The Demon's Parchment (29 page)

“I was lord of my manor at quite an early age. And the king gained the throne when only ten years old. How can I begrudge you your authority? Whatever that authority is.”

The man looked at Crispin as a cat studies a mouse. “Just so.”

“You wish for me to continue my investigation? Or rather, are you hindering it? And to what purpose? These are the things that keep me up at night.”

“Are they?” The man bent forward and rested his clasped hands on his knees. “So I must conclude from your words that you suspect me of the heinous crime of murder.”

“And sodomy.”

A brow arched. Slowly, he sat up, easing his hands apart. “A grave charge, indeed.”

“Convince me. Why were you trying to steal that boy?”

“That is none of your concern. Yes, I see how that can be misinterpreted. But it is of no concern to you. Or your case.”

“That judgment I reserve for myself. Test it. Tell me.”

He chuckled again, that lifeless sound. “A most unusual man. You are a man who has been touched by the hand of God and yet you do not see what lies before you.”

“This again,” he grumbled. “I little believe in such things, Excellency.”

“Tut! My dear Crispin, you do not believe in the holy objects that grace your path?”

“I’ve had little reason to.”

He shook his head and his blond hair fell behind him. “But you should. You should be grateful for God’s protection from the devil, for he strides amongst us into every facet of our lives.” The accent that Crispin now recognized as Yorkshire, deepened as his voice intensified. “We must use every tool at our disposal to conquer the devil, Crispin. To shun God’s gifts is unforgivable.”

“I do not shun God’s gifts, for He has given me the gift of insight and discernment. What has he given you?”

“Authority.”

“Are you a cleric, then? You do not garb yourself so. And you are young.”

“A cleric? Perhaps. And my youth . . . is beside the point. I am accomplished with what I do.”

“And just what is that?”

The man smiled. “Rooting out the devil, of course.” He chuckled at Crispin’s expression. “Are you surprised?”

“Few things surprise me these days.”

“Then let us talk of your investigation.”

“Certainly. My Lord Odo,” Crispin tested.

The man smiled but said nothing. “Your investigation. You must know it has little to do with murder and more to do with the devil.”

“Does it? Is this what you, too, are investigating? Shall I guess further?”

“It will do you little good.”

“Indulge me. Perhaps you are seeking to discover the number of Jews living in secret in England.”

The man shot to his feet and stormed toward him.
A hit,
thought Crispin.

“What do you know of it, Master Guest? Come, come.”

“Me? You want me to be forthcoming when you have been less so? I think not.”

A sigh. “I thought not to have to resort to this. Stephen!”

A door opened and with it a sharp lance of light that temporarily blinded Crispin. Footsteps hurried forward, and then a fist sank into his gut. He dropped to his knees, hitting the dirt floor hard.

He let out a gasp, ringing his belly with his arms. But the man, Stephen, did not move to strike him again. Crispin squinted up at the two shadowy figures now hovering over him.

“Well?” said Odo as calmly as before. “Have you nothing to tell me?”

“You haven’t asked me anything of worth.”

He squatted to face him, and Crispin edged back slightly, not
knowing what to expect. “What do you know of the Jews living in London, Crispin?”

“There are two at Westminster Palace. Do you mean them?”

“No. What do you know of the Domus Conversorum?”

“Nothing. Converts live there. They are protected by the king. That’s all anybody cares to know.”

“But not you. Not the Great Tracker. You know more than that, do you not? Tell me. It will go easier.”

“Easier.” He laughed, recalling the torture inflicted upon him seven years ago. They had asked questions, too. Questions they also already knew the answers to. And like those long ago days best forgotten, Crispin remained silent.

Odo drew circles in the dust on the floor. Or was it in Crispin’s blood? He stopped and hung his hands limply from his bent knees before he straightened and rubbed his thigh again. “A pity. You could have helped me. And then likewise, I could have helped you.”

“What do you mean? Do you know something of these deaths?” He leaned forward even at the risk of another onslaught. “This is no game. It’s murder. These boys—these
children
—suffered abominably. Can’t you see that there will be more deaths? Whether a man or the devil, I do not care who is the cause only that it must stop!”

