The Demon's Parchment (18 page)

Crispin’s senses prickled. The driver stood as a lookout, effectively barring the street’s entrance with the carriage’s girth. No one but the boy and the mounted man could be detected on the hazy street, now clouded with fog. The stranger seemed to engage the lad with a friendly air. He pressed a hand to his scrip and after a moment, took something from it—a flash of silver. He held it forth. The boy stepped closer, and every nerve in Crispin’s body had the sudden urge to scream out a warning to him. They became one silhouette, man and boy, against the gray. The horse turned its large head and chuffed an icy breath before shaking its head. The jangle of his harness was the only sound to travel so far, not the soft tones the man spoke to the boy, who moved closer as if under a spell, transfixed by the offered coin.

The boy reached up, his arm extending in a soft arc. The momentary tableau could have been the mirror of a sacred carving. A shepherd boy entreating his lord; the child Jesus speaking to the men in the temple.

But the gentle picture suddenly shattered.

The man’s hand shot forward, capturing the boy’s wrist. Another clamped over his mouth. The packages flew. The child was only able to squeak out one surprised sound before he was dragged toward the waiting carriage.

Crispin’s dagger was in his hand and he was running before he could gather another thought.

The driver turned and got a fist in his jaw for his trouble. He wheeled back, falling into the horse. The horse whinnied and pulled on the harness, jostling the wagon.

Crispin wasted no time on the fallen driver. He lunged for the boy and grabbed a flailing arm. “Release him!” he shouted.

The bishop turned white-rimmed eyes toward Crispin. Gone was the haughty expression he’d worn for Crispin’s benefit. He scowled
and pulled harder on the child, thrusting his foot onto the carriage step.

Crispin clamped a death grip on the boy and raised his dagger. He plunged it deep into the man’s thigh with a meaty sound. He screamed. The boy fell from his grip. The knife bobbed in his leg as he struggled, half in, half out of the carriage. Crispin pulled hard on the child’s arm, wrenching him back and flinging him away into a snowy bank. Crispin spun back toward the man when a booted foot caught him in the chin. He staggered back, stars exploding in his vision.

The fog thickened about them. Cold. Deathly cold. The man’s features were lost in gray. Still lingering in the carriage doorway, he pulled the dagger from his bleeding thigh and pitched it to the ground. He slid painfully to the bottom step and came at Crispin again with a snarl.

Crispin recovered and swung, his fist hitting solid flesh. He heard the man grunt and double over, but he wasn’t down long. He exploded upward and slashed out with his arm. Crispin detected the flash of a blade and leapt back, his body flexing and scrambling.

A slice of silver and Crispin jumped back again. How he wished he had not left his knife in the man! Only God knew where it was now.

He chanced a look behind him for weapons or defense and saw nothing in the swirling mist. He felt the man swinging before he turned and nearly caught the blade arcing toward him. He flung his foot upward and connected with a wrist. The knife went flying and Crispin reared back, his fist ready.

The man was faster and sank a punch deep into Crispin’s belly. Dropping to one knee, Crispin’s breath whooshed away, and he raised his arm in defense, feebly trying to ward off another strike.

He never saw the driver rush up from behind. When that blow fell, the world slanted, and the wet street came up to meet his face.

*  *  *

Crispin didn’t want to awaken. Clearly it would make the ache in his skull that much greater. But with someone bathing his forehead in a cold cloth and cooing softly to him with a whispered song, he could not seem to help himself.

He blinked, his eyes feeling hot even for the cold cloth. When they focused, he did not expect the knot of people surrounding him. And then fear made him jerk to a sitting position. “The boy! Is he safe?”

A gentle hand pushed him back, and his pounding head was more than grateful for it.

A small voice at his side said, “I am, my lord. I am safe. Because of you.”

“I am not a lord,” he replied automatically.

“You are to me, good sir.”

“And to me,” said a woman’s voice, the one who soothed his brow with a cool hand.

The small feeling of satisfaction was offset by his bewilderment. He had been embroiled in a violent encounter with that vile stranger. Once down, he had not expected to rise again, but obviously, he had somehow come out the victor. “Where is that man? The would-be abductor?”

