The Demon’s Parchment cg-3

by Jeri Westerson

  Crispin smiled. “This game will be over in nine moves.”

  Nicholas chortled. “Indeed? Pride, Master Guest, is one of the Seven Deadly Sins.”

  “It is not pride, my Lord Abbot, but the truth. ‘Plato is dear to me, but dearer still is Truth.’ ”

  The abbot’s eyes sparkled. “Your Aristotle seems more dear to you. It is not wise to put your faith in one voice, and a pagan one at that, Crispin. ‘Beware the man of one book.’ So says Saint Thomas Aquinas.”

  Crispin gave him a sidelong look before reaching over the pieces to move his knight.

  “Always you move the knight,” muttered Nicholas, his watery eyes scanning the players.

  “The knight is an enterprising fellow.”

  Nicholas quirked an eyebrow before returning his gaze to the board. “No doubt.” He dithered his hand over several pieces before deciding on his bishop. “But I fear you did not come here to simply play a game of chess with me, much as it would cheer me to think it.”

  Crispin could not help the frown that shifted his mouth. “No, Nicholas. Would that I had the leisure.” He moved his knight again, keeping his eyes downcast. He felt the man staring at him.

  “What then, I wonder?” Both hands clutched at the board’s edge until he started to tap each finger randomly. “I wonder what you are up to?” The idle conversation seemed to be more about the board game than Crispin’s presence. He smiled when the old abbot finally moved a piece.

  Crispin took his knight and slid it into place. “Grave matters, Nicholas.” He leaned forward and said quietly, “Have you heard of the murdered boy found in the Thames a few days ago?”

  Nicholas crossed himself. “It grieves me to hear of it. But it does my heart good to know that you are investigating. You are, are you not?”

  “I am. But there are . . . other considerations. I came for information about matters I know little of.”

  “God grant that I can give you the right and proper information you need,” he said before moving a pawn.

  Crispin stared at it and gauged the board again. “Just so. What can you tell me about Jews and Jewish religious customs?”

  Nicholas drew back as if burned. “Jews? What tidings are these? Do you think Jews are to blame? But there are none left on these shores.”

  “That may be true, but I have reason to believe the murder might involve these people nonetheless.”

  Nicholas took a deep breath, but his otherwise pale skin blushed in agitation. “All of the Jews did not leave with King Edward’s exile, you know. Many took up Christ in the waters of baptism and were allowed to remain. They live in the House of Converts. At least, the newer converts do.”

  “And where do they come from?”

  “The occasional traveler and merchant. Those who stay must convert.” Nicholas frowned. “There have been rumors,” said Nicholas almost to himself. “Well, what does it matter? It was so long ago. Even so, there are those within the Church who—” His brows rose and he appeared to remember Crispin’s presence. He resettled himself and offered a brief smile. “There are even things I am not at liberty to discuss with you, no matter how you use your wiles on me.”

  “Wiles, Nicholas? Have I used my wiles on you?”

  “Many a time, you fox.”

  But Crispin now pondered what Nicholas had not said, trying to ferret out what it might mean. He kept his features neutral.

  “You wish to know of their customs,” said the abbot. “But to understand that, you must understand why they were banished from these shores in the first place. I can assure you, it was wholly justified. Have you never heard the tales of Saint William of Norwich or Saint Hugh of Lincoln?”

  “These saints are familiar to me,” said Crispin vaguely. He pushed one of his pawns forward. “But I confess, I do not recall the details.”

  “I shall enlighten you, then. William of Norwich was a very devout boy, singing the praises of our Lady both night and day. He was a tanner’s apprentice and was forced to frequent the Jews’ Street in Norwich. His holy praises angered the Jews and they rose up as one and slew him, tossing his body upon a dungheap. But even in death, he continued to sing the Alma Redemptoris Mater. This was his first miracle. The Jews were accused of his torture and murder and many were slain that day in just retribution.” He toyed with his castle and, finally realizing it was in his hand, set it back on its square.

