The Demon’s Parchment cg-3

by Jeri Westerson

  “I am not a lord,” he replied automatically.

  “You are to me, good sir.”

  “And to me,” said a woman’s voice, the one who soothed his brow with a cool hand.

  The small feeling of satisfaction was offset by his bewilderment. He had been embroiled in a violent encounter with that vile stranger. Once down, he had not expected to rise again, but obviously, he had somehow come out the victor. “Where is that man? The would-be abductor?”

  “Gone,” said the woman at his side. “Once you fell, he and his man made off.”

  A mercy, then. His head felt an ache like an ax slowly wedging further into his skull. A small mercy.

  “I do not suppose there is such a thing as wine?” he asked hopefully, closing his eyes against the throbbing pain.

  Not long after his plea, something was pressed against his lips. He gulped it gratefully before it was pulled away. He opened his eyes carefully again and tried to make sense of his new surroundings. The room looked to be a workroom of sorts, with shuttered windows through which dim light filtered in angled, pale shafts. Heavy beams held up wide rafters. Benches lined one wall.

  “What . . . is this place?”

  Glances were exchanged above him. Worried brows told him he would not receive the truth. He looked them over: men, women, children. Wardrobes of every stripe, from that of servants to the rich in furs like a merchants’ garb. What the devil? Could this still be Chancery Lane, or had he been brought elsewhere? His eye snagged on a man who immediately slipped behind another, ducking his face. Even Crispin’s pounding head could not hide the fact that he recognized that face. But from where? His muzzy mind would not allow him to sift out the answer. He dropped his forehead into his palm, trying to squeeze away the pain. He’d give up all the gold in the world for relief from the splitting ache in his poor head . . . wait. Gold? Goldsmith! He raised his head again and speared the man with a narrow-eyed stare. “I know you. You’re—” What was the name? “Middleton. Matthew Middleton.”

  Accusing faces turned toward the hapless goldsmith trying to become smaller behind a man with a broad hat.

  Crispin rose and rested back on his elbows. “Days ago I questioned you. About the dead boy. You’re that goldsmith.”

  The man eased away from the others, his hands placating gently. “Aye, good sir. I am he.”

  “What are you doing here? What is this place?”

  Middleton looked to the others and cautiously approached. “A place of safety, Master Crispin. We are indebted to you for saving the boy. Surely when you are well enough you can be on your way.”

  Crispin pushed the soothing hand away and sat up, throwing his legs over the side of the pallet. It was a mistake. His head swam but there was nothing for it.

  It also did not go without Crispin’s notice that the crowd blocked his way out.

  He gripped the pallet and slowly rose. “I thank you all for this kindness. . . .”

  “It is we who thank you, sir,” said the woman who had ministered to him. Probably the lad’s mother. From her apron she brought forth Crispin’s bloodied knife. She offered it hilt first.

  Crispin took it and sheathed it. Apparently he was to be released after all. He moved unsteadily forward and the crowd parted for him. But their desperate faces, their furtive looks toward one another, were an uncomfortable mystery. There was more to this gathering than the relief of a boy’s salvation. He looked again at the long, rich gowns, the tattered tunics. “Tell me who you are.”

  “Master, please,” said Middleton, the reluctant spokesman. “It is best you leave and think of us no more.”

  “This I cannot do. I have sworn to protect those in London. So, too, am I compelled by my knightly vows. And protect you I shall. If you fear retribution for your actions, do not. I am your witness to an attempted abduction. I have the ear of the sheriff.” Which was not strictly true but could be managed.

  Minutely, those near the exit shouldered closer. Something was definitely amiss. In one instant, they seemed to be ushering him out and the next, preventing his departure. “Am I being held against my will?”

  “No, good sir,” said Middleton. His anxious expression and beaded forehead did little to allay Crispin’s anxiety.

  “Then explain yourselves. You would do well to tell me now. Did you know that man who attacked the boy?”

  As one they shook their heads. Some cast their eyes to the polished wooden floor.

