The Demon's Parchment (34 page)

Throat dry, Crispin made one last frantic attempt to think of something, but Radulfus shifted toward him. “Out, Master Guest,” he said, sliding his hand seductively over the hilt of his sword.

Crispin cast a sorrowful glance at his dead witness, and with a feeling of disgust at himself, could do nothing more than stumble through the door. He shuffled like a dead man through the crowded corridors, scarcely marking the chaos around him. When he made it to the Great Gate he looked back at the bustle of oblivious servants and noblemen, turned to the wall, and vomited against it.

He held the wall to steady himself, and when his belly was empty he wiped his mouth and pushed away. “Margaret.” He had not loved her, had not thought of her in years, in fact. They were paramours, exchanging favors in the others’ bed. But he could have fought harder to keep her, to save her. Had Giles truly killed her or was that more taunting? Crispin didn’t know him at all. Hadn’t ever known him. How could he have been so wrong about someone? Was nothing as it seemed?

The cold was even worse now. The chill wind slashed against the rawness of his cheek. The futility of it all. What good was being this damned Tracker if he could not protect the citizens of London? He could go to the sheriffs, he could explain it as clearly
as he could, but he knew, he
knew
there was nothing the sheriffs would do. Not against a nobleman. There was no evidence against him for murder. True, if the sheriffs could arrest both Giles and his cousin Radulfus, torture could extract the truth, but neither sheriff would do such a thing on Crispin’s say-so.

And these victims. A beggared victim was little good to him. There would be no one to pay the bribes to the sheriffs, no one to put forth the accusations that would hold any weight.

With a frustrated cry, Crispin wrestled the tabard from his body and heaved it to the dirty snow, ignoring the strange looks from those milling outside the gate on the street. A waste! What good were the duke’s arms to him? None of it was any good to him. If he had only been a knight he could have properly faced Giles, could have accused him. But Giles was right. He was nothing. Less than nothing. If he could not bring criminals to justice then what was his purpose now?

He left the tabard in the snow, paying little attention as a half-starved urchin pounced upon it and slipped it over his shivering shoulders. Better to give it to beggars. It did more good on them than on him.

He plodded back toward London, bypassed his lodgings completely, and turned up Gutter Lane. When he pushed open the doors to the Boar’s Tusk and sat by the fire with a bowl of wine in his hands, he felt safe to surrender to his despair.

His face was pressed to the table. There was drool wetting his cheek where it rested against the rough wood. Crispin licked his numbed lips. Something had awoken him but in the haze of alcohol, he wasn’t certain what.

A voice. Two voices. They were talking to each other over his head and he heard his name. He raised a finger to his flaccid lips and sent a sloppy “shhhh” their way.

The talking ceased and he sensed eyes upon him.

“He’s been like this for hours,” said the deep male voice above him. “He would not speak when he arrived. He ordered his wine and he had a look about him like death but he would say nothing to me.”

“Bless me,” said the young voice in the harsh accent of the streets. Jack. Must be. And the older was Gilbert. But he wouldn’t open his eyes. Keep them closed and don’t move. Moving would remind him why he was here.

“And you say he’s been like that for hours?”

“Yes. I wish I knew what was troubling him.”

“It must be this case,” said Jack softly.

Crispin feared they’d let slip something. With supreme effort, he opened his mouth and uttered a slurred, “Be still!”

Jack crouched low toward him. Crispin could smell him; adolescent sweat and hay. “Master! Master Crispin! Tell me what happened. What is amiss? Is the sheriff on his way?”

“No!” he bellowed. “No! Don’t talk about it!”

“But Master! The murderer. We cannot allow him to get away. You said—”

Damn that boy! He
had
to insist on opening the floodgates and letting the memories flow in. Damn him, damn him,
damn him
!

“NO!” Crispin lurched up, spittle trailing in a long iridescent tether from his mouth back to the puddle on the table. He wiped unsteadily at his mouth with his hand. “Damn you, Jack! Can’t you let me forget?”

Gently, Jack laid a hand on his shoulder. “But Master Crispin, what happened?”

