“No,” said Julian. “I can see you are good at your vocation. And Father said he had heard of you from many sources. You seem to be well respected. I . . . I apologize for treating you so foully before. I thought you were just another greedy Gentile out to ruin us.” His voice grew weary when he said, “I have met so many, you see.”
Julian slid off his perch and strode forward. Crispin turned to him. He could not speak, either to offer an apology or another accusation. Neither seemed appropriate.
“You know,” said the boy thoughtfully, “I now recall those men behind me in the corridor, overhearing you and that servant. There was one man who might very well fit your witness’s description. He, too, is slight, like me, and foreign. And . . . he has blond hair.”
Was this merely a ruse? The boy could be making it up. Checkmate, Crispin. The game is over. And yet he could not stop himself from saying, “Prove it.”
“I do not know his name. But he is one of three men who make themselves a nuisance at court. There are more whispers about them than there are about my father and me. I surmised that they are not well liked.”
A stirring in his chest was almost like a tickle, warring with a darker sensation. “Who?”
“As I said, I do not know his name. But the man he is always with; his name sounds something like . . . ‘rizzy’?”
It sprang off Crispin’s tongue without a second thought. “De Risley?”
Julian nodded slowly. “Yes. I think that is the name, but I cannot be certain. I try not to listen too much to those around me at royal courts. It is never wise to mix too much with court politics. We do our task and hide in our chamber.”
But how could that be? Was Radulfus a murderer and sodomite? God’s blood! Right under Giles’s nose! But wait. Giles had mentioned “our lord.” Perhaps he was speaking of a nobleman, one above him in rank who would secure him wealth in exchange for pandering. Someone like a lord in a mysterious carriage. A lord who wanted those stolen parchments.
How could Giles be involved except as a dupe? Crispin felt a miserable sense of guilt that one of his acquaintances could be used so, even though he couldn’t possibly have known or done anything about it.
Well, that was before. This was now. He could certainly help Giles now. After all, the man was living on Crispin’s old estates. Under his jealousy, he was grateful it was Giles.
But this Radulfus was another matter. Crispin would see him hanged or worse for what he was doing. If it was him. For as cruel as Radulfus was to him, was he capable of such acts as stealing boys for profit? The astrologer certainly fit the description that Berthildus the Potter offered. But even if they were stealing boys by treachery, what did that have to do with clay and a Golem?
Julian spoke again and Crispin started, not realizing how close the boy had maneuvered. He was right at his elbow, looking up at him. “Did you truly see the Golem, Maître?”
Suddenly the boy used a respectful title. Well, the entire tone of their exchange had taken a turn, to be sure.
“I don’t truly know what I saw. But there was clay. . . .” It could not be denied. He had seen the clay on Jack’s fingers but the clay could have . . . could have . . . No. It couldn’t have. He lowered his head. “I do not know.”
“An intelligent answer from a man who does not believe. Tell me, Maître. Do you believe in such things at all?”
It was his turn to lean back against the table and slump. He ran his fingers through his thick hair, letting his hand fall back to his thigh. “I have seen . . . many curious things. But I do not know whether I believe in them or not. Mostly, there is an explanation that is plain and simple. But this situation. There does not appear to be anything simple about it.”
Julian fell silent for a long time. The silence grew uncomfortable, in fact, and Crispin was deciding whether or not to simply depart when Julian raised his face. “Why don’t you like me?”
Crispin gazed at him sidelong, surprised by the sudden question. “I wasn’t aware by your manner that you aspired to be liked—by me or anyone else.”
That seemed to throw the lad and he looked thoughtfully into the corner. Crispin studied his profile with its angular nose and sharp chin.
“I don’t aspire to be disliked,” he said softly. He turned. “I . . . have had to fight for everything in my life. Because I am a Jew, even in Avignon, my opinions are less than that of other men. Am I not clever? You seem the sort to appreciate cleverness.”
“An open mind can fascinate,” Crispin found himself answering, “but I do not know if I find you open or not.”
“Because I am a Jew.”
“I don’t—” Care? But he did. He knew he did. And he knew it mattered to Julian. “You care that I am a Gentile.”
“True. But these truths can be overlooked in the throes of intelligent discourse.”
Crispin couldn’t help but laugh. It bloomed a wounded expression on the young man’s face and he was surprised he regretted causing it. “You would seem to prefer to argue with me.”
“And you would seem to prefer to manhandle me and accuse me of murder.”
Well played. “Then tell me, what do you make of these murders?”
Julian tapped his lip. “It would be difficult to comment knowing little of the facts,” he began. But that one statement impressed Crispin like none other. God’s blood! Was he in danger of liking this youth?
“Do you believe I am innocent?” Julian suddenly blurted.
Crispin stared. The young man gazed up at him with intense eyes. How Crispin had wanted him to be guilty! But it was not as simple as that. William of Ocham be damned.
Julian drew closer. His face seemed to know the answer before Crispin spoke it.
“I . . . suppose . . . so.”
Green eyes sparkled with sudden delight. “A man of honor!” he breathed. “I knew it!”
