The Demon's Parchment (2 page)

Crispin tramped through the slushy snow with rag-stuffed boots. He did not wait for the sound of the man’s footfalls behind him, though they came anyway in a faint and reluctant step.

He tried to tread into the already dark hoof marks carved into the snowy streets, but his stride was not as long as the draft horses, and his boots were soaked and cold by the time he made the turn at the corner to Gutter Lane where the Boar’s Tusk cast its weighty shadow across the road. When he came to the door he waited. The man approached and Crispin opened it, gesturing him through. Crispin followed him in and the warmth, which his own humble lodgings lacked, clapped his cold cheeks hard. He felt his bones thaw as he moved into the dim room to find his usual seat near the fire, his back to the wall and facing the door. He gestured for the man to sit opposite him.

Jacob gathered his cloak and gown around him and sat gingerly on the bench.

It wasn’t long before a plump matron came to their table with a sweating jug in one hand and two clay bowls in the other. “Crispin,” she said with a wide smile.

“Eleanor.” Seeing her warm and friendly face touched off a spark of warmth within him. She and her husband, Gilbert, owned the Boar’s Tusk. They were the first to befriend him since he came to the Shambles some seven years ago.

“Will you share wine with me, Master Jacob?” said Crispin to the wary man.

Jacob shook his head and squinted at Eleanor’s expression. “I
mean no offense to this good woman here, or to her establishment. But I may not partake of anything . . . here.”

Crispin’s eyes flicked to that yellow rouelle on the man’s breast once more before settling on his lined and drawn face.

Flushed, Eleanor merely poured a bowl for Crispin and left the jug before she scooted away. Crispin surveyed the room of uneven wooden tables with their hard-worn benches and stools, scouting for familiar faces or eavesdroppers. Some tables were lit with candles, their greasy odor lifting and blending with the smells of toasting logs, roasted meats, and sweaty woolens. There were few patrons this afternoon. It was too cold to venture forth other than to earn one’s daily wage. Yet Crispin usually found himself in his favorite tavern each day. Little wonder his funds were low when he insisted on his wine.

He took up the bowl, silently saluted his companion, and drank. The wine was slightly bitter, but it didn’t matter. It warmed him and dulled the ache in his heart when he considered his empty money pouch and the depths he had to plumb to fill it.

Jacob hunkered in his robes and surveyed the other patrons with a wince of disdain. “We are quite alone, Master Jacob,” said Crispin between quaffs. He poured more into the bowl and set both jug and cup on the table, turning the cup slowly with his fingertips. “What is it you wish to tell me?”

Jacob canted closer to the table and placed both arms on its surface. He clasped his long, pale fingers together. “
Maître
Guest, I have heard many rumors as concerns you.”

“Could any of them possibly be true?” He smirked and drank another dose.

“I come from afar,
Maître.
But even I have heard of the Tracker . . . a man who was once a traitor.”

Seven years had passed yet still he hated the term. He gripped the bowl. “Traitor I was, sir, though I do not boast in it. I am alive.
I do not boast in that either, for that circumstance can surely change with the season.”

The man eased back. His eyes darted about the room, wary.

Crispin’s gaze fell again to the yellow patch on the man’s chest and could not help the welling of mistrust in his breast. “May I ask?”

Jacob sat very still. Robes gathered protectively about him, he seemed more chrysalis than man.

Crispin did not mince words. “Why is a
Jewish
physician called to England’s court?”

The man smiled cautiously. His gaze rested steadily on Crispin’s. “Why indeed? To a place where Jews are unwelcome? In fact, so unwelcome that your king made it illegal for Jews to reside here generations ago.”

“Yes.” An unnamed discomfort flushed Crispin’s body. The Jews of England were exiled well before his time and he had been spared congress with them. It was said they had lived in Camden, but if they had, there was little trace there now. What remained was the old Domus Conversorum on Chancery Lane, the place where the converted Jews lived under the grace of old King Henry of Winchester, the father of Edward Longshanks, who expelled them at last. Jews were outlawed from entering England and it was a just law, although there was the occasional new inhabitant to the Domus, those traveling Jews who had come to their senses.