He felt the bench creak behind him and the warm presence of Gilbert blocked his other escape. There was nothing for it now. He straightened, tried to focus his eyes on the table, and reached for the wine jug. He sloshed the red liquor over his hand and into the waiting bowl and drank it greedily. “Jack,” he said, doing his best to
enunciate. He swayed and turned his head. “Gilbert. My friends.” He dropped his head and sighed. “I fear the name of Justice is no more in the city of London.”

The man and the boy exchanged looks. Gilbert rested a large paw on his arm. “Crispin, what can you mean?”

“I mean,” he said, shaking off the man’s hand and climbing precariously to his feet, “that Justice is damned, along with everyone else in this stinking town!” He used Gilbert’s shoulder as leverage to step out of the bench and lurched toward the hearth. Jack launched himself to his feet to prevent Crispin from pitching headlong into the fire. But he shook Jack’s hands off of him, too.

“Le’ me be!” he growled. He leaned unsteadily over the flames, letting them roast his thighs and knees. It didn’t help. He still felt cold and numb. Dead. He was a corpse already. Should have let Radulfus kill him in the street. Then the pain of that unspeakable ache in his chest wouldn’t feel so bad now. “Let me be,” he whispered.

“What happened at court, Master?” asked Jack, positioning himself beside him.

“What happened? You wish to know what happened? Very well. I was emasculated, that’s what happened.”

Jack’s eyes made a quick glance down over Crispin before the expression on his worried face cleared.

“Degradation was nothing compared to this,” Crispin went on. “That, at least, was physical. Taking my sword, my arms. But this long, slow, stripping of my ability to
do
anything . . . I am not a man, Jack. Not a man.”

“Of course you are, sir! You are more man than half of court! Is he not, Gilbert?”

“Aye, that you are, Crispin! A finer and more honorable man I have never known, I assure you.”

“Empty words,” he snorted. “What do you know of it? What do either of you know of it?”

They fell silent. The three of them stood, merely looking into the flames. Crispin felt his bones begin to thaw. His knees gave out and both Gilbert and Jack grunted as they grabbed an elbow to prevent him from falling on his backside. They wrestled him onto a stool.

“I went to Giles de Risley’s apartments.” He leaned toward Jack, nabbed his collar, and pulled him close. He could see every freckle on the boy’s pale face. “It’s him, Jack. My old friend.
He
is the murderer and vile sodomizer. That astrologer confessed it. I had him, Jack. I
had
him! I had a witness. He confessed it all. And then de Risley arrived. And he confessed it, too. But then . . . to prove that he was untouchable, he killed the astrologer, killed our only witness.” He heard Jack’s gasp but ploughed on anyway. “Killed him in cold blood before my eyes in the company of his vile cousin. And then he told me all, Jack. Every disgusting, horrifying truth. How he killed them, how he enjoyed it, how he cut out their entrails and held them in his hands . . .”

Gilbert drew back in horror, making a sound of retching.

“He
told
me, Jack,” he whispered. “And I couldn’t lay a finger upon him.”

Silence. Crispin nodded. What could be said to that? The evidence of his final humiliation, his uselessness was now before them. For four years he had only played at a man who honorably served justice. Four years out of the thirty miserable years of his life.

“He’s a dog. A horrible, mangy dog!” said Jack, his tone vicious. “But dogs are trapped when they are dangerous. If we could only lay a trap for him.”

“It isn’t possible,” murmured Crispin. “The sheriffs would have to discover him and they won’t even entertain the idea. Not a lord like de Risley. There is nothing we can do. Nothing!”

Jack nearly quivered with rage. His white fists grew whiter, crumpling the hem of his tunic with twisted emotions. And then, as Crispin watched, he grew thoughtful and suddenly the boy looked
up at Gilbert. “Master Gilbert, could you see that my master gets home safe and sound? There is something I must see about.”

As soon as Gilbert nodded, Jack, whey-faced and solemn, darted out the door.

Crispin looked up at his friend and scowled. “Tomorrow is the Feast Day of Saint Nicholas,” he mumbled. “Christmas is not far behind. Another wretched Christmas on the Shambles.”

“Don’t be alone, Crispin. Stay with us. With Nell and me. We’ve asked you so many times. Accept our invitation this year, Crispin. Of all years.”

“No.” He pulled away and staggered to his feet. “No. I’m going home. To the only home I deserve. Maybe I’ll break my neck going up those stairs. It will be a fitting end.”

Gilbert gathered his cloak about him. “I’ll take you.”

