The Demon's Parchment (5 page)

“No. Nothing.”

“If something should occur to you, I can be found on the Shambles in London.”

The man rose and bowed. “If something does, I shall so do, Master Guest.”

Crispin nodded and with a tilt of his head at Jack, they departed.

Looking out to the broad street he sighed a cloud of cold into the day. The smell of the Thames was strong here, but at least they were upwind of the privies. “Jack, I fear that questioning these shopkeepers will not yield anything of substance.”

“Are we to ask anyway?”

“Of course.”

But as Crispin suspected, the others they questioned did not know the boy nor had they heard anything untoward in the evening. The murder did not happen on the street, but in a private place where screams would not be heard.

Jack had not spoken all day unless addressed directly, and even then his replies were grunted and sullen. Crispin understood. He had never asked Jack how he had managed to survive for his many years on the streets as an orphan. He had not felt it his place to ask. He knew Jack was a clever thief, but cleverness could only take a boy so far.

“Jack,” he said kindly. “When you were . . . before we met . . . you must have known many such boys on the streets.”

Jack raised his head, squinting from the cold. Those amber eyes looked Crispin over. So clever, those eyes.

The boy pushed his palm over his reddened nose and sniffed.
“Aye, Master,” he said slowly. “You know well what I was. A beggar and a thief.” He crossed himself. “I am not proud of that,” he said mulishly, as if by rote. “But it kept me alive for four years since me mum died. A sister run off, a father I never knew. What did you expect?” The last was harsher than Crispin anticipated, and it seemed more than Jack wanted to convey. He gusted a sigh through his freckled nose and stood, feet planted, waiting for Crispin’s backlash.

But he did not strike out at the boy. Instead, he ran a thoughtful finger over his own lips. “Surely you were old enough to get work on your own. Why did you not stay with your master?”

“I didn’t have no master. Me mother worked as a scullion for a merchant. I kept the fires. When she died they threw me out. Didn’t want no part of me.”

“Could you find no similar work?”

“No. I was too angry for it. Those sarding masters. Flung me out like the dregs of a pissing pot.”

“And so you found yourself on the street. Can you tell me what a typical day was like?”

“Why?”

Jack had never looked so angry and Crispin furrowed his brow at him. “Why do you think, boy? Do you think I wish to know out of prurient curiosity? Do you forget who you are speaking to? Do you not recall that I spent many a day on the streets myself, begging for
my
meals?”

Jack’s toughened expression softened. He kicked at a dirty lump of snow, wetting the toe of his patched boot. “I . . . I reckon so.” His glance darted away from Crispin again, hiding his many secrets. “You . . . you want to know what a day was like?”

“Yes. It will help, perhaps, to follow in the footsteps of the dead child. I know what
my
days were like. But it must have been quite different from that of an eight-year-old boy.”

Jack gnawed uncertainly on a finger until Crispin dropped his
hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Let us to an alehouse, Jack. We will warm ourselves and share wine. Maybe some bread will help you decide whether to speak or no.”

Jack allowed himself to be steered toward a nearby tavern. When Crispin opened the door, the noise spilled out with a cascade of raucous laughter. The sharp tang of a reed and a drum bleated out a tune that some were singing to. It looked to be a better kept place than the Boar’s Tusk, but, to be fair, this tavern was in the shadow of Westminster Palace and the clientele were apt to be wealthier than the patrons of the Gutter Lane’s alehouse.

Crispin guided Jack to two stools by the hearth and waved to the alewife.

“Aye, good masters,” she said to them.

“Good wife, please bring a jug of wine.” Crispin handed her the coins. “And a loaf of bread, if it is not too dear.”

She examined the silver and nodded. “A loaf and wine,” she said, and left them. Alone again, they measured their surroundings. Jack said nothing, staring at the men nearby in their fine fur-trimmed gowns and long-sleeved houppelandes. From under low lids, Crispin observed Jack’s nervous movements.

At last, the woman returned, placing the round, day-old loaf on the hearth beside them, poured the wine into the bowl, and left the jug at Crispin’s feet.

He handed the bowl first to Jack, who looked up with surprise. “Go on, boy. Take it.”

With dirty fingers, Jack took the bowl and lifted it to his lips. He took a long quaff and, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, handed the bowl back. Crispin drank what was left and reached down to the jug to refill it. “Have some bread, Jack,” he said, nodding to the loaf and taking his own quaff.