  Crispin frowned at the board. He could well see how the townsfolk would be angered by such an act, but it was not well to rise up as a mob. Best to let the authorities handle the situation. The crown was, no doubt, unsettled by the affair. “And what of this other, this Saint Hugh?”

  “Little Saint Hugh. Another child, an innocent. Slain by a Jewish child who confessed that it was the custom to crucify a Christian boy once a year at the Passover.”

  “I thought Little Saint Hugh was found in a well.”

  “Perhaps he was crucified and then tossed into the well.”

  “If this was so, then why were there not more stories of Christian boys crucified?”

  Crispin watched Nicholas move his castle. “What makes you think there were not?”

  “Because I have never heard of such.”

  “I am certain the stories are somewhere.” Nicholas shook his head. “Those were difficult times, Crispin. I am not sorry they are over. It is best that Jews remain exiled from England so the taint of usury and godlessness can no longer thrive here.”

  No, indeed, thought Crispin with a scowl. Godless murder and thievery certainly do not thrive in London. But Abbot Nicholas had gone on, heedless of his guest’s discomfiture.

  “The edict gave them ample time to prepare, to sell their lands and gather their goods.” Crispin could well imagine. Selling their land to Englishmen who could demand any price, knowing the Jew had to sell and had to leave. What bargains there must have been that summer of 1290.

  Not that he was sympathizing. He, too, found the matter distasteful. The image in his mind of the greedy Jew and now the blood-lusting Jew ran deep, even though, he admitted grudgingly, it did not complement the portrait of the benign physician who had hired him.

  “In Avignon, the Jews thrive,” Crispin heard himself saying.

  Nicholas shrugged. “Yes. But ways are different in France.”

  “Would you send them packing again to some other place or simply slay them all?”

  “I do not like to speak of death. And our venerable Saint Bernard of Clairvaux once said, ‘Whosoever touches a Jew to take his life, is like one who harms Jesus himself.’ ”

  “Hmpf,” said Crispin. “Do you believe that?” Nicholas shrugged again. “A bitter potion, then. One cannot slay them and one cannot live beside them. What, then, should one do?”

  “Allow the crown to deal with it, as it has.”

  “Let it be someone else’s problem?”

  “Precisely.”

  Grunting his reply, Crispin moved his knight, grasped the goblet into his hand, and took a sip before he declared, “Check and mate.”

  “What?” Nicholas’s head swung back and forth as he studied each piece scattered upon the board. His frown wrinkled his forehead up to the feathery gray hair and down again to his thick brows. “Bless me!” he breathed at last. With a finger, he tipped his king and it fell to the board, rolling into the bishop and nearly toppling him. “Bless me. That was well played.” He snatched up his goblet and comforted himself in the wine.

  “Facts, my Lord Abbot,” said Crispin and set his goblet aside. “Not pride.”

  Nicholas shook his head and began to replace his pieces into their proper starting points. “The oddities of their Jewish customs,” he continued. “We cannot reconcile it. Do they not see that they condemn themselves for their demon ways? That they crucified our Lord was enough to tie the millstone about their necks. But to continue this atrocious sin of killing innocent boys—”

  And more, thought Crispin, but he was unwilling to discuss it. “My Lord Abbot, have
you ever heard of a Golem?”

  “A goblin?”

  “No, a Golem. Part of their Jewish magic.”

  The old man shook his head. “No, no. Best stay clear of that, Master Guest. It is unwise to mix yourself in their monstrous ways. We can little understand the mind of the Jew let alone his magic.”

  Frowning, Crispin agreed. Ultimately, he was not interested in their rituals. Only if such things were possible. And then he chided himself. He had never believed in its like before. Why should he toy with the notion now?

  “You have given me much to contemplate,” said Crispin. “These rituals of crucifixion. I wonder if any other torture might have been mentioned.”

  “I have the text of Thomas of Monmouth who related these and other tales. Would you like to borrow it?”

  Crispin stood. “Very much so.”

