He’d gotten halfway across the hall when he heard Giles’s voice hailing Lancaster. The hall was crowded with those begging audiences, clerks, servants, pages, and lords. One more liveried servant would be beneath Giles’s notice, and, Crispin hoped, Lancaster’s.
The duke turned a narrowed-eyed gaze toward Giles. “De Risley.”
Giles was with that thin, wheat-haired man, and the stockier dark fellow, Radulfus, who had taunted Crispin in the courtyard.
“Your grace,” said Giles with a deep bow. His compatriots followed suit. “I wondered. Had you had an opportunity to look into the monies the king promised to me from my uncle’s estate?”
Crispin could only see the back of him, but he recognized well the stiffening in Lancaster’s shoulders and the growl undertone to his voice. “I was not aware, my lord, that I was your personal banker.”
“No indeed, your grace,” he said. “It is just that you have the ear of the king, and since these funds were promised to me—”
“You throw the term lightly, my lord. ‘Promised?’ I know of no such promise from his Majesty. Your relations had the greater right to your uncle’s funds and lands. I think, rather, that you should take it up with them.”
“But your grace! That is impossible, as you surely know! They have turned their backs on me, foreswearing their oaths as kinsmen—”
Lancaster yawned. “That is troubling news. Then I am at a loss, de Risley.”
“But your grace—” Giles reached for Lancaster’s arm. The scowl the duke delivered was monumental. Giles slowly unwound his fingers from Lancaster’s sleeve.
The duke said nothing more, did not even grace de Risley with a look, before he swept away.
Giles grimaced after him. His fellows crowded closer and spat an oath. He talked in bitter whispers to his companions. “And so you see my dilemma.”
“The bastard,” said Radulfus, sneering after Lancaster. Crispin felt an unnatural rage, but held himself back from knocking the man’s head with his dagger hilt. “So our little games continue.”
“As entertaining as they are,” said Giles, worriedly, “they are not working!”
“I have told you, my lord,” said the birdlike, fair-haired man. “These things take time.”
“I spent everything I had on the Guest Manor,” he growled. Crispin stiffened. He could not help taking a step closer. “And some money I took that was not my own,” he said, voice lowered. “It was supposed to be temporary. I was supposed to be able to pay it back without notice. You promised me—”
“I told you, my lord, that the planets were not yet aligned. We should have waited until the next new moon—”
“You and your star charts!” Giles looked around and Crispin turned swiftly, feigning a search across the crowded hall. Giles clutched the man’s arm. Crispin surmised this small fellow to be his astrologer. The man always did have a soft spot for such foolery. But what was this about borrowing money? Had Giles paupered himself buying Crispin’s lands? It warmed Crispin’s heart that Giles somehow wished to preserve his estate from other snatching hands. But Giles should not have overextended himself.
He took a quick glance at the cousin, Radulfus, who was adjusting the long liripipe of his scarlet hat. Perhaps he had put Giles up to it. Giles always was gullible about certain things, especially about money. More often than not he took up with the wrong sort, making the wrong choices.
Carefully, Crispin backed up until he could hear them again. “I must do this thing. We must be able to call upon our lord. Only He can help me. Our funds are dwindling.”
So Giles had a patron? That would explain where he got the extra money for the lands. But had he borrowed a little too much? Apparently, Giles had wagered on this uncle’s funds that had not been bequeathed to him. Foolish. What was Radulfus urging Giles to do?
Crispin shuffled as close to them as he dared.
“I think you are a fool, Cornelius,” said Radulfus to the astrologer. “What have the stars to do with it at all? You are a liar. You have always been a liar!”
The young astrologer ruffled like an affronted guinea fowl.
“Now, now, dear cousin,” said Giles. “Keep your voice down. You know his Majesty barely tolerates us. And for that, I lay the blame at your feet!”
Radulfus snorted. “Blame me all you like, but it does not change the fact that we have not been invited to Christmas in Sheen.”
“But fear not, coz. We will be at my home at the Guest Manor.”
