The Demon's Parchment (10 page)

“Me? Oh no! Never! Only in extreme circumstances and only with the counsel of many wise rabbis would I attempt it. You see,
Maître
, the word ‘Golem’ means a ‘shapeless mass.’ It is made from mud or clay. The Golem is created to protect the Jewish people
from harm. It is a sacred obligation. A man who has a Golem as a servant is naturally imbued with much wisdom and piety. Wisdom in being able to choose the right path, and piety in order to discern the Almighty’s will. If he does not possess these traits, then there is no controlling the servant. No,
Maître
Guest, it was not me. But someone else. Someone who wanted the power of the demon.”

“So it is a demon.”

Jacob opened his lips as if to explain, but shut them again, his brows working over his eyes. Like a tutor speaking carefully to a pupil, he began. “Adam, the father of Man, was created from mud, from clay. From this clay, the Lord breathed life into him. And so it is similar with the Golem. He is made of clay and can be animated by reading the words on the
Sefer Yetzirah
and placing the word for ‘truth’ on its body. It is a soulless being with no emotions, no pity, no mercy. A man who uses a Golem for unholy purposes”—he shook his head—“is himself a monster.”

“What makes you think this Golem of yours committed these murders?”

“The strangeness of it. The cutting along the abdomen. The taking of the entrails.” He seemed to notice Crispin flinching and nodded. “As you noticed yourself. I do not think a Golem needs to feed, but there is so little we know of these creatures. The blood and entrails of a youth would be horrible nourishment, but nourishment just the same. If the Golem’s creator wished it, these things would be done. A Golem is only a shell. He does what he is told.”

“And so,” said Crispin, walking slowly toward the alcoves. They seemed to compel him with their strange smells and instruments. “And so these papers were stolen from you. When?”

“It must have been two months ago. That was when the first murder was discovered.”

“Months? Why did you wait so long to say something?”

“I did not want to believe it. I
could
not. But then, when the murders happened again and again . . .”

“This is a matter for the sheriff, then.”

“But
Maître
Guest, you yourself said you were investigating these murders. Surely you could keep it quiet.”

“A monster on the loose? Should I not warn the populace?”

“Oh no! That would be disaster!”

“For whom? You?” He said the last nastily and meant it.

Jacob drew himself up. “I am not afraid of your Gentile mobs, sir. Lives are at stake. It is more important than the life of one Jewish physician.”

“Noble, I suppose.” Crispin scowled. “Why should I believe any of this? How do I know you are telling me the truth?”

Jacob lifted his arms in an exhausted shrug. “You have no good reason,
Maître
. I am merely a Jew. I only thought, that if anyone would,
you
would believe me.”

“Christ!” He thumbed the stubble on his chin and stared at the floor. “Who knew you had such papers here?”

Jacob thought a moment. “I do not know. But I do know that my rooms have been plundered before.”

“Oh? When?”

“Many times since I arrived. My privacy here has been . . . less than private. Understandable when I am so close to their Majesties.”

Crispin mulled this. “These parchments of yours. Are they written in Hebrew?”

“Yes.”

“Then this culprit must surely be a scholar of some sort to be able to read it.”

“Yes. That must be so.”

“Who in this court can read Hebrew?”

“This I do not know. But there are astrologers, alchemists, and the like at court. I could not guess at how many.”

“Do you lock your door, Master Jacob?”

“Of course. I bar it each night and lock it each time I go out.”

“And you, boy.” He turned to Julian, who rousted himself to glare anew. “What of you? Are you as assiduous at locking doors?”

“Of course I am! I do not trust these English Gentiles.”

“Many would have a key, though,” Crispin mused to himself.

“Master,” said Jack, looking desperately at the window. “That is the bell for Compline.” He had not noticed the distant deep clang until Jack mentioned it. “It will be curfew soon. And the gate to London must already be locked. How are we to get back home?”

“I have my ways, Jack, never fear.” But he did not relish traveling after curfew. He wondered bitterly if it was snowing again. He stared at the curtained window. “When did you arrive to these shores, Master Jacob?”

“Two months ago.”

“And the murders started then?”

“Much to my regret.”

“These are Christian children.” He pivoted and fastened his steely gaze on the physician. “The explanation could be far simpler than a supposed monster. ‘
Entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem
.’ ”

Jacob’s eyes widened and for the first time, he did look frightened. “You . . . you accuse . . .
me
?”

“You whoreson!” growled Julian. “I should have slit your throat rather than stab your arm.”

Crispin spared him a cold glance. “I have not discounted your guilt in this, Master Julian.” He was satisfied to hear the boy’s gasp of outrage.

Jacob braced himself against the table behind him. “I . . . I can well see how your Christian sensibilities could accuse me of such deeds,
Maître
Guest. But I assure you—I swear on my physician’s oath—that I cannot kill. And to kill a child . . . Never!
Never
.”

A disquieting sensation crept over Crispin as Jacob pled his case. No. The physician seemed far too sincere, too compassionate.

Julian, on the other hand . . .

“I must think on all this, Master Jacob. These tidings are disturbing.”

“But—”

“I will inform you when I come to any conclusions.” He swept Julian with a spiteful look before he signaled to Jack.

Now, how the hell were they to get out of the palace unseen?

He opened the door cautiously and stuck out his head, staring into the gloom of the corridor. This chamber was near the king’s. God’s sense of humor failed to tickle.

Crispin flipped his hood up and tugged it low over his forehead. Taking a deep breath he plunged into the corridor with Jack close behind.

“Master, what—”

“Be still, Jack,” he whispered. He cocked his head to listen. It was late. Most of court would be abed or perhaps playing a late game of chess or tables.

