The Demon's Parchment (32 page)

Bells suddenly tolled and Nicholas rose wearily, wiping the crumbs from his cassock. “Compline. I must go. And so must you.”

“Nicholas.” He reached out and touched the man’s sleeve. “If my tone was harsh, I did not mean . . . I would not put our fellowship at risk.”

Those old eyes searched his, flicking back and forth. “I know,” he said, patting his hand. “You do involve yourself so.”

His thoughts fell to Julianne once more. “That I do.”

He felt the weariness in his bones. Trudging back to London was a chore he had not desired, especially as the icy night swept over him. He hunched in his cloak and hood, breathing hard
clouds into the air. The Shambles seemed a world away, and he could not help but glance over his shoulder from time to time, thinking that nightmare of a creature might appear again and seize him with those large, clay hands.

Once he passed through Newgate and plodded down Newgate Market, he looked over his shoulder again, only a bit more secure that the walls of London would not be breached. Newgate looked back at him, implacable and rigid, its portcullis grimacing with ice-slicked teeth. Crispin
had
to solve this. And soon. Exton and Froshe could not be patient forever. That vile Odo had given Crispin some clues, even as he had battered him. He said that the devil was at the heart of it, and that may be so, for the devil surely whispered his vile lies to the bastard who had committed these crimes. But if this Golem were real, and Crispin had to grant the nature of his own eyes, then this monster was certainly not innocent. It was up to no good that he could see. But when it spoke to him, and he shivered again at the thought, it had told Crispin that it was trying to protect something. The Jews, he supposed. But why go to the palace? Did it need to protect Julianne and her father?

The thought made him stop in his snowy tracks. Might someone be after them? That mysterious man, that Odo. But he was the abbot’s inquisitor, wasn’t he? Yes, he meant the Jews harm, but surely he would not dare touch the queen’s physician! Except . . . The man wanted those parchments and might do anything to get them.

Suddenly, he found himself at the foot of his stairs. He dug into the icy steps and forced himself upward. Inside, he noticed the hearth was cold and Jack was nowhere to be seen. Damn that boy! He would be the death of Crispin yet. He grumbled as he tossed some peat into the hearth and bent toward it with his flint and steel. It was too cold a night for Jack’s mischief. If the boy didn’t get himself killed, Crispin would do the job for him.

He blew on the smoldering tinder and a few bits of lint helped it
catch and soon the peat was burning with a small flame, enough to begin to thaw his toes and cast some light into the room.

So, Jacob and this Odo wanted the Jewish parchments. Jacob to protect London, and Odo to . . . what? His motives were to rid London of Jews. A strange request, then, to possess parchments that could create a Jewish protector with Jewish magic. Perhaps, but it would be diabolical, create a Golem to wreak havoc, blame the Jews, and roust them out. Crispin shook his head. No, there was little need to stir the populace against Jews. Only an excuse, a rumor. Odo would not truly need to
do
anything.

Crispin lifted the tabard and untied the red thread. He held it up to the firelight, turning it. Someone entirely heartless had killed the servant and those boys. Someone with some ungodly motive. Someone vile and twisted, John Rykener called it.

Red thread. Some red cloth had been used. He divorced Julianne’s sash from consideration, though it was difficult once thought of. But something else had snagged in his mind. He knew this color. He had seen it recently. His thoughts fell to a rondelle hat with a long liripipe tail, certainly long enough to use as a garrote. And it did belong to a man who was, indeed, heartless and perhaps even bloodthirsty enough to commit these atrocities. Once the idea was in his head it stuck fast like a nail in a shoe. But he needed iron-clad proof.

He tossed the thread into the fire. It curled quickly and became ash.

Yes, he had gotten to know this man in the last few days. That cousin of Giles de Risley.

Radulfus.

The morning could not come soon enough. He had sat up in his chair all night, staring into the small fire, demons dancing before his eyes and in his head, telling him awful tales of broken boys and greedy, lascivious men.

Radulfus. Yes, he was capable. But as a lord, Radulfus was nearly untouchable. When Crispin accused him and brought his name before the sheriff, he would have to be very certain of his guilt. Crispin might even suffer the backlash and be slain in the streets as Radulfus had intended. A lord versus someone like Crispin? There was no contest. Crispin would lose and there would be nothing he could do. The sheriffs would suffer, too, and they wouldn’t likely stick their necks into a noose for him or anyone.