  “I see,” said Crispin. “How can I help you if I cannot get the truth?”

  “Master Crispin,” begged Middleton. “Please. Just leave us in peace.”

  “And I would if my way was not barred.” He glanced again to the men at the door. They seemed confused as to what to do.

  “Shall I bring the law on this place?”

  “No!” Middleton pressed his hands into fists.

  “Master Crispin!” The boy was at his side.

  He looked down at the earnest child tugging at his coat. He had freckles across the bridge of his nose and cheeks, much like Jack’s. He couldn’t be much younger than the cutpurse. “You mustn’t bring the sheriffs,” the boy went on. “They’re not to know—”

  “John!” cried the mother. She reached a trembling hand for the boy.

  “No, mother. I can tell him. He’s the Tracker. He protects good folk. I’ve heard the stories.”

  “John,” said Middleton urgently. “Listen to your mother.”

  “Let the boy speak,” said Crispin slyly. He knelt before the boy and took his shoulders gently. “Go on. What is it you would tell me, lad?”

  “You mustn’t tell about us,” said the boy. His grave expression reminded far too much of Jack Tucker.

  “I cannot promise until I know your meaning.”

  The boy licked his lips. His dark eyes blinked rapidly. “But sir,” he whispered. “We could die.”

  As much as Crispin wanted to, he could not look away from those earnest eyes. Against his better judgment, he said, “Then I promise, child. I will keep my own counsel.”

  The boy sighed with relief. “I knew you would, good sir. You are like the knights in the songs.” Crispin felt the air in the room fall still. No one seemed to breathe. The boy leaned forward and whispered as if they were the only two present. “Because we are Jews, sir. It’s to remain a secret, you see. Now you understand why you mustn’t tell?”

  10

  Crispin felt his mouth fall open. He had no need to confirm the boy’s pronouncement. The collective breaths of the crowd were still held, the tension taut in the air.

  But the boy seemed satisfied that his deadly secret would be safe with Crispin. He smiled and nodded his assurances. Crispin wished he could be as certain.

  Slowly, he straightened and finally raised his eyes to the gathering of men and women. But surely these were Englishmen! They couldn’t be Jews. The edict that had banished them had been clear. The scourge was vanquished from the land almost a hundred years ago.

  He looked down at the boy again. The discomfort he had felt in Jacob’s company could not now be summoned. He found it difficult to call the boy before him a “scourge.”

  Maybe this was the Domus Conversorum, the House of Converts. These were all converts, then.

  But with another search of their anxious faces and John’s confident one, Crispin rather thought not.

  “God’s blood,” he breathed.

  “M-master Guest,” ventured Middleton.

  Crispin flicked a wary gaze his way.

  “You have sworn an oath to the boy. We have all heard it.”

  Crispin barked a laugh. He couldn’t help it. He was well and truly caught. It could have been a headache-induced illusion. People who should not have existed on English soil were here, right before him. It was laughable.

  “How has this remained a secret?”

  Everyone seemed to breathe again. The men at the doorway eased back. Someone poured more wine into Crispin’s bowl and he didn’t think twice about t
aking it. He drank it down and sank to the pallet. Middleton, whom the others had urged closer, sat beside him. Crispin felt no distaste this time. Funny. Was it the wine? Or perhaps the blow to his head had been harder than he thought.

  “Master Guest. I know this is difficult. But if you let me explain then surely you can see, surely you will have mercy.”

  “You, all of you, trespass on the king’s law.”

  “We are London born and raised, sir. Just like you.”

  About to object, Crispin spied the boy, who was looking at him with that damned air of certainty. These people mocked the king by their presence. He had a duty to inform the sheriff at the very least. But the boy’s eyes threatened any sense of his duty to the crown.

  John took Crispin’s empty bowl from his hand with a curt bow.

  “Very well, Master Middleton. You had best tell me and quickly.”