Crispin was going to comment, planned on saying something noncommittal and vague, perhaps even scathing to put the youth back in his place. But he never got the chance. Julian grabbed him suddenly, pulled him forward, and kissed him hard on the lips.
Crispin pushed him off as if he were on fire. Julian staggered back and lifted a hand to his mouth, horrified.
Crispin lurched back. “You kissed me!”
“I’m sorry,” he said behind his fingers. “Please don’t tell anyone.”
“You . . . you are a sodomite!”
“Please, you don’t understand—”
Crispin drew back his balled fist and swung. The smacking sound of knuckle hitting flesh should have been more satisfying. Julian went down, hitting the floor on his backside. He quickly scrambled backward until he was almost under the table. Blood oozed from his lip and a bruise was slowly forming on his jaw.
Crispin charged toward him, bent on more violence, but those widened, frightened eyes made him hesitate. His face felt suddenly hot. He looked around the room in a daze and pushed his way toward the door. He had to get out. He couldn’t breathe. Yanking open the door, he stumbled into the corridor, leaving the Jew’s door far behind. He did not stop until he was out in the cold air of the courtyard, where he inhaled great mouthfuls while leaning hard against a plinth.
“God’s blood!” Julian had kissed him. Kissed him!
And God help him. But for a fleeting moment, the tiniest of flickers that lasted only the blink of an eye . . . Crispin had liked it.
14
Crispin breathed, did nothing but breathe. His back felt the chilled stone permeate through the layers of his tabard, coat, and chemise. Staring at nothing, he tried to feel the same nothingness, but couldn’t. He had felt something. Something . . . wrong. So wrong.
He stayed as he was for a long interval before he bent slowly at the waist, scooped up a handful of dirty snow, and smeared its gravelly ice into his face, rejoicing in the hard pain of it like a penance. Once he’d ground it into his numbed cheeks, he tossed the slush aside and straightened. He had to rid himself of Westminster, leave the sh
ameful emotions of it far behind.
The gate was open to him and he trotted forward. Hurried steps took him back toward London. He tried not to think, tried to concentrate on that astrologer who had bought the clay from the potters, on this strange scheme that now seemed to surround Giles de Risley and the mysterious stranger. He could not think how warm Julian’s lips were. Would not!
It was this case. It was all too much. These Jews and child killings and strange Golems. It was a wonder he wasn’t driven mad!
And he had been too long without the warm arms of a woman. He hefted his coin purse and felt enough coins. Yes. He would go to the stews today. Now!
He fled to the river’s edge and searched along the wharves for the nearest ferry and ran toward it, tossing his farthing to the man in hopes of hurrying him.
Instead, the ferryman waited until his craft was full before he pushed it away from the wharf. A man with a horse on a lead stood off to the side, but the horse’s flank kept pushing into Crispin. Crispin didn’t mind. Its tangy warmth kept him from shivering as the beast blocked most of the wind.
He barely waited for the ferry to dock before he leapt away and hit the dock running, heading for the darker streets where the brothels huddled together like old whores.
He slowed as he wended his way down a narrow close. The light was dim, but Crispin could make out the shape of a woman facing a wall, leaning her hands on it, her gown hiked up to her thighs. A man stood behind her, rutting, and she cried out in little sighs and rocked with each thrust. Crispin did not turn to leave. Instead, he watched for a few moments, not in the least embarrassed. It took a few moments more for recognition to set in and his eyes rounded in horror. “John Rykener!”
The man jerked up his head. Hastily, he pulled up his braies and before he was fully covered, he fled into the dimness, his feet slapping harshly until he disappeared completely into the mist beyond.
The woman slumped against the wall and let her skirts fall back into place. “Dammit, Crispin!” She turned. Her face was round with a small chin and a petite mouth, a mouth that was twisted with ire. “You frightened him off before he could pay.”
“John,” breathed Crispin. The very last person he wanted to see. Today of all days.
“It’s Eleanor,” he said in his soft voice, “when I am garbed so. How many times have I told you?”
“For God’s sake, John. Must you continue to do”—Crispin waved an arm at him—“this?”
“You do what you do and I do what I do. It is simple finance.” John turned around and leaned with his back against the daub wall. He pulled his cloak about him. “That cost me my supper, I’ll have you know. Now you owe me.”
Crispin said nothing. He never liked the familiar manner Rykener insisted with him.
He felt the man’s eyes on him but refused to look. He couldn’t stand the notion of a man in women’s clothing. It was indecent. Ridiculous.
And it annoyed him still further that he didn’t know why he suddenly felt guilty that he had cost the man his supper money.
John fiddled with the looped braids hanging over his ears. “And what are you doing here, Crispin? As if I didn’t know. It’s been ages since I’ve seen you in Southwark. I know you hate it here.”
“Nothing,” muttered Crispin. “I’m doing nothing.” And it was true. This whole adventure was becoming God’s little jest. He had wanted the first whore he could find to prove his manhood. To prove to himself that a desperate kiss from some feminine youth could not unman him. As it had.
Naturally, the first whore he encountered would be that madman John Rykener, yet another sodomite. God’s jest indeed!
