The Demon's Parchment (26 page)

“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
dis
liked,” 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.

Crispin breathed, did nothing but breathe. His back felt the chilled stone permeate through the layers of his tabard, coat, and chemise. Staring at nothing, he tried to feel the same nothingness, but couldn’t. He
had
felt something. Something . . . wrong. So wrong.

He stayed as he was for a long interval before he bent slowly at the waist, scooped up a handful of dirty snow, and smeared its gravelly ice into his face, rejoicing in the hard pain of it like a penance. Once he’d ground it into his numbed cheeks, he tossed the slush aside and straightened. He had to rid himself of Westminster, leave the shameful emotions of it far behind.

The gate was open to him and he trotted forward. Hurried steps took him back toward London. He tried not to think, tried to concentrate on that astrologer who had bought the clay from the potters, on this strange scheme that now seemed to surround Giles de Risley and the mysterious stranger. He could not think how warm Julian’s lips were.
Would
not!

It was this case. It was all too much. These Jews and child killings and strange Golems. It was a wonder he wasn’t driven mad!

And he had been too long without the warm arms of a woman.
He hefted his coin purse and felt enough coins. Yes. He would go to the stews today. Now!

He fled to the river’s edge and searched along the wharves for the nearest ferry and ran toward it, tossing his farthing to the man in hopes of hurrying him.

Instead, the ferryman waited until his craft was full before he pushed it away from the wharf. A man with a horse on a lead stood off to the side, but the horse’s flank kept pushing into Crispin. Crispin didn’t mind. Its tangy warmth kept him from shivering as the beast blocked most of the wind.

He barely waited for the ferry to dock before he leapt away and hit the dock running, heading for the darker streets where the brothels huddled together like old whores.

He slowed as he wended his way down a narrow close. The light was dim, but Crispin could make out the shape of a woman facing a wall, leaning her hands on it, her gown hiked up to her thighs. A man stood behind her, rutting, and she cried out in little sighs and rocked with each thrust. Crispin did not turn to leave. Instead, he watched for a few moments, not in the least embarrassed. It took a few moments more for recognition to set in and his eyes rounded in horror. “John Rykener!”

The man jerked up his head. Hastily, he pulled up his braies and before he was fully covered, he fled into the dimness, his feet slapping harshly until he disappeared completely into the mist beyond.

The woman slumped against the wall and let her skirts fall back into place. “Dammit, Crispin!” She turned. Her face was round with a small chin and a petite mouth, a mouth that was twisted with ire. “You frightened him off before he could pay.”

“John,” breathed Crispin. The very last person he wanted to see. Today of all days.

“It’s Eleanor,” he said in his soft voice, “when I am garbed so. How many times have I told you?”

“For God’s sake, John. Must you continue to do”—Crispin waved an arm at him—“this?”

“You do what you do and I do what I do. It is simple finance.” John turned around and leaned with his back against the daub wall. He pulled his cloak about him. “That cost me my supper, I’ll have you know. Now you owe me.”