  Middleton clenched his hands together. “It began with the Edict of King Edward.” His voice was tinny, small. “All Jews were to convert or to leave. You can imagine the uproar. The heartache. Land that our families had held for generations suddenly snatched from our hands. Our homes, sold to others.” Crispin squirmed. “We had to leave the bones of our ancestors behind. We paid heavy fines to the king, paid our own passage to France and to whatever country would take us. We carried what was left as well as our faith to other places. But there were some who took the waters of baptism and lived in the Domus Conversorum, not far from here. The House of Converts. These were our grandsires and great-grandsires. Many became devoted to the Christian life. But still many others lived as best they could as Christians outwardly, but inwardly, where none could see, lived as our forefathers, preserving the traditions of our faith.”

  Middleton paused, gauging Crispin’s reaction.

  But Crispin did not know what to think. Not a man of deep faith, he felt only mild distaste at false Christians, but the uneasy feeling in his belly might just as easily be attributed to the other things Middleton was saying. He had never thought about the details before, never imagined uprooting children and families for places unknown with little but what they could carry. Yes, he had seen such an exodus after battles and thought little of it. These were the conquered. It was right that they were sent away. In the Holy Land, were not Christians exiled by the pagan Saracen?

  The faces before him were not as he expected. They did not reek of evil or evil intentions. They did not sneer derisively as did the petulant Julian. They seemed like Englishmen.

  His neck hairs bristled.

  When Crispin had been exiled from court, he had at least been allowed to stay in London among the familiar. But to be exiled to a foreign kingdom . . .

  His head hurt. That was it. That was why these revelations were turning his stomach.

  Either that or the Jewish wine.

  He said nothing, waiting for Middleton to continue. The man looked as if he could use some wine himself. “And so . . . you see us here.” His gesture included the assembled. “One hundred years later. We make no trouble. We respect where we live. Though we have no rabbi, no spiritual leader, our parish leaders read the Torah in Hebrew to the assembly. At least as much of it as we were able to acquire. We keep the traditions but we keep out of the way. It is always all we ever wanted.”

  Crispin glanced at the boy again. The young face was serene, fresh in the knowledge that his savior, Crispin, would also be his champion. He wetted his lips. “Have . . . have you been missing any boys, Master Middleton?”

  He shook his head. “No, Master. And we are grateful that John was spared today.”

  Crispin considered. Boys snatched from the streets. Was the man who wanted the parchment responsible for the other four deaths? Was John to be the fifth?

  Or are there two men abducting boys?

  And where did this Golem fit in?

  Exhausted, Crispin sighed. “Then this man who tried to abduct the boy. I ask again. Do you know him?”

  “We do not,” said Middleton.

  “Did any of you know the missing boys?”

  They all shook their heads. This was getting him nowhere. He rose—a little more steadily this time, though his head did not hurt any less. What was he to do? How could he keep something so grave a secret? Was he not in enough trouble with the crown? Yet he had given his word, and if he had not his word, then he had nothing at all.

  He glared at these faces. These Jewish faces. And the thought, dark and sticky, finally occurred to him. Oh they were benign, weren’t they? They with their humble spokesman and innocent-looking boy with a face like Jack Tucker. But this Golem, this demon, came from the minds of people such as these. A Golem would do the bidding of its maker, so said Jacob of Provençal. The missing boys had not been Jewish. So then this Golem was snatching good Christian boys for its mischief—

  Wait.

  What was he thinking? He rubbed the back of his aching head. He did not believe in this Golem. No, he did not! Despite what he thought he saw, he could not believe in such an outlandish thing.

  And yet, if they believed it . . .

  “I have one more question.” He took in each solemn face, each studied expression. “Have any of you ever heard of a . . . Golem?”

  There was a gasp and the faces around him broke into wide-eyed fear.

  “We do not speak of such things,” said a man with a rondelle hat.

  “Indeed,” said Crispin with a sneer. “Well, I am speaking of it. Who amongst you knows how to make a Golem? You already admitted to knowledge of Hebrew.”

  The gathering fell to silence. No one so much as breathed. Even young John was hauled against a hip and hugged into silence.