He hardly blamed them.

No, he had to find hard proof, something the sheriff would accept without question, something that could be taken to the king. Perhaps even Giles could be persuaded to help Crispin. Surely he had no knowledge of these doings. Yes, it seemed plain from their conversation that Giles might be up to no good, but he could be forgiven by helping Crispin now. He knew if he could talk to Giles he would have an ally. After all, the man owed him.

He had to get into their rooms and find that evidence. The last crime had been committed at Westminster. He was sure of that. There might still be something he could find, something that would tie Radulfus to this.

He glanced again to the weak rays of light spilling from the cracks in his shutters. It had to be Prime, or thereabouts. Time to head toward Westminster.

He rose, adjusted Lancaster’s tabard over his coat, gave a brief thought to the absent Jack, and cast open the door.

When Crispin arrived to the Great Gate, there were already many horse-drawn wagons and carts assembled, with bustling pages and servants loading them with supplies for the country. Boats, too, were secured at the docks. The king would likely travel up the Thames to his Christmas destination with wagons carrying the lesser courtiers. Court was leaving, perhaps that afternoon.
Crispin would have to work fast. But first, he needed to know where Giles’s quarters were.

He swept the courtyard with a glance. No help here. He pushed his way in, either the tabard or the crowds making it simple for him to pass through to the great hall. More people jammed the space. But when Crispin turned his head, he spied the two people he never expected to encounter together.

Radulfus was leaning on a column and his hand was closed over Julianne’s shoulder. Clearly she did not enjoy his proximity and her eyes darted, looking for a way out.

With his hand on his dagger hilt, Crispin strode toward them and stopped himself in time before he ruined all.

He threw himself against a pile of trunks, breathing deeply to get himself under control. He could not let Radulfus see him.

Radulfus raked his gaze over the boy he thought Julianne to be. And what Crispin saw on his face was unmistakable. He
coveted
him! His body leaned in and his smile was that of a crocodile. Yes, Crispin
had
been right about him.

And he was wearing his signature rondelle hat with the long liripipe tail.

“There is no need to rush off, so,” Radulfus was saying. His eyes took a deliberate perusal of her boyish form from top to toe. “I have never had a chance to speak with you, young friend.”

“There is little need. Unless you are in need of a physician.”

“Oh, I do have an ache.”

“Then I shall send my father to you.”

“I doubt he will be able to heal me as well as you can.”

“I am not a proper physician, my lord. My father is better qualified—”

“And I tell you”—Radulfus tightened his grip on Julianne’s shoulder so harshly that Crispin saw her wince—“that it is
you
I want.”

“My lord. Please.”

Radulfus cackled and pushed. Julianne fell from his grip and nearly stumbled to the floor.

Crispin was a hairsbreadth from revealing his hiding place. But he drew back in time and tightened his grip on his dagger, though little comfort it offered.

Julianne straightened and adjusted her gown, the yellow rouelle clearly visible.

“I changed my mind,” said Radulfus, looking down his nose at her. “Take yourself away, Jewish dog. Remove that pretty face of yours back to France. God knows why
they
accept your like.” Others had taken notice and turned to look. Radulfus, sensing his audience, looked around and gestured toward her. “Jews. Why should the king trust them with the queen’s health? Better to use good English physicians, eh?”

There were mutterings, but Crispin could tell what Radulfus could not, that the crowd seemed reluctant to naysay the king, even over this troublesome matter.

“The lot of them should be slaughtered,” Radulfus went on, oblivious. “I’ve a mind to gather some men to go to Chancery Lane and save the king’s treasury by burning down that House of Converts. Converts, indeed! How can you ever trust them? Who can believe their avowals, especially at this sacred time of year?” The murmurings became more directed. Perhaps they were not willing to harm the king’s physician, but the idea of Jews, even converts, obviously did not sit well with the men of court.

Was a riot fomenting before his eyes? Crispin searched for help. He had promised the secret Jews to protect them, but if Radulfus brought down all of court to the site of the Domus, how could he hope to come between them and a mob?