“Gone,” said the woman at his side. “Once you fell, he and his man made off.”

A mercy, then. His head felt an ache like an ax slowly wedging further into his skull. A small mercy.

“I do not suppose there is such a thing as wine?” he asked hopefully, closing his eyes against the throbbing pain.

Not long after his plea, something was pressed against his lips. He gulped it gratefully before it was pulled away. He opened his eyes carefully again and tried to make sense of his new surroundings. The room looked to be a workroom of sorts, with shuttered
windows through which dim light filtered in angled, pale shafts. Heavy beams held up wide rafters. Benches lined one wall.

“What . . . is this place?”

Glances were exchanged above him. Worried brows told him he would not receive the truth. He looked them over: men, women, children. Wardrobes of every stripe, from that of servants to the rich in furs like a merchants’ garb. What the devil? Could this still be Chancery Lane, or had he been brought elsewhere? His eye snagged on a man who immediately slipped behind another, ducking his face. Even Crispin’s pounding head could not hide the fact that he recognized that face. But from where? His muzzy mind would not allow him to sift out the answer. He dropped his forehead into his palm, trying to squeeze away the pain. He’d give up all the gold in the world for relief from the splitting ache in his poor head . . . wait. Gold? Goldsmith! He raised his head again and speared the man with a narrow-eyed stare. “I know you. You’re—” What was the name? “Middleton. Matthew Middleton.”

Accusing faces turned toward the hapless goldsmith trying to become smaller behind a man with a broad hat.

Crispin rose and rested back on his elbows. “Days ago I questioned you. About the dead boy. You’re that goldsmith.”

The man eased away from the others, his hands placating gently. “Aye, good sir. I am he.”

“What are you doing here? What is this place?”

Middleton looked to the others and cautiously approached. “A place of safety, Master Crispin. We are indebted to you for saving the boy. Surely when you are well enough you can be on your way.”

Crispin pushed the soothing hand away and sat up, throwing his legs over the side of the pallet. It was a mistake. His head swam but there was nothing for it.

It also did not go without Crispin’s notice that the crowd blocked his way out.

He gripped the pallet and slowly rose. “I thank you all for this kindness. . . .”

“It is we who thank you, sir,” said the woman who had ministered to him. Probably the lad’s mother. From her apron she brought forth Crispin’s bloodied knife. She offered it hilt first.

Crispin took it and sheathed it. Apparently he was to be released after all. He moved unsteadily forward and the crowd parted for him. But their desperate faces, their furtive looks toward one another, were an uncomfortable mystery. There was more to this gathering than the relief of a boy’s salvation. He looked again at the long, rich gowns, the tattered tunics. “Tell me who you are.”

“Master, please,” said Middleton, the reluctant spokesman. “It is best you leave and think of us no more.”

“This I cannot do. I have sworn to protect those in London. So, too, am I compelled by my knightly vows. And protect you I shall. If you fear retribution for your actions, do not. I am your witness to an attempted abduction. I have the ear of the sheriff.” Which was not strictly true but could be managed.

Minutely, those near the exit shouldered closer. Something was definitely amiss. In one instant, they seemed to be ushering him out and the next, preventing his departure. “Am I being held against my will?”

“No, good sir,” said Middleton. His anxious expression and beaded forehead did little to allay Crispin’s anxiety.

“Then explain yourselves. You would do well to tell me now. Did you know that man who attacked the boy?”

As one they shook their heads. Some cast their eyes to the polished wooden floor.

“I see,” said Crispin. “How can I help you if I cannot get the truth?”

“Master Crispin,” begged Middleton. “Please. Just leave us in peace.”

“And I would if my way was not barred.” He glanced again to the men at the door. They seemed confused as to what to do.

“Shall I bring the law on this place?”

“No!” Middleton pressed his hands into fists.

“Master Crispin!” The boy was at his side.