Crispin had been to the Holy Land, seen Saracens and Jews, and their ways were too foreign, too disturbing to his Christian sensibilities. To be sitting with a Jew now in his favorite tavern made him itch to leave. Even so, the man’s demeanor was respectful and cautious. He seemed to know well how he stood and was almost amused by it. “And so,” Crispin pursued. “Why are you here? At court, no less?”

“My specialty was desired. If I may be bold,” he said, his white hand pressed to his breast and his head bowed. “My services are
well known far from France. Your king has permitted me passage here to serve the queen.”

“Eh? I was not aware that our queen was ill.”

The man merely blinked. His rosy lips pressed closed and would divulge no more.

Crispin poured more wine, took up his bowl, and drank it down. The warm buzz he sought had settled pleasantly into his head. “And so, our King Richard allows a Jew to live in his palace.”
And not me
was the unspoken thought. He chuckled to himself. “I’ve no doubt that your services are more valuable,” he muttered. He put the bowl aside and squared with Jacob. “Then tell me. What would you hire me to do?”

“Your fee is sixpence a day?”

“Plus expenses, if I must travel.”

“Of course, of course.” Jacob stroked his beard and stared into Crispin’s wine bowl. The light flickered on its ruby surface. “Your discretion—”

“Have done with this,” Crispin growled. “You say you know me and my reputation. Then get on with it.”

The man nodded deferentially, a skill learned, no doubt, from the lessons of subservience. “Very well. Valuable parchments have been stolen from my apartments. They must be returned.”

“Valuable in what way? Deeds?”

“If only they were so mundane. But they are important, nonetheless. Can you help me?”

“Recover lost parchments? For sixpence a day, I will see what I can do. But it might help to know what they are.”

“Oh . . .” He waved his hand and quickly hid it again under the table. “Texts. In Hebrew. You would not find them significant.”

“But clearly someone did. And you called it ‘dangerous,’ if I recall.” Jacob said nothing. He merely blinked, his papery lids folding over hazel eyes. “Some scholar who wished to examine them?” Crispin offered to the silence.

“Perhaps.” Jacob tugged on his beard again before he seemed to realize the habit and lowered his hand to his lap.

Crispin sighed. Lost parchments seemed more trouble than they were worth, especially for a Jew. But coin was coin. “I shall have to see your apartments. And to do that, well, it will be difficult. I must raise my fee and charge one shilling a day for my trouble.”

The man seemed startled. “Why must you see my apartments?”

“To examine the place from which they were stolen. From this I might garner valuable information.” He studied the quiet man and his stooped posture. “Out of curiosity, why have you not gone to either of the sheriffs with this theft? Or complained to the king, since you have his ear?”

“No. I have come to you.”

“That you have. But it does not explain—”

Jacob rose abruptly. “Come to the palace gate, and I will meet you there at nightfall.”

Crispin rose more slowly. The meeting was apparently over. “Very well. There is the warrant of my fee . . .”

Jacob’s eyes widened and he wrestled with his robe for a moment before producing a small leather pouch. He placed it on the table between them. “There is four shillings’ worth of silver there. Till nightfall,
Maître
Guest.”

Crispin took up the pouch and clenched it in his fist. “Master Jacob,” he said with a curt nod of his head.

He watched the man hurriedly leave and looked again at the small pouch. He pulled out one coin and left it on the table for Eleanor. At least he had been able to pay his way today.

Upon returning to his lodgings, Crispin explained it to Jack, who had been glad to hear that Crispin was hired but was not as pleased to hear that the man was a Jew.

“You’re taking money from a Jew? Ain’t they the ones who crucified our Lord?”

“So says Holy Scriptures.”

“Then they aught not to be in England. The law was made ages ago.”

“You will find, Jack, that laws and kings are rarely to be met within the same sentence.”

“Eh?”

Crispin snorted. “Whatever King Richard desires, he gets. The man is a physician to the queen. I’ve no doubt he is here to discover why she has not gotten with child.”

“Oh.” Jack looked out the window thoughtfully. “But you’re to be at the palace gate at nightfall.”

“Yes. Have you objections to that?”

“I don’t trust him.”

“Why?”

Jack shrugged. “I just don’t. He loses papers he says are not important yet he won’t go to the sheriff. What are those papers about, then?”

