons. Crispin grimaced at the thought.

And now this nobleman in the carriage. What did he know of the murders? Too much.

A sick sensation swam in his gut. Had Crispin been entertained by a vicious murderer?

Many facts. None of them made the least bit of sense yet. But they would. He swore they would.

First things first. Jacob and his Jewish magic troubled him. It might be the root of all their ills or it might be only a foolish diversion. There was one person who could give him some perspective and some proper information on that troubled people, and that was Nicholas de Litlyngton, abbot of Westminster Abbey.

Crispin turned on his heel and headed toward the church.