A short, beefy servant suddenly pushed his way forward. The king’s colors on his chest and back assured him that the crowd would part, and part they did. Bill Wodecock approached Radulfus and
bowed deeply. “My lord, Master Cornelius wishes to see you. He has sent me forthwith.”

Radulfus seemed perturbed that his rant was interrupted, but it was enough to foil the concentration of the crowd, who went back to the business of seeing to their baggage and goods.

Wodecock gestured to a page and instructed him to take Radulfus to that astrologer, Cornelius. Wodecock watched them go, dusting his hands together at a job well done. Crispin approached and stood behind him. “That was well played, Wodecock.”

The servant stiffened and barely turned toward Crispin in acknowledgment. “Sometimes a distraction is what’s needed.”

“Did Master Cornelius truly request to speak with Radulfus?”

Wodecock paused before he twisted round to look at Crispin with his tiny eyes. “He might have done.”

Crispin smiled and bowed. “Your servant.”

“Hmpf. Indeed.” Wodecock was on his way but Crispin stopped him.

“Master Wodecock. I wonder if you would further serve the king by directing me to Radulfus’s apartments.”

“And how can that serve the king, pray?”

“You know I cannot tell you.”

“You’re up to mischief, Master Guest. I cannot abide it.”

“Not mischief. But it also serves the king, I assure you. Can you not put your trust in me, Master Wodecock?”

Those eyes studied him and Crispin felt them like hot coals burning through his clothes.

“I find it hard to do so, Master Guest, and you know the reason why.”

Crispin had no more words. He allowed the other man to gage his character by looks alone. He felt very self-conscious with his patched stockings and shabby cloak, but there was nothing to be done.

At length, Wodecock turned away and strode through the great hall, leaving Crispin behind. He had walked a good length of the hall before he stopped and pivoted. He cocked his head impatiently and gave a short gesture for Crispin to follow.

They wound their way silently through the crowded corridors. It seemed only ghosts were to remain behind at court when the king’s retinue journeyed to Sheen. Twenty days from now, Christmas would be a grand affair. Crispin remembered many of those feasts and gatherings from years past. Garlands of greenery would festoon the hall and the smells of meats and pies would inhabit the tapestries for days. Warm fires, good wine, even better companionship. It was a relief from the cold winter without.

He dusted the memories aside and stopped when Wodecock stopped. The servant gestured to a narrow door at the end of the corridor nearest the stables.

“That is the door, Master Guest. But it is locked as it should be. Do not,” said Wodecock, raising a hand to Crispin’s opened mouth, “ask me to unlock it, for I shall do no such thing. If you wish to speak to my lord Radulfus, you must wait for his return.”

“And how long will that be?” How much time would he have to look those rooms over? He looked back at the narrow passage. There was no one there.

Wodecock seemed to know what Crispin was thinking and he wagged a finger at him. “No tricks, Master Guest. If anyone should ask, I did not see you.”

“Of course. Thank you, Master—” The servant turned on his heel and was already halfway down the corridor when Crispin finished, “Wodecock.”

Alone in the corridor, he hurried to the door and tested the latch. Locked, just as Wodecock said. He hadn’t much time, so he set to work. He flipped his dagger from its sheath and reached into
the collar of his tabard and coat to pull out the lace to his chemise and its sharp aiglet. With knife tip and aiglet, he manipulated the pins within the lock until they released the latch. Sheathing the dagger and stuffing the lace back under his clothes, Crispin rose and gently pushed the door open.

The room was dark with only the faint, red glow from the ashes in the hearth. He slipped inside, closed and locked the door, and waited for his eyes to adjust, then lit a candle. A modest room, larger than the Jews’ quarters but much smaller than Lancaster’s. There were several chests still in the room. Crispin remembered that Giles and Radulfus were not invited to court for Christmas, but he would still be traveling to Sheen for the feast. Traveling to Crispin’s manor.

He tried the lid of the first chest and found it open. Setting the candle above on the nearby table, he rummaged inside, but found nothing of worth.

He went to the next, opened it, and looked inside. The third chest was locked. He used both aiglets this time. It took longer than the door, but the lock finally clicked and he lifted the lid.