He looked down at the earnest child tugging at his coat. He had freckles across the bridge of his nose and cheeks, much like Jack’s. He couldn’t be much younger than the cutpurse. “You mustn’t bring the sheriffs,” the boy went on. “They’re not to know—”

“John!” cried the mother. She reached a trembling hand for the boy.

“No, mother. I can tell
him
. He’s the Tracker. He protects good folk. I’ve heard the stories.”

“John,” said Middleton urgently. “Listen to your mother.”

“Let the boy speak,” said Crispin slyly. He knelt before the boy and took his shoulders gently. “Go on. What is it you would tell me, lad?”

“You mustn’t tell about us,” said the boy. His grave expression reminded far too much of Jack Tucker.

“I cannot promise until I know your meaning.”

The boy licked his lips. His dark eyes blinked rapidly. “But sir,” he whispered. “We could die.”

As much as Crispin wanted to, he could not look away from those earnest eyes. Against his better judgment, he said, “Then I promise, child. I will keep my own counsel.”

The boy sighed with relief. “I knew you would, good sir. You are like the knights in the songs.” Crispin felt the air in the room fall still. No one seemed to breathe. The boy leaned forward and whispered as if they were the only two present. “Because we are Jews, sir. It’s to remain a secret, you see. Now you understand why you mustn’t tell?”

Crispin felt his mouth fall open. He had no need to confirm the boy’s pronouncement. The collective breaths of the crowd were still held, the tension taut in the air.

But the boy seemed satisfied that his deadly secret would be safe with Crispin. He smiled and nodded his assurances. Crispin wished he could be as certain.

Slowly, he straightened and finally raised his eyes to the gathering of men and women. But surely these were Englishmen! They couldn’t be Jews. The edict that had banished them had been clear. The scourge was vanquished from the land almost a hundred years ago.

He looked down at the boy again. The discomfort he had felt in Jacob’s company could not now be summoned. He found it difficult to call the boy before him a “scourge.”

Maybe this was the Domus Conversorum, the House of Converts. These were all converts, then.

But with another search of their anxious faces and John’s confident one, Crispin rather thought not.

“God’s blood,” he breathed.

“M-master Guest,” ventured Middleton.

Crispin flicked a wary gaze his way.

“You have sworn an oath to the boy. We have all heard it.”

Crispin barked a laugh. He couldn’t help it. He was well and truly caught. It could have been a headache-induced illusion. People who should not have existed on English soil were here, right before him. It was laughable.

“How has this remained a secret?”

Everyone seemed to breathe again. The men at the doorway eased back. Someone poured more wine into Crispin’s bowl and he didn’t think twice about taking it. He drank it down and sank to the pallet. Middleton, whom the others had urged closer, sat beside him. Crispin felt no distaste this time. Funny. Was it the wine? Or perhaps the blow to his head had been harder than he thought.

“Master Guest. I know this is difficult. But if you let me explain then surely you can see, surely you will have mercy.”

“You, all of you, trespass on the king’s law.”

“We are London born and raised, sir. Just like you.”

About to object, Crispin spied the boy, who was looking at him with that damned air of certainty. These people mocked the king by their presence. He had a duty to inform the sheriff at the very least. But the boy’s eyes threatened any sense of his duty to the crown.

John took Crispin’s empty bowl from his hand with a curt bow.

“Very well, Master Middleton. You had best tell me and quickly.”

Middleton clenched his hands together. “It began with the Edict of King Edward.” His voice was tinny, small. “All Jews were to convert or to leave. You can imagine the uproar. The heartache. Land that our families had held for generations suddenly snatched from our hands. Our homes, sold to others.” Crispin squirmed. “We had to leave the bones of our ancestors behind. We paid heavy fines to the king, paid our own passage to France and to whatever country would take us. We carried what was left as well as our faith to other places. But there were some who took the waters of baptism and lived in the Domus Conversorum, not far from here. The
House of Converts. These were our grandsires and great-grandsires. Many became devoted to the Christian life. But still many others lived as best they could as Christians outwardly, but inwardly, where none could see, lived as our forefathers, preserving the traditions of our faith.”