The Demon's Parchment (31 page)

“Master Jacob—” But he did not know what he wanted to say. He could promise the man he would not touch her, but he knew that to be a lie.

Before he could open his mouth, a scream broke the twilight.

Outside.

Crispin lunged toward the window and cast open the casement. A woman huddled with a cluster of other ladies in the garden near Lancaster’s window. She was sobbing and pointing toward the
garden wall. Without thinking of his own well-being, Crispin leapt out the window and landed on the dead grass below. He gathered himself and rushed to the gate toward the women.

“What’s amiss?” he asked.

The woman merely pointed toward the wall.

A long smear of gray clay swathed a portion of the wall from top to bottom. His heart gave a jolt, but he did not hesitate to leap forward and grab the top of the wall with his hands, hauling himself up.

The narrow path along the Thames was deserted but there were large indentations in the muddy snow leading down the bank. Crispin scrambled after it.

In the dim light, a large figure loped away, swaying with each long step. Crispin ran, skidding on the loose stones of the embankment at the low tide. He followed the hulking frame, even as it hurried with remarkable speed up the steep slope. Chasing after it, Crispin fell forward, catching himself with his hands on the sharp-edged rocks. Stumbling to his feet, he crested the slope and searched. A shadow ducked into an alley and he followed.

The alley drew narrower as the buildings on either side leaned in, their eaves sharing secrets mere mortals were not privy to. The damp smell overpowered as Crispin took cautious steps, unable to see much as the shadows converged and swept through, obliterating details. A chill shot down Crispin’s back when one particularly deep shadow . . . moved.

He froze. It moved again. A sliver of waning light dimly outlined a head and broad shoulders before the shadow tilted back and disappeared again.

But it did not run.

“You there!” said Crispin. The waver in his voice was from being out of breath, surely.

A grunted reply.

Crispin felt a shivering wind sweep up from the Thames, pebbling his skin. “What . . . who are you?”

And then a voice. The frostiest midnight could not have chilled his heart more than this slice of voice, both gravel and mud slurred together. “Must . . . protect,” it said.

Crispin was tempted to cross himself. “Holy Mother of God,” he muttered. He slid his knife from its scabbard and felt the comfort of the hilt in his flexing hand. “Protect? Protect what? Who?”

“Pro-
tect
,” said the unearthly voice again. And then a shoulder caught the light as the figure turned. Crispin felt the heavy tread of footsteps lumbering away. He girded himself and pursued.

The creature ran. For his size, he could run well and knew the alleys even better. He quickly outstripped Crispin, seeming to have no end of energy. Crispin ran solely on the hot blood in his veins, but he was a man and a man tires. His muscles screamed at him and his lungs burned. The creature was relentless and clever and though he pushed and pushed himself, Crispin could not catch up.

His steps slowed and he finally had to stop. Bent over his thighs, he wheezed in the cold air by the lungful. He listened with a heavy heart as the steps drew farther away and finally dimmed altogether.

Raising his head, he blinked into the cold and licked his dry lips. “I don’t believe it,” he told himself. “I don’t
believe
it.” But even as he tried to convince himself, he could not swear that he had been in conversation with a human man. Surely this was what Odo had been speaking about. If he had tried to abduct that boy, perhaps it was for information about this creature, for Crispin, as implausible as it seemed, was now convinced that he had encountered a Golem.

Crispin trudged back the long way to the palace courtyard, but as he suspected, all was barred due to the late hour. There was no point in going in. Except that Julianne was there and he suddenly ached for the feel of her, to wash away the fear and uncertainty that had grasped his heart for the last several days. The world was not as it seemed. Tonight, he had seen something darker, from the pits of Hell. Unnatural. And it made him long for the comfort of a woman’s arms.

But a Jewess? As much as she teased he could not oblige, either her or himself. A quick tumble would yield him some relief but afterward, for her . . . No, he could not do that to Jacob, who seemed an honorable man. He rubbed the back of his neck before he jostled his hood up over his head. Was it the fact that she was forbidden that so enticed? Or that she was clever? “Leave it alone, Crispin,” he told himself. Jews were scorned by society, not even allowed legal residence in England. Yet there were Jews hiding in secret but living openly as Christians, and still others who had converted and lived silent lives like monks in the Domus. Who were these Jews? Where did they come from? Why did they not leave the confines of the Domus? Was it they who had created that hulking creature, bent on the destruction of London’s Christian inhabitants? There were answers
to be had and one man might very well know them. In fact, that man had to answer for much.

Instead of turning toward London, he turned again toward Westminster Abbey.

Crispin pulled on the bell rope at the abbey gate. Likely, the monks were in Vespers, but there had to be a porter still roaming nearby.

Just as Crispin was about to pull the bell rope a third time, a monk with a hurried step emerged from the shadows. The disgruntled look on his face was illuminated by the lamp he held aloft.

“Peace!” he grumbled. He was an old man and his thick, white brows furred over the tight band of his eyes. He looked Crispin up and down with a watery gaze. His toothless mouth was wrinkled like a dried fig. “Young man, do you know the hour?”

“I do,” he said with an apologetic bow. “But I have need to speak with Abbot Nicholas. Tell him—”

“I will tell him nought. Young men should know better than to tramp about when Vespers have struck. Begone. Get you to your own home. It is late.”

He turned to go when Crispin grabbed the bell rope and gave it another hard pull, pealing the bell in a harsh jangle of metal on metal.

The old man cringed and swiveled back, waggling a finger at Crispin’s raised brow. “Miscreant! Do I set the hounds on you?”

“Nicholas would scarce appreciate his hounds used in such a manner. Besides, they know me.”