“When will you stop calling it the ‘Guest Manor’?” spat the man. “Is it not the de Risley Manor now?”
Giles made some sort of noise and Crispin smiled to himself. It will always be the Guest Manor, he chortled inside.
“Of course,” said Giles, recovering. “The de Risley Manor. We will be a stone’s throw from his Majesty. We will be close enough when the festivities begin and he will not notice one more lord at his feast.”
“Two, you mean,” said the cousin.
“Th-three,” ventured Cornelius, glaring at the two of them.
“Of course, my dear Cornelius,” said Radulfus. “What would we do without you?” His hand slid around the man’s collar.
The young man did not seem pleased by this knowledge. Perhaps it was the odd tone that Radulfus invoked or the leer he gave him. Cornelius pulled his furred collar and looked around. “At any rate,” he said angling away from Radulfus, his Flemish accent growing stronger the more agitated he grew, “The Feast of Saint Nicholas will be the time. I am absolutely certain.”
“You were absolutely certain the last time, too,” said Giles.
“And the time before that,” said the other man.
Giles hooked his thumbs into his belt. “And there is no new moon on the feast day.”
“No,” said the astrologer. “There is no need. The stars are in the proper position. It will work.”
“It had better. I have risked too much as it is.”
The cousin chuckled. “And a great strain it has been.”
Giles sneered, broke away from them, and crossed toward the exit. They moved on and Crispin watched them go from under his hood. What mischief was here? It worried him that Radulfus seemed to be drawing Giles into his schemes. What could he do to warn Giles? He did not trust this cousin.
He’d have to think on it. There was nothing to be done now. He had other business to attend to.
Down the long corridor he went, lowering his face when he neared others wearing the duke’s livery. The young pages, too young to recognize him, praise God, stared hard at him as he passed, but he skirted by, hoping to escape another encounter with the duke.
The Jew’s door stood at the end of the corridor in the gloom of oil lamp smoke. Crispin flipped his knife from its sheath as he strode toward it and rapped on the door with the hilt.
Julian answered and appeared to be alone.
He pushed his way in and before Julian could shoot him an impertinent remark, Crispin grabbed his collar with his free hand and pushed his knife up to his face. “You are under arrest in the name of the king. I suggest you go quietly, for I do not mind in the least shoving this down your throat.”
Julian stared cross-eyed down at the blade and stammered in French. Even as Crispin dragged him toward the door he dug in his heels and began to struggle. He grabbed the edge of the door and it slipped from his fingers, slamming shut. He wriggled completely out of Crispin’s grasp and ran behind a chair.
Crispin laughed unpleasantly. “You wish to play games. You will not escape me.”
White fingers clutched the chair back. “Why are you so determined to accuse me? I did nothing. My father—”
“Doesn’t know you as I do. Doesn’t know you are a lying, murdering sodomite!”
He shook his head furiously, his brown hair wisping over his angular cheeks. “I am none of those things! Why won’t you believe me?”
“You went to the potters to buy clay to make your own Golem. You stole your father’s
parchments.”
“No! I do not know what you are talking about.”
“Still lying. It will avail you nothing. The sheriff does not abide liars any more than I do.”
The young man looked down and bit his lip, leaving it red. “But you are lying to make me seem guilty. Why? Because you dislike Jews? You took my father’s hard-earned silver! He trusted you. He was only worried about your countrymen; men who would just as soon spit on him than help him.”
“Is that why you killed those boys? Because you hate Christians so? Or was it to experiment on them in your vile ways? Oh, I know about you Jews and your Passover sacrifices. The lots that are drawn to determine which town will do the slaughter. The drinking of blood. The eating of human flesh.”
“Seigneur Saint! I would never—!” His eyes flew open and his mouth slackened. For a moment, Crispin thought he might finally see a flicker of honesty on the man’s face. But the door closed quickly and Julian raised that pointed chin of his and pressed his trembling lips together. “Who has told you these lies?”
“They are not lies. This is evidence written down from reliable sources.”
“Reliable sources. And what are these ‘reliable sources’? Christians?”
“Of course! Who else would they be?”