  “No one, eh?” Crispin walked a slow circle, staring into each face. Eyes fell away from him with something like guilt. “These things can be discovered. Who amongst you has access to court?”

  Again, silence.

  Crispin scowled. “If none of you will talk, it will go badly for all of you. Speak. I will not hold responsible the entire community if you give up the one.”

  But Crispin slowly realized that this was the wrong thing to say. Middleton raised his chin and stared defiantly. Others lifted their faces and soon Crispin found himself surrounded by a wall of rebellious people.

  On the one hand, he was furious with them for their defiance. But on the other, he admired their fortitude.

  “I have seen it,” said Crispin.

  A woman holding and jiggling a baby over her shoulder shushed her companion who tried to hold her back. “What is your meaning? You saw . . . the Golem?”

  There were sounds of protest, and a grouse or two about women holding their tongues.

  “Yes,” said Crispin in a strong voice. “I have seen the Golem. He was large, broad-shouldered, with a small head. There was clay. . . .”

  Whispers rumbled through the crowd and more than one gaze fell from Crispin’s.

  They know something. A quick glance toward Middleton revealed his startlement. And something more. Recognition?

  “I tell you now,” warned Crispin. “If you are harboring this thing or concealing its whereabouts, I cannot be held responsible as to what happens to you. Speak!”

  But the whisperings ceased and Crispin was right back where he started. Stubborn, these Jews.

  He settled one hand on the hilt of his dagger. “For the time being, I see no reason to inform the sheriff of your . . . little community. But I cannot promise complete anonymity. Should it prove relevant to this case, I do not see how it can remain a secret.”

  Middleton licked his chapped lips. “But if it is not—”

  “I cannot speculate. Everything is relevant.” He pushed forward and the people stumbled out of his way. “I thank you for your assistance,” he tossed out. He felt unaccountably stifled and needed air. The crowd allowed him through the door into a smaller parlor where a servant was lighting a candle on a sideboard. The room was plain but clean, with a tapestry of a leaf and vine pattern hanging above the
sideboard. Blank walls, walls devoid of crucifixes or saintly portraits. The image chased him out the door to a courtyard of pruned rosebushes and brown, tangled vines. It was a perfectly normal courtyard. But the absence of shrines or of statues suddenly stood out like a green leaf on the white snow.

  He walked backward, looking at its darkening shadows from behind as he drew further away. What to make of this! The London he thought he knew was becoming more foreign by the moment.

  Crispin trotted across the lane and propped himself against a post. A nearby brazier warmed his left flank. Night had fallen during the time of his convalescence and he was glad for the wrong-side-out tabard that helped to keep him warm.

  He surveyed the street from where he had come. Chancery Lane. It had been known as the Jews’ Street long ago and was even vaguely referred to as such in disparaging tones. No one was on the street now. The fog had thickened and shrouded the avenue in gray mist. The dark shapes of houses rose above the street like sharp-steepled gargoyles, looming near one another in some iniquitous coven. Yellow light limned shuttered windows and the occasional spark let loose and flew from a crooked chimney. But all else was dark and cold and lonely.

  On the one hand were these Jews, who seemed aware of a Golem. But it was no fabled Golem whom Crispin had witnessed snatching a boy from the street. He had seen that nameless man with his own eyes, fought with him and saved the boy from some horrible fate. It would explain an anonymous carriage when a horse would do. Unspeakable acts could be accomplished in a closed wagon drawn through deserted alleys. But why then had the man entertained Crispin within it? To taunt him? He thought of Giles’s cousin and knew the answer to that. Such men needed to taunt, to prove themselves in ways that could not be achieved on the lists or among men of character.

  If this so-called bishop devoured these boys then what was his purpose?

  And what, by the mass, did it have to do with Hebrew parchments? Did this bishop want a Golem to serve his disgusting habits or . . .

  Crispin stopped, his thoughts overwhelming him. Perhaps the old Jew was lying. Perhaps he had made this Golem but lost the means to control it when his parchments were stolen. Then who has the parchments now?