Jack tore a hunk from the bread and raised it to his lips. He chewed openmouthed, staring at the floor.

“Do you wish to tell me?” asked Crispin after the boy had eaten a bit and drank another bowl.

“In truth, Master, no. But . . . because you are my master, and a good and kind one, it is fitting to help you. And so I will tell you what I know.” He clutched the hunk of bread in his hand, fingers curling protectively around it. “Before I met you, life was hard. If I was lucky enough, I found a place to spend the night. Sometimes it was a stable or sometimes a sheltered doorway. I even spent the night in privies.”

Crispin nodded into the bowl Jack passed to him. “Yes, as did I.”

The lad looked up at him in wide-eyed awe before he nodded. “Aye. Winter was the worst, but they wouldn’t keep that strict an eye on things in winter when it was cold. Keeping themselves inside all safe and tight, mostly.”

Crispin nodded again, remembering.

“In the morning,” Jack continued, “me first order of business was to find food. Church steps were crowded with men who’d just as soon slit your throat as let you beg alongside them. So I found the best place was outside alehouses. Men leaving the taverns with scraps of bread and cheese and their own bellies full would see fit to toss the rest to me. When I got good at it, I could cut a purse or two when crowds of men went in or out, but that meant I was done at that doorstep for the day. Many a lad got himself carted off to Newgate ’cause he stayed put, got greedylike, and wouldn’t move on. They were the cod-pated ones. Wouldn’t listen to nobody.” Jack tore a piece from the hunk of bread in his hand and chewed it thoughtfully. The more he talked the more relaxed he seemed to be.

“There were lots of boys,” he went on. “Some were apprentices caught stealing and tossed out by their masters. They were the worst, as they thought they was better than the rest of us and wouldn’t listen to reason.”

“Did you help one another?”

Jack shook his head unapologetically. “I ain’t no saint, Master. If’n I was to stay alive, it weren’t no charity I could be giving. I had to look out for m’self.”

Crispin nodded. He, too, had tried to band with the others. In numbers there was safety and strategy, but they had not trusted his palace accent nor his unfamiliar ideas.

“And so?” Crispin urged.

“Well, some boys were worse than others. They became more animals than men. I’d see them sniffing along the shore near the fishing boats and they’d eat the leavings. Fins and tails. They’d eat them raw like a dog. I can’t say that I blame them. Hunger is a powerful sin.”

“Yes,” murmured Crispin, taking a delicate bite of his bread, but leaving the majority for Jack.

“I . . .” Jack lowered the piece of bread to his thigh. “I was hungry enough . . . to do the same at times. The hunger can gnaw such a hole inside of you.” His voice broke and he took a bite, taking a long time to chew. Crispin looked away to give him a moment. “I—There were times, Master Crispin,” he whispered, “when I would have eaten
anything
.”

Crispin grunted his affirmation.

“There were times,” he said in that same low, pitiful voice, “that I
did
.”

He touched Jack’s sleeve.

The boy swallowed. “There were other boys . . .” He shook his head and blinked his eyes. His voice trembled, whispering. “There were other boys . . . they couldn’t find no way. They couldn’t steal enough to keep them fed. Everyone knew them. They’d let men . . .
lie
with them. There were secret stews of them. In Southwark.”

Crispin clenched his jaw. Men who would pay panderers for the use of boys. Yes, the Bankside on the opposite shore of the Thames housed all manner of filth and degradation. He knotted the hem of
his cloak. He wanted to ask, but did not have the heart for it. Who was he to judge a man? If Jack had sinned, then he had done it as a necessity. Crispin reckoned the boy had paid many times in penance—more than the beads of a rosary—if he had to stoop to such evil to keep alive under the shadow of London’s cathedrals.

“Then it is possible,” said Crispin tightly once Jack had fallen silent, “that this boy could have come from those stews?”

Jack’s pale humiliation gave way to thoughtfulness. He clamped his jaw as he ruminated and eventually shook his head. “No, Master. I do not believe that boy came from the stews.”

“And why not?”

“Th-the boys who were tied up, as this one was, they were also beaten. Not to punish. But for sport. That boy at Newgate. He wasn’t beaten.”

Crispin recalled the pale, dead flesh of the corpse in the bowels of Newgate. The boy had bruises around his neck and on his hips, but nowhere else, neither old scars nor new. “Have you . . . ever heard of the rest? The cutting? The strangulation?”