  The abbot lifted himself from his chair and bustled to his shelves, looking over the leather-bound manuscripts before he found the one he wanted. Carefully, he lifted the book from its place and returned to Crispin, handing it to him. Crispin grasped it in both hands, feeling the weight of it. He missed having books. He had gathered a fair few in his library at Sheen. Many of them had been given to him by the duke of Lancaster. He knew how precious such a thing was and how much the abbot trusted him. He bowed to the old monk. “I am deeply grateful, Abbot Nicholas.”

  Nicholas waved him off. “Anything to find the murderer of that child.” He laid his hand on the leather cover. The etched designs were dark from age. “Thomas was a contemporary of those events almost one hundred years ago. His writing is very clear.”

  “Thank you, Nicholas. I will take good care of this.”

  “I know you will. Here. Let me give you a scrip.” The abbot retrieved a leather pouch hanging by its strap near the door. Crispin slipped the book inside and slung it over his shoulder, the strap cutting diagonally across his chest. “Until next time, Crispin. And perhaps I will best you on the chessboard.”

  Crispin glanced at the board with all its players carefully arranged to begin a new match. He smiled as he bowed again. “You can certainly try, my Lord Abbot.”

  * * *

  Armed with this new information, Crispin left the abbey and stood on the snow-pocked square. And so. There was precedent for the ritual blood-letting of Christian children by Jews. He hefted the book, thinking. Jews no longer lived in England. He didn’t hold much store in Abbot Nicholas’s rumors. It wouldn’t be easy for Jews to hide themselves, the food they ate, or their houses of worship. Londoners lived too close together. Each parish knew the doings of each of its citizens. But Jews did live in certain areas of France and Lombardy, and Crispin had frequented those places in his travels with Lancaster. He had never heard of such murders before and certainly there would have been an outcry.

  Still, his mind seized on images of the sour Julian. A ritual murder. Yes, the boy was angry enough. But if only one a year was needed, why had there been four deaths? And there was never a mention on the Coroner’s rolls of signs of crucifixion in these murders, even if other unspeakable acts had been committed.

  He adjusted the strap across his chest and surveyed the street. Westminster Palace lay ahead but he could not enter without the duke’s livery. He had to wait for that disguise in order to speak to the servants within about any stolen parchments.

  How he hated waiting.

  “By the rood,” said a voice behind him.

  Crispin turned. A man in a splendid houppelande of rich velvet sat astride his mount, speaking to another man beside him.

  “What is Crispin Guest doing so close to the palace?” said the man, staring into Crispin’s narrowed eyes.

  He had the presence of mind to bow to these men he did not recognize. “I was just—” he gestured toward the abbey, but never finished his sentence.

  The man dismounted and the other man followed suit. His mocking smile faded and a scowl replaced it. “You have no leave to be near the palace, Traitor Guest. For any reason.”

  Crispin’s guard was up, his senses now attuned and sharpened to every sound, every movement around him on the street. How he hated these encounters! He didn’t even know this lord’s name, but it made little difference. Every knave with a shield on his arm knew that Crispin was as vulnerable as a deer. It was their little game to take a stab at him from time to time.

  The man strode up to him, flanked by his amused companion and his horse. The man was dark with a close-trimmed beard, a scarlet rondelle hat with a ridiculously long liripipe tail, draped across his chest and over his shoulder, not once but twice.

  His companion was young and clean-shaven like Crispin. He had the air of one who was a servant or steward, not quite the equal of his companion. His hair under his hat was the color of wheat in the rain. He was diminutive and delicate, with thin limbs and long fingers. He had the blush of an accent when he spoke quietly to the dark-haired man. Flemish?

  The dark-haired lord stood toe to toe with Crispin, looking him up and down. “What mischief are you perpetrating now, Guest? Hmm? What trouble do you cause?”

  “Trouble, my lord? I swear by God himself that I am after no trouble.”

  “Yet you’ve found it nonetheless.” He leaned into Crispin and snarled stale breath into his face. “Traitors should not have leave to walk the streets.” He shoved hard and Crispin fell backward, splayed into the muddy snow.