Julian measured Crispin steadily, his eyes narrowing to slits. His nostrils flared and his chest rose and fell in quick succession. “What an absurdity! I do not know from what source you say you read such nonsense, but it certainly is not the Scriptures. Do you even know the word of the Lord?” He waved his hand impatiently. “Never mind. I know that you must. A man who troubles himself to quote Aristotle would take the time to know Scripture. If you want evidence to the contrary, then you had best go there.”
“You waste my time.” He made a move toward the young man, amazed at the coolness of the boy’s demeanor, even as he seemed on the verge of bolting. Julian raised a steady hand and for some reason unknown to Crispin, the gesture made him pause.
“Scripture,” said the boy, voice trembling. “Let us take Leviticus. The Law. It is in Leviticus that the Lord says to Moses, ‘It shall be a perpetual statute throughout your generations in all your dwellings, that ye shall not eat neither fat nor blood.’ And so, consuming blood, any blood, is one of the greatest prohibitions. ‘Whosoever it be that eateth any blood, that soul shall be cut off from his people.’ ”
Crispin listened in spite of himself. He dearly wanted to grab the boy by the neck, but he hesitated. And he listened.
“Do you need more?” said Julian, inching closer. “Hosea. ‘They that sacrifice men kiss calves.’ But we cannot forget the last instance that a Jew even tried to sacrifice another living man. That was in Genesis and it was Father Abraham laying a blade to his son Isaac’s throat. ‘And the angel of the Lord called unto him out of heaven, and said: “Abraham, Abraham, Lay not thy hand upon the lad, neither do thou any thing unto him; for now I know that thou art a God-fearing man, seeing thou hast not withheld thy son, thine only son, from Me.” ’ ”
Julian shook his head, tearing his eyes away from Crispin who stood dumbly before him. “We draw lots, do we? Such fascinating organization. Across seas? Across borders? How do we accomplish this feat, we who are watched wherever we go? It is decided that this year a boy in . . . in London, is it? . . . is to be sacrificed, no? For the Passover? Is your Michaelmas near Passover, our feast held in the spring?”
“That is all very well,” said Crispin. “But an angry youth will kill in the foulest of ways for his own vengeance. Murder is against God’s law as much as this blood prohibition you so passionately plead.”
Julian returned a scathing glare. “You’re not even listening. You, a man of facts. A man of logic. Is it logical to kill four boys, to sacrifice them far from the paschal season, if sacrifice it was? They were crucified, I suppose, as your libels say? You did not mention that. For I have heard of these foul lies before.” He threw up his hands and stalked to the fire. “I weary so of Gentile lies. You claim to be holy and then unjustly slaughter my people to satisfy your own superstitions. Because you do not have understanding. These facts are in the Hebrew Scriptures that even your people consider holy. And yet you do not understand them.”
Julian stared into the flames. The fire played over his cheek. A flicker. A shadow. His skin seemed to glow warm with the fire. Crispin watched and felt a strange clenching in his gut. He did not like these tangled emotions that Julian seemed adept at wrenching from him.
Julian turned to Crispin suddenly, realization awakening in his eyes. “You do this to hurt my father. You steal his money and then extort him for more. This is your plan. I knew it was foolish to hire some outlaw!”
Crispin bristled. “Do not accuse me, whelp. You do not know me. I am not an extortionist.”
“And I am not a murderer!”
“I am done arguing with you. I have witnesses who took your money for their clay. Golem or no—and I still do not believe in your Jewish magic—you were intent on foul deeds. Was your false Golem designed to lure these boys? To ensnare them? You tricked them with your ghastly tales and they were enticed to see this monster that you made, is that it? And after you had entrapped these boys, how did you murder them without your father knowing?”
But Julian’s features suddenly became surprised again. He even took a step forward, putting himself within Crispin’s reach. “You . . . you are serious? I thought my father was exaggerating the case, worrying over some foolish parchment. But . . . This is horrible.” He grabbed Crispin’s tabard, shaking him. “You must stop these killings! I swear I will help you prove it has nothing to do with Jews.”