The man limped to the stool and sat. His driver stood stoically behind him. “There may very well be more deaths.”

“It’s not the Jews. It can’t be. They have a biblical prohibition against drinking blood. It can’t be them.”

“Curious indeed. Who has schooled you in this, I wonder? It couldn’t be Abbot Nicholas.”

The idea that Crispin had been spied upon slammed his gut harder than the driver’s fist. “How do you know about—”

“So many things I have been watching. So many people in so many places. You say that little surprises you, Master Guest. But I’ll wager you’ll be surprised by what I have seen.”

Crispin got one foot under him. “If you know something about these murders you are
morally
obligated—”

“Morally? A strange term coming from you.”

“Never
mind
me! Children are
dying
. Innocent children!”

“Innocence. Such a vague term, is it not? A man might plead his innocence in one respect and be quite guilty in another. Where lies the guilt then? Where the innocence? But you are right. For the most part, children are innocent. Even these that you would protect. They are in the hands of God, no matter their sins.”

It was Crispin’s turn to sneer. “Surely you are not suggesting that they had any part in the sins against them?”

“I suggest nothing,” he said in such a way as to suggest much.

“That is a foul supposition. And you claim to be doing God’s work.”

The man frowned. “As I said. You have not seen what I have seen. You have not imagined the things I have encountered. It even stretches the bounds of my beliefs. Who could have expected such utter sin and blasphemy?” He turned his face away. Through his outwardly cool exterior, Crispin saw his body tremble with taut emotion he refused to show. “The Jews, for one. They live where they do not belong and take the charity of good Christians. Better that they were wiped off the face of the earth—”

A booming noise stopped him and he jerked around. The door crashed open and a man stumbled in. Blinded again by the light, Crispin fell back, covering his eyes. What now?

“Who are you?” the lord demanded.

“Get away from that man!” cried the voice in the doorway.

Crispin squinted. All he could see were silhouettes of three men. One had a club of some kind. Behind them he saw the vague shadows of others, heard their murmuring. But that voice had sounded terribly familiar.

“Rykener?” Crispin said, shielding his eyes with a hand.

Stephen, the driver, drew his sword with a metallic hiss and everyone froze.

John Rykener was the first to move and pointed at Crispin. “Release that man!” he said, in a voice slightly higher than before.

“You said there was to be a fight,” said a gruff voice behind Rykener.

“Well . . .” John turned to the men flanking him. They had uncertain looks on their thin faces.

“Fight!” said the gruff voice. “Fight, fight!”

The chant was taken up by the rest of the crowd, which Crispin could now see was considerable.

What the hell was John doing? Was this a rescue? Crispin rolled his eyes. Well, at least he was armed. He drew his dagger.

Odo moved behind his driver, who directed his sword toward Crispin.

“You do not know what trouble you are in, friend,” said Odo to Rykener and his companions.

“Nor you,” said John. He nodded to the men on either side of him. They were slight men with features as delicate as John’s. A sick feeling began roiling in Crispin’s gut. Were these more of John’s “friends”?

“You’re holding captive a very important man,” John went on. “The Tracker is not a man to be trifled with.”

Odo took a step forward. “Neither am I.”

“Perhaps it’s a fairer fight now,” said Crispin, falling into a crouch.

Odo sneered. “Do you truly think so?” He turned toward the noisy crowd in the doorway and waved his hand. “Disperse! You are interrupting an important interrogation—” But he never got to finish his sentence. The crowd overwhelmed with their guffaws and taunts. Even a few crusts of bread were tossed forward. It was plain that a Southwark crowd was not intimidated by his fine clothes and courtly bearing. He cut his gaze to Crispin.

Crispin grinned. “A fair fight.”

Odo gestured to the driver. Stephen turned to face Crispin, his sword looking too long compared to Crispin’s shorter dagger. He tightened his grip. A fight with a dagger against a sword
could
be won. He’d done it before. Once. But his head still felt a little woozy. He gritted his teeth and began to circle.