He stepped into the all-too-familiar corridor, hearing the soft click of the door shutting behind him. That was that. They were certainly on their own now.

Crispin walked carefully, keeping along the walls and listening before he proceeded. He cast a thought back toward Jacob and his parchments. This was damnable. If that Jew was responsible for those deaths, Crispin certainly did not want to appear to be helping him. He recalled the stories he had heard of Jews murdering children. But this had been more than a murder. It had been rape and mutilation, which sounded to him like some sort of sorcery. The man admitted to the use of magic with those damnable texts. But Jacob’s appalled expression did not appear to have been faked. Was he being entirely sincere?

He turned a corner. The wooden floor groaned under his step and he stopped, measuring the empty corridor. When the small noise failed to raise an alarm he continued his steps and his musings.

What of Julian? A sour lad. There was something secretive in his eyes, something Crispin did not trust. Was that boy capable? His distaste for Crispin’s country was palpable. When Crispin shoved him against the wall the boy felt pathetic beneath his crushing grip. Such a slight youth might wish to prove himself stronger over smaller, weaker boys. Was he monster enough to have raped and killed? Maybe his father had no stomach for blasphemous experiments, but what of his son?

And Crispin had neglected to search the bedchamber. Foolish! He had been so concerned with getting out of there that he failed to do the most rudimentary of investigations. A child’s mistake. He would not make that mistake again.

And yet. How was he to investigate at all? It would certainly involve those of the court. He would have to return and make inquiries, but how was he to do that when the king’s mandate still stood? After Crispin had foolishly refused to beg for his lands and title Richard had screamed it to the court that Crispin was not to return. He had even refused the king’s gold.
That
had been foolish indeed.

He noticed Jack was not as skittish and had graciously accepted Jacob’s pouch of silver when the physician had pressed it on him in the chamber. At least one of them had a head on their shoulders.

But for how much longer?

Crispin was about to inquire of Jack what their next move should be when the door beside him opened. Before Crispin had a chance to react, a hand reached out, grabbed him by his hood, and dragged him inside.

Crispin scrambled for his dagger, but his arms were trapped in his twisted cloak. It had all happened so fast. The door, the man. Jack somehow followed, almost crying out but stifling himself.

When Crispin wrestled away he turned an angry expression on . . . the duke of Lancaster! “Damn you, Crispin!” shouted his former mentor. “What, by the mass, are you
doing
here?”

Crispin clamped his open jaw shut and straightened his disheveled coat. He smoothed back the hood from his face and stood bareheaded before his lord.
Former
lord, he reminded himself.

John of Gaunt glared down at him with dark brows and a dark beard. Being the king’s uncle, his apartments were close to Richard and his queen, Anne.

“Your grace,” said Crispin, bowing with as much dignity as he could muster. Jack sloppily parroted his master. “How did you know I was here?”

“I heard the commotion in the corridor and I lay in wait for you. How could you be such a fool as to come here?”

He cast his eyes to the floor, feeling like a child chastised by his sire. “A paying wage, my lord. I must go where the business takes me,” he muttered.

“And it takes you to that Jew physician? What are you
doing,
Crispin?”

He looked up at the man who had nurtured him, saved him, and ultimately betrayed him. He knew not how to feel anymore. Instead, he let his eyes grow cold and leveled his gaze with that of the duke’s. “I am earning my keep, my lord,” he said with more passion. “May I go now?”

“No, you may not go!” Lancaster crossed to the enormous hearth and paced, his hands holding so tight to one another behind his back that they whitened. “Stubborn. Willful. Obstinate.”

“All my patron names,” said Crispin.

Lancaster flicked his head and glared at him. “Do not dare be flippant with me, Guest.”

Crispin sighed. How was he ever to get out of the palace? Worse. How was he ever to get back in? Perhaps . . .

“My lord, I urgently seek your counsel.”

“Ha!” He stood with legs wide in front of the fire. His red houppelande was fringed by golden firelight and his face fell into shadow.

Crispin took a cautious step forward. Lancaster could easily strike him for his insolence as much as help him. He wondered which was more likely. “My lord, there have been . . . unseemly murders. I have been sent to investigate them.”

Lancaster’s eyes glittered and steadied on Crispin. “Murders? Which sheriff sent you? That ineffectual John Froshe? Or that fish-faced Nicholas Exton?”

He hesitated. After all, he wasn’t supposed to say.

“Never mind,” said Lancaster. “I can see you are loyal to one of those fools. More misplaced loyalty, Guest?”

That stung. Why use Crispin’s loyalty against him? “All of London knows I am trustworthy.” It was no mere boast and Lancaster knew it.

The duke said nothing to that. He glared at him for a moment longer before slowly pivoting toward the fire. “You were told not to
return to court,” he said quietly. “How much is this physician paying you? Is it worth your life?”

“It is not merely the money.”
If you knew me better you would know that,
he longed to say. “The murders,” he said aloud. “I could not let it lie—”

“You could never let it lie.” He shook his head. Crispin stared at that straight spine, the sword-roughened hands behind his back.

The room was too familiar. Crispin refused to take comfort in it. He shoved the memories back, memories of sitting before this very hearth with Lancaster, while the duke’s children careened through that archway.

“Not when murder is concerned, my lord.”

“So you say. Well, Crispin. What boon do you require this time?”

A hard stone settled in his belly. He gritted his teeth. “I must investigate this murder. I need to inquire at court.”

“Godspeed to that. You well remember that the king specifically forbade this very thing.” His eyes roved up and down Crispin’s form. “And I see how well you obey. For coin, Crispin? Oh, very well. Because of
murder,
then. Yet you are still here and still forbidden. Is it your deepest desire to earn the king’s wrath? Don’t answer that. I would rather not fall prey to more of your impudence.”