“I was wondering that myself. He called them parchments of Hebrew texts. I was trying to think what might be important about that.”

“Scriptures?”

“If so, why did he not say so? Perhaps they are for his physician’s art. Yet he did not admit that either. It makes no matter. I will find them, and I will make a pretty penny from it.”

“I don’t like it.”

“You are not required to like it,” he snapped. “I must take employment where it comes!” He didn’t like to bark at Jack but the boy had little concept of his place. Yet when he turned to Jack and studied the boy’s threadbare coat and hood, he suddenly remembered that Jack did know it. Hadn’t the boy spent the best years of his childhood on his own in the streets as a cutpurse? Jack was lucky to have survived at all.

Reluctantly, Crispin softened. “Do you wish to accompany me?”

Jack’s head snapped up. His brown eyes rounded, catching the firelight. “Me?”

“You are my apprentice. How are you to learn anything hiding out here? And I can keep a sharp eye on you. Keep you out of mischief.”

“I don’t get in no mischief,” he grumbled. And as if to prove it, he grabbed a broom from the corner and began furiously sweeping the clean floor.

The sun bled in streaks of faded color between slashes of heavy gray clouds. Crispin and Jack set out and walked for nearly half an hour down long, snowy lanes toward the city of Westminster and the palace. As they entered each parish, they heard the echoing timbre of church bells even above the howl of wind, each tower with its own characteristic sound. The deep tones of St. Paul’s, whose shadow hovered over the Shambles, soon dispersed and they entered into the domain of the tinny jangling of St. Bride. A few more streets and then St. Clement Danes’ urgent claxon gave way to St. Martin-in-the-Fields’ timid pealing before even that sound was finally overshadowed by the rich resonance of the bells of Westminster Abbey.

Charing Cross stood rigid in the icy cold of the crossroads. Its cross and steps were snowcapped and solemn. Jack’s admonishment kept preying on Crispin’s mind:
You’re taking money from a Jew?
Was he that desperate? The answer came swiftly. His rent was due in a few days and he had no money with which to pay it. Martin Kemp, his landlord, was kind to him and often did not demand the rents on time, unlike his shrewish wife, Alice, who enjoyed constantly harrying Crispin on that very point.

Money. It had never been an issue before. Not before his ill-fated decision to join with those conspirators seven years ago, at any rate. There was money aplenty then. Shameless amounts of it. Wasted on
trinkets for foolish women and wine with dubious friends. Where were those friends now? And where the women? He had tossed coins so carelessly to bards and beggars. He sunk sackfuls of it on gardeners for his estates in Sheen. His former manor was not far from the royal residence and appearances had to be maintained. If the king wished to stay at the Guest Manor, then it must be as well appointed as the king’s own. He recalled one year when he harassed the tenants for their rents early in order to supply his kitchens for the king and his retinue. There was many a time he had nearly paupered his own household in order to feed and house all of court. But he had not complained, for this had been for the old king, Edward of Windsor, King Richard’s grandfather. For the old king, he would have done anything. Even commit treason so that his son John of Gaunt and not his grandson Richard could sit on the throne.

Alas. Those days were long, long gone. His lands had been taken along with his knighthood, and the loyal tenants on the Guest estates called another man their lord. Crispin knew not who, nor did he care to know.

He glanced down at his own seedy coat and the sturdy cloak that hid its shabby appearance from view. Yes, that was a long time ago.

Flurries arrived with the waning sun and Crispin quickened his step to keep warm. They followed the Strand now, heading out of London toward the palace. The shops and houses did not seem as crowded and the street opened onto a wider avenue where the spindly trees of gardens could be spied beyond the rooftops.

Crispin set his mind to the task at hand. What papers could a Jew value so much that he would seek him out? He must be desperate to venture from court, knowing that he would not be welcomed outside of it. He almost laughed. And to seek a man who was not allowed
into
court! A fine pair they were.

It was a simple theft, no doubt. Someone inquisitive about the Jew. Perhaps it was stolen as a simple prank. That made one of two
possibilities: The papers were long gone, destroyed. Or someone thought them valuable enough to try to sell to a third party. If the latter was the case then they still might yet be recovered. If the former, well, he’d take his money from this Jew and be troubled by him and court no more.