Jack shook his head. “No, Master. Sometimes a boy was lashed so badly he was no good for the house no more and was left in the streets to die. But I ain’t heard of aught like we saw.”

Crispin handed Jack a full wine bowl. “Thank you, Jack. I—It was surely difficult to tell me.”

“No one should die like that,” he said softly, almost dreamily. “That ain’t no way to die. That ain’t no way to live.”

“Indeed not. I will find this killer, Jack.”

“I know you will, sir. And I’ll be right there beside you.”

The color had come back to the boy’s freckled cheeks. Crispin was glad to see it.

He was about to offer Jack a word of encouragement when a shadow lanced over the boy’s face. Jack looked up and Crispin turned.

“Bless my wretched soul, but if it isn’t Crispin Guest.”

Crispin stiffened. These encounters were few, but when he did come upon an acquaintance from his past, he did not usually bear it well. He rose to hide his discomfiture and because the man was a lord and it would not do to sit in his presence, even though once upon a time he was perfectly within his rights to do so.

“Giles,” he said with a rigid bow.

“My Lord
de Risley,
” the man corrected with a smirk. “At least in front of these—” and he motioned to the room. Giles smiled warily. His beard followed the curve of his jaw in a thin, tight line as did his neatly coiffed mustache.

Crispin’s cheeks burned. “Of course . . . my
lord
.” And he bowed again. Jack scrambled to his feet and looked from Giles to Crispin worriedly.

“Crispin,” he said, ignoring Jack. Giles looked Crispin up and down not seeming to notice Crispin fisting his hands close to his sides. “It has been many a day since I’ve seen you last,” said Giles. “When I heard the news of your arrest all those years ago, it tore at my heart.”

Crispin nodded. What could he say?

“But I am glad to see that you live.” He offered a warmer smile. “How fare you? Are you well?” Without waiting for an answer, he sidled closer, looking around at the crowded tavern. “But Crispin. So close to court? Is that wise? The king . . .” The smile was back. “But of course, you were always a bit wild, weren’t you? Never one to hide. To take the easy path. Was it not so in our jousting days? You were the one who always took risks, always getting hurt—”

“Always besting
you
.” It was Crispin’s turn to smirk.

Giles’s expression tightened before he released a laugh. “I suppose you did win most of our contests. But not the fair Margaret.”

It was Crispin’s turn to lose his smile. Did Giles have to remind
him of those days? Margaret had been Crispin’s lover and she had left his bed for Giles’s. It wasn’t Giles’s fault, of course. She was fickle. And Giles flaunted his wealth, giving expensive gifts. Margaret was a fool for it. But it had stung, nonetheless.

Giles moved toward Jack’s seat and took it, paying little attention to Jack struggling to get out of his way. The man sat wide-legged on the stool and warmed his hands at the hearth. “Sit with me, Crispin. God’s eyes but I am glad to see you. May we share wine?” Giles leaned forward and rested his arms on his thighs. He took up the empty bowl and waited. Crispin shot a glance at Jack and the boy quickly filled it. “When was the last time we met? Do you recall?”

“Nine years ago,” he said, sitting. “A tourney at Aquitaine, I believe. I unhorsed you and we fought on foot.”

Giles smiled and drank. “Yes. I think it was a draw.”

It wasn’t, but Crispin let it lie.

“Yes,” Giles went on. “What a bitter opponent you were. You had an unusual style. Learned at the knee of some Frenchman.”

“My Lord of Gaunt taught me, my lord. All that I learned of warfare and swordsmanship came from the duke personally.”

“Well, we all know Lancaster has devious ways.”

Crispin scoured the room quickly. No one had caught their intimate conversation. If they had, many more would have come to the aid of the duke of Lancaster’s honor. As it was, Crispin was hard-pressed to defend it himself these days.

He had bested Giles in all their endeavors, save the one with Margaret, but it was mostly on the lists, where cleverness often won the day over brute strength. If de Risley had ever bothered to learn that lesson, he could have won over Crispin in their many tournaments or even on the battlefield. More often than not, Crispin had captured several knights to ransom, where as Giles de Risley had killed his prey, thus leaving him with nothing to earn. Too impatient
was Sir Giles, looking for the easy way rather than the better part.