“No!” he said mulishly. But Gilbert drew himself up and barked in Crispin’s ear.

“Be still, Crispin Guest! If I were a better friend I should backhand you for the sorrowful fool you are!”

Crispin blinked at him, mute.

“Can you not see the good you have done to this old town?” Gilbert went on. “Can’t you see the countless lives you have saved, the innocent souls you have protected? Bah! You are drunk, but such foolish prattling comes out of your mouth even when you are sober. Wake up! This may be your lot, but a man can make the best of any situation. I have seen you crawl forth from the very gutter and make yourself anew. Who else in this town is a Tracker, eh? No one. If a man needs someone to help him find a lost necklace or a stolen parchment, they have no one to go to. The sheriff? Not unless they had the money to bribe them. But you’d do it. You’d say it was for the coin, but I know you better than that. It’s for the honor of the thing. Yours and theirs. What man can ferret out a puzzle like you? These wretched sheriffs? They are only aldermen. Merchants. What do they know of men’s hearts and the cunning therein? Who
amongst them can look at a corpse and know the nature of his death and the manner of it? None, I say. None but you. But you would wallow in your own pity until it sucks you down like a peat bog. Well, Master Guest.” He grabbed Crispin’s arm and hauled him to the door, kicking it open until they were both slapped in the face by the cold. “I’ll hear no more of it this night. I’ll get you home where you can sleep it off. And the next time I see you I had better see a humble face and an apology for such churlishness on your tongue. And then no more will be said of it.”

Crispin wanted to say much, to refute Gilbert’s bald derision. But even in the muddiness of his wine-soaked mind, he could discern the truth of it. He clapped his mouth shut instead and allowed Gilbert to drag him home, push him up the icy steps to prevent him from breaking his neck as he desired, and dumped him on his bed. Crispin vaguely recalled him banking his coals before the door shut and all was quiet again. In the haze of drunkenness and sleep, he wondered if he would remember any of this come morning, hoping that it was, perhaps, all a dream.

But in the morning, his head felt cracked open with a pike, with the added accompaniment of devils poking at his eyeballs with pitchforks. His belly told him to get up quickly and empty it into his chamber pot before he soiled his linens, and he jerked to his feet, pulled the pot from its place beneath his bed, and did just that. When it seemed he was hollow again, he pushed the disgusting pot away and wiped his lips. He sat back on his bum, resting his wrists loosely on his upraised knees, and tried a shaky sigh. His head still pounded but not as badly as before, and the perspiration on his face cooled his fevered brow.

He almost questioned why he had allowed himself to get this way when his memories returned to him, and along with it, his feelings of helplessness. But strangely, a tirade from Gilbert began to
filter through the self-pity and he took stock. Yes, he supposed he could succumb to futility, but Gilbert was right. He could not solve all of London’s woes, but he could find a way to stop Giles. He merely had to think it through. He could make the sheriffs see reason. Giles would slip in some way. The arrogant always did. Crispin tried not to think that more innocent lives might be sacrificed to it, but in the end, Giles would get his.

He pushed himself forward and used the bed to rise. He waited a moment to see if his stomach would churn again and was pleased that it did not appear to do so.

So Giles’s astrologer—
dead
astrologer, he corrected—had stolen the Jews’ parchments. But when he questioned him on the fate of the Golem, he did not know what Crispin was talking about. Surely it was no lie. He had spilled his guts about everything else. There would be no need to lie about this. And if this was the case, then they had nothing to do with a Golem. But if that were so, who did?

Crispin cast an eye toward his wine jug on the windowsill. Dare he? At least to get the sour taste of vomit from his mouth, surely. He took up the jug and drank from its lip. That was better. It helped to clear his head, at least that’s what he told himself.

Now what was the next step? Plan what to do about Giles. Giles had been waiting for the stars to align or some such nonsense. To what end? He was planning something. Did he murder because of the position of the stars? Tonight, at the feast of Saint Nicholas, something was supposed to happen. Then perhaps Crispin had best return to Westminster—

He touched his cotehardie and searched the small room for sign of Lancaster’s tabard. And then he remembered. He had tossed it to the ground in a fit of anger and some beggar had made off with it. Well, good for him. He would go without. Perhaps Bill Wodecock would help him enter the palace regardless.