He grabbed both the boy’s wrists in one hand. “You do not play the fool well,” he snarled.
“I play at nothing,” he beseeched in a startlingly sincere fashion. His eyes were strangely luminous and very green. But then his earnest expression slowly changed to one of resignation. He sighed deeply. “Your heart is like a lion, to be sure, to protect those weaker than you. Even these slain boys. I . . . I suppose, after all is said and done, my father was wise to trust you.”
Crispin’s grip loosened. “What?”
“You tear at the truth like a dog on a bone. There are few men as tenacious or as clever as you. You must be very clever, indeed, to have discovered all this for yourself.”
He shook out the confusion in his head. “Yes. I discovered you.”
“No. These things. These secret things. You discovered them. This is the sort of thing you do to earn your coin? It is very unusual. Surely you see that. You would seem to be a very intelligent man. For a Gentile.”
“Hmph! Useless flattery. And now you will come with me.”
Julian did not resist but Crispin was not moving. His fist was still wrapped tight around both the boy’s thin wrists. But Julian’s expression no longer held fear or anger. Instead, it was suffused with awe. His manner had transformed to one of curiosity and composure. He studied Crispin with disquieting steadiness.
“I’ve never met anyone like you.”
“Ha! You mean someone who would arrest you?”
“No, imbécile. Someone who uses their mind as their sole vocation.” Julian stepped closer even with Crispin still griping his wrists. “You must know that I am not guilty,” he said softly. “Your logic tells you.”
“The witnesses—” said Crispin halfheartedly, compelled by that gaze.
“The witnesses are wrong.” He looked down at his sash, the red cloth wound about his waist. “You thought I had used my sash for some vile purpose. But when you looked at it I could tell you knew it was a lie. Why do you believe that lie now?”
“Because of the witnesses. The . . . the witnesses who described someone like you.”
“Someone Jewish?”
“No, you fool! Why would they know you were a Jew if you did not tell them? She said you were small, foreign, all golden—” Crispin pulled up short. Golden? What had she meant by that? That he was weal
thy? Because of the yellow rouelle on his chest and the gold jewelry around his neck? Yes, of course. What else could it mean?
But Julian had grasped at his words. His hands slipped easily from Crispin’s yielding grip and he picked up his lank hair in his fists. “Golden?” he asked, shaking his brown locks, locks that could not by any means be mistaken for golden. Julian chuckled, but for once, it was not sarcastic. “You are mistaken.” Crispin’s chest began burning with undirected emotion, even though Julian was not even goading him. The boy nodded almost sympathetically. “I can see where you might have misread it all. What a grand jest. My journals, the jars, the strange nature of the parchments . . . my father’s unusual request. And then that description of this purchaser of clay. Logically, it all seems to fit. And yet, it does not.”
Julian did not act in the least like an accused murderer. He had the appearance of a man who knew himself justified, and Crispin was seized by a sinking feeling. He had been so certain of his guilt, but when laid out logically, it did not seem to fit. He had wanted the boy to be guilty. But why? Because he was a Jew? Despite Julian’s earlier demeanor, he had seen the intelligence in the youth’s eyes, his determination . . . and even saw a bit of himself there.
Crispin blinked and looked at the boy anew. Julian had perched on the edge of the table, rubbing his smooth chin and studying Crispin with bright eyes. “This curious vocation of yours. ‘Tracker,’ you call it. I can see why a man of intelligence would find his place in such a profession. Are you truly good at what you do?”
Crispin’s arms swung flaccidly at his sides. “I am beginning to wonder.” Either Julian was an extremely clever killer or . . . or . . . dammit! There was no denying it. Julian might just be innocent. The sash—that perfect murder weapon—had not been used as such. There was no evidence on the cloth itself. And Julian’s manner. Crispin had never seen the like. He exuded confidence and, frankly, lack of guilt. These things of themselves were not proof of innocence. But Crispin had not been at this vocation for four years for naught. He recognized when he had made a fool of himself.
He stared hard into the flames until he was blinded.
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