  The man stood over him, laughing quietly, dangerously. His blond-haired companion lost his amusement and suddenly looked anxious.

  The lord drew his blade. Crispin felt his heart battering his chest. Flaring his nostrils, he inhaled his own sharp sweat and the wretchedly cold air that filled his lungs until they felt as heavy as wineskins. His eyes darted from one man to the other. Was he to be killed in the street like a dog? His fingers scrabbled in the mud, clutching at nothing.

  Crispin watched the sword point approach his face and hover over his nose. He pressed himself into the mud to keep as far away from the steel as possible. The blade moved down his neck, hovered over his chest, tucked into the edge of his mantle, and, with a flick, cast it aside. “What a disgusting coat, Guest. Filthy. Are you not shamed to be seen in the streets thus?”

  Crispin held his breath, pressing himself into the mud.

  “You chose badly, Crispin. You did not plot and plan. You did not prepare. God did not smile upon you. No, indeed. He turns away from the weak. The strong find the power—”

  “My lord!” hissed the wheat-haired man.

  “Master Cornelius. Worry not. I can say what I like to this cur.”

  The blade continued, slowly edging down Crispin’s body until it drifted over his scrip. The point poked it and then flitted away. “What have we here?”

  The man leaned down and untied Crispin’s scrip, throwing the flap aside. He reached in and pulled out the book the abbot had given him only moments before.

  He opened the cover and read a moment before looking down at him again. “Thomas of Monmouth? Where did you get this book? Did you steal it?” The blade was back, aiming at his chest.

  “No, my lord,” he said between gritted teeth. “The Abbot of Westminster loaned it to me—”

  “You lie,” said the man, sounding bored. “For why would the Abbot of Westminster have aught to do with you?”

  “He’s my friend!” said Crispin more harshly than he intended.

  “Your friend?” The man made sport of the word through his malleable features. “Loaning you valuable books? You?” He looked at his companion. A small crowd began to gather just outside their circle. “Another lie, Guest. So many lies. So many secrets. It is a wonder that no one has put you out of your misery before now.” His face contorted into an unpleasant leer. The blond man glared at him, but his warning look went unheeded.

  For the first time in a long time, Crispin genuinely feared for his life. This man clearly outranked him. It was impossible for him to defend himself. He was very nearly above the law. Above any law that w
ould see them punished for finishing off the likes of Crispin on the naked street.

  And Crispin didn’t even know his name!

  He glanced desperately at the hooded faces surrounding their little tableau. Dull-witted workmen with slack mouths, frightened shopkeepers, and men passing by on horses. Spectators only. There was absolutely no one who would step forward to save him. No one of sufficient rank, at any rate, who would care to try.

  The man smiled. “Guest,” he said, bringing the blade closer and pressing the tip into his neck. He felt the tip pierce the flesh with a sharp twinge. “Shall I? Take you out of this workaday world and send you to a far greater reward? Unless, of course, you think Hell awaits. Which is the greater punishment, then?” He pressed deeper. Crispin choked, trying to keep his neck taut. “Beg for your life and I will be generous.”

  That was the wrong thing to say. Crispin clenched his jaw. If die he must, this was as good a way as any. He almost spit at the man but he could not move his head without spearing his own throat.

  “Radulfus!”

  The dark lord turned. Giles de Risley scrambled off his mount, grabbed the man’s arm, and pulled him back. “What, by the saints, are you doing?”

  “Just a bit of sport, coz. I saw this traitor close to the palace and thought to waylay him.”

  Giles looked horrified. “You fool!” He turned to Crispin but before he could make a move to help him up, another pair rode up to the back of the crowd.

  “What goes on here?” A voice Crispin never expected to hear. Nicholas Exton and John Froshe appeared when the crowd parted. The former was mounted on a gray horse and the latter on a white one. They both tried a glare at the proceedings with little success.

  “Lord Sheriff,” said Radulfus mildly with barely a glance behind. He shouldered Giles aside and pressed his blade to Crispin’s throat again. “I am merely disposing of a rodent. London is so full of them.”