Stephen raised his sword, ready to chop downward, when John Rykener made a howling cry and suddenly burst forward. Before the driver had time to turn, Rykener had clasped his arms about his neck and jumped onto his back, limpetlike. The man spun in place, clearly at a loss as to what to do. He clawed at the arms choking him and then tried to use his sword to dislodge his attacker, but Rykener swung his body back and forth, keeping the driver unbalanced. Stephen turned his blade flat and whacked away at John, until John leaned forward, took the man’s ear between his teeth, and bit down.

The driver howled and ran backward full tilt into a beam. John smashed against it and cried out. He slipped off and tumbled to the straw-littered floor.

Winded, his ear bleeding, Stephen whirled back toward the room, his sword poised.

“Fight, fight!” the crowd continued to chant.

“Blessed Mary,” Odo murmured, clearly flummoxed.

“They want their blood,” said Crispin cheerfully. “Shall we give it to them?” He raised his dagger.

By now, John’s timid companions strode haltingly forward. One had a club in his hand. The other had what looked like a drinking jug. He swung it back and forth threateningly.

Odo signaled Stephen—and suddenly darted into the darkness. The driver soon followed.

That was it for the crowd. They all surged forward, squeezing through the narrow doorway, pushing Crispin and Rykener aside to stumble into the dark, searching for Crispin’s captors.

A groan of disappointment arose when a back door was discovered. Odo and his driver had escaped.

Crispin could scarce believe it. He felt a waft of disappointment, too, and slammed his knife back into its scabbard.

And then the noisy crowd returned and glared at Rykener and his two companions.

“We came for a fight,” said a tall, square-shouldered man with a grizzled beard. “You promised us.” He slapped his fist into a palm. “And a fight we will have.”

“You’re right,” said Crispin. He took in the crowd and then the large man before him, looking him in the eye. Then he swung his foot up and lodged it hard into the man’s groin. Down he went without another sound. Everyone stared wide-jawed at the man as he writhed on the ground.

“Anyone else?” asked Crispin.

The crowd seemed considerably more subdued, casting glances at one another before, as one, they shuffled guardedly toward the entrance, looking back only hastily at the man helped to his feet by two of his fellows.

When they had all dispersed, Crispin breathed a sigh of relief.

“Come along, Master Crispin,” said John. He seemed surprised at his sudden victory. “Let us make our escape while the going is good.”

John’s companions looked disapprovingly at their own weapons—a club and a jug—and tossed them to the stable floor.

When they all ventured outside, Crispin saw that they were before an inn. The blood-lusting crowd had, apparently, come from the inn and was now returning to their ale.

Crispin licked his lips, thinking a short delay was needed, but John was already pushing him out of the inn yard, his two companions shouldering him.

“Crispin, these are my friends,” said John as they walked. “We all share the same vocation.”

Crispin glanced over the men warily but it seemed disingenuous to complain since they rescued him. At least they wore men’s garb. “For your help, much thanks.”

A thin man with wispy blond hair smiled a toothy grin. “Any friend of John’s is a friend of ours.”

“I am not that sort of friend,” he insisted.

“Be at ease, Crispin. They know who you are.”

“How did you find me?”

“Well!” said John. “After you told me”—his eyes took in his companions and he lowered his voice—“what you told me, I couldn’t let it lie. It took about three heartbeats for me to get dressed and rush out the door. I followed you to the potter’s row and then I saw that man hit you.” He reached tentatively for Crispin’s nose but Crispin batted his hand away. “It’s not broken, praise God. You have a perfect nose, I’ll have you know. It’s a shame you keep bruising it.”

“John! Get on with it.”

“So I fell back and followed as they dragged you off. Here, in fact.”

Crispin looked back at the ramshackle stable.

“And then I gathered my friends to assist me. I promised those whoresons in the inn a fight in the hope they would help. But we rescued you anyway!” His voice became shrill with delight.

“God be praised,” Crispin mumbled.

He allowed John to take him back to his lodgings. John’s friends bid their farewells and left Crispin and Rykener to climb the steps to his room alone. Once inside, Rykener gave Crispin a basin and a jug of icy water. He washed the blood from his face and assessed the damage.

“You’ll be bruised right well,” said John, tsking and peering far too close at Crispin’s face. “You’ll have two black eyes for a few days, but you are whole at least.”