The old monk cocked his head in a gesture of disbelief. “Eh? Who are you then?”

“As I was about to say, I am Crispin Guest. If you tell him so, he will see me and you can spare yourself much grief.”

“Crispin Guest? Why didn’t you say so?” he grumbled into his cowl and trudged back the way he came.

Crispin sighed and waited for an escort to open the gate. He did not wait long. Brother Eric arrived and with a quizzical tilt to his cowled head, unlocked and opened the entry. He did not scold Crispin but it was there in his manner. Crispin followed him silently to the abbot’s quarters and waited alone until Vespers were done. The fire was the only light and he warmed himself before it, sighing in contentment at the amount of heat radiating from the generous flames.

The door swung opened and Nicholas entered. He seemed glad to see Crispin though he wasn’t smiling. “Master Guest, so late?”

“Forgive me, Nicholas. But this could not wait.”

Nicholas took his chair by the fire and Crispin took the other. He studied the face of the man, his old friend, and wondered how to begin. Nicholas took the task from him.

“Has the book been useful to you?”

“It has been . . . instructive. But mostly because I now question its veracity.”

“What?” The monk leaned forward. He pushed his cowl back. The fire painted his features gold, cutting deep shadows into the ridges of his lined face. “Thomas of Monmouth has always been regarded highly for his scholarship.”

“But I wonder how his scholarship was schooled. Who told him the details of these tales?”

“The Jews themselves, I imagine.”

“Under torture? Yes,” he said, recalling his own. “A man will say much under those circumstances.”

“Crispin,” said Nicholas, “I am surprised. You have always taken my word before.”

“Not this time.”

The monk shot to his feet. “Indeed! And what have I done to deserve such treatment at your hands? We have been friends!”

“And I have no wish to jeopardize that friendship. But this is more important than friendship.”

The monk’s face was stricken and Crispin was awash with guilt. For a moment, Nicholas hovered uncertainly. Would the monk demand he leave? He would reluctantly acquiesce, of course, but feared tearing a rift between them that could not be crossed.

Instead, the monk slowly lowered to his chair again, sitting back against it with a frown. “Very well,” he said sourly. “My curiosity has gotten the better of me. What is it that is more important than friendship?”

“The truth. Thomas of Monmouth made his accusations against the Jews, citing their mission to kill a Christian child at the Passover . . . with a communication system so vast it staggers the mind. But the Scriptures themselves, the Old Testament, prohibits this shedding of blood, especially of drinking it. Why, if they demark themselves so much from our society because of these strict laws, would they break them for this? And why have there not been more stories of such boys throughout the ages? One a year?” He shook his head slowly. “Tell me you recall a record of it.” He watched the old monk’s face carefully, saw the eyes search fathoms deep, his lips twitch. “And yet more strange,” Crispin went on, “why are there still Jews on English soil?”

Those old eyes flicked toward him. “There are those who live in the Domus Conversorum, but they are now Christian.”

“I am not speaking of them.”

The monk fell silent. His steady gaze finally turned toward the hearth. “So you know.”

Crispin gritted his teeth. “And so did you, though you did not deign to tell me.”

“And why should I? Does it have a bearing on this situation?”

“It might! How long have you known?”

“Some of us have known a long time. But little has been said. There has been an inquisitor on the matter looking into it.”

“An inquisitor? Who?”

“I do not know his name.”

“Have you met him?”

“Yes.”

“Is he young, blond, from the north?”

Nicholas stared. “How did you know?”

“I have met him, too. What is his purpose? Surely Canterbury can take care of its own issues.”

“It was the Archbishop who requested he come. Apparently, he is an expert on these cases.”

“
What
is his
purpose
?”

“I beg you to remember to whom you speak, Master Guest,” he said with quiet dignity.

Crispin took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The old man’s hands twitched on the chair arm. “My apologies, my Lord Abbot. It is just that I have been entertained by this inquisitor to my peril and I would simply like to know—”

“
What!
” He launched from his chair again and pressed a hand to Crispin’s with concern. “Are you well? Did he . . . did he . . . ?” He seemed to notice Crispin’s swollen face for the first time, and reached forward.

Crispin leaned away. “Very nearly. And I am well, though a little hungry, truth be told.”

“How neglectful of me.” He hurried to his door and spoke in low tones to his chaplain, Brother Michael, returning to his place by the fire. He fidgeted now, snatching guilty looks. “Why did he wish to do you harm?”

Crispin stretched out his feet, feeling warm for the first time today. “I stopped him from performing an unseemly act. He was about to steal a boy. A Jewish boy.”

“Why would he do that?” asked the monk.

“At the time, I thought it was for some nefarious purpose. But now . . . I think it was to question him. Which, come to think of it, might have been just as nefarious. Why did you not tell me about this man?”

“I did not think it important for you to know. Crispin, there are some things you may not be privy to. I know your curiosity is insatiable, but there are times when you need to curb it.”

“This man is dangerous, Nicholas. He means these people harm.”

“Why does this concern you? Jews are, by law, prohibited on English soil. They must convert or leave.”

What was it to him? Green eyes and a boy’s barbered hair. That was far more than it should have been.

Brother Michael brought a tray and set it on a small table between them. The abbot silently prepared the bread and soft cheese with much ceremony, then served Crispin a generous helping.

They both ate in silence, occasionally sipping from their goblets. It would have been a pleasant repast, with the fire crackling and the ordinarily good cheer they shared. But words had been said, feelings exposed. Crispin had needed to utter them, much to his regret.

An apology poised on his lips. But no. He could not allow these ideas about Jews to poison his investigation. He was a man who loved the truth, and if these words had been lies, then they could not help his case or his disposition.