Hugging himself, he joined his companion by leaning against the damp wall beside him. The gray light angled down the alley against the opposing wall, smudging the already vague line between shadow and light. It smelled like a pissing alley and probably was. How often had he spent a halpen in such a place with a whore?
Crispin slanted a glance at the man in women’s clothing and shook his head. “They’ll arrest you again.”
He shrugged. “I know.”
“There are better ways to make a living,” said Crispin. “Believe me. I should know.”
“And yet none could be quite as satisfying.”
Crispin snorted.
“Do not snort at me, Crispin Guest,” he said, cocking his head in the very likeness of a woman. “We all have our roles to play. We all get by as best we can.”
“John . . .” He didn’t know what to say. He was in a strange enough mood as it was. To encounter John Rykener just now seemed to be more than Fate. He dropped his face in his hands and breathed through his fingers. Suddenly a hand was on his shoulder. He did not look up.
“Crispin,” cooed the man. He pushed away from the wall and drew closer. “What troubles you? I have never seen you like this.”
“I have never been like this,” he muttered between his fingers. Finally, he raised his head and leaned back until his head rested against the clammy plaster. John was wearing some sort of flowery scent that clashed with the alley’s acrid smells. “What makes a man . . .” He stared upward into the slice of gray sky caught between the buildings. “What makes a man . . . want another man, John?”
John studied Crispin silently for a time before he turned his gaze. He stared at the wall facing him a scant few feet away. “Would that I knew the answer to that.” He sighed and dragged himself forward, giving Crispin’s shoulder a friendly cuff. “Come along. I’m cold. And I have wine at home.” John beckoned but Crispin hesitated. “Come along. I don’t bite. That costs extra.”
“You are a pig,” spat Crispin.
“Very likely,” he agreed.
Reluctantly, Crispin followed him down the muddy lane, trying to keep his distance, afraid someone might think he had hired the man.
They turned down another tight alley and up a short flight of stairs to the narrow door of John’s lodgings.
Inside, the room was cold. The hearth had burned low and John rushed in to stoke it back to life. He dropped a bundle of sticks and a square of peat on top of the burgeoning flames and stood back, rubbing his thighs to warm them. “It was cold in that alley with my bum waving in the wind.”
Crispin sneered in his direction but joined him by the fire. “You said something about wine.” Anything to change the subject.
John smiled at him and curtsied. “Where are my manners?” He took a drinking jug from a shelf, removed the cloth covering, and offered it first to Crispin. Grateful, Crispin took it and drank. It filled his hollow belly. He knew he should be hungry. It had been a long time since he’d eaten. But he didn’t feel the least like having food right now. He drank a bit more before handing the jug to his companion.
John drank with a loud exhale and lowered the jug. “It was a harsh day, Crispin. And a long, cold night to come. Would that I could find a nice man to keep me warm at night.”
Crispin ignored the man’s leer. “Why must you be so disgusting? You know I hate that kind of talk.”
“And yet you befriended me anyway. One has to wonder why.”
“I just . . . did. God knows why.”
“So far, He hasn’t told me.”
“Would you add blasphemy to your many sins?”
“Why not? If I’m for Hell then I might as well make it a fast journey.” He pulled a stool over and sat, offering the other to Crispin. The room was small and spare, not unlike Crispin’s own, though it was considerably more dilapidated. The sky was clearly visible through a hole in the roof where a shaft of gentle snowflakes softly fell. Crispin edged his chair to the side to avoid the snowfall and scooted closer to the fire till his toes nearly burned.
He couldn’t help stealing glances at his companion. “Must you continue to wear that?”
John put a hand to his breast. “Would you prefer I remove it?”
“Er . . .”
With a smirk, John snapped to his feet and wriggled, loosening laces, until it sli
d down his slim form and pooled at his feet where he stepped out of it. He scratched luxuriously at himself over his shift. “Better?”
Crispin gestured to his braided hair and the man sighed elaborately. “For a man who is paying me nothing, you are certainly demanding.” He sat and began to unbraid his hair, pulling his fingers through the loosened strands until they fell in kinked waves to just below his jaw. When he was finished he posed with an inquiring brow.
Crispin drank from the jug again and nodded. “At least you look like a man again.”
“I am a man, you know.”
“Then why not look like one? Why do you insist on this?”
John paused, rubbing his hands for warmth. “I don’t whore all the time. Sometimes I work as an embroideress and so I must go on as Eleanor. But I have lain with women. Nuns mostly.”
Crispin spit his wine across his chest.
“Careful there, Master Guest.” He pounded on Crispin’s back. “That is all the wine I have.”
Crispin wiped uselessly at the front of his coat. “You are telling me tales again,” he choked out.
“No. Women of all sorts pay me. I do not discriminate. One hole is like another.”
“God’s blood!”
“Enough of this!” He settled on his stool again and plucked the drinking jug out of Crispin’s hand and took a swig. He wiped his mouth and settled his gaze on Crispin’s squirming form. “You asked me a very provocative question before. ‘What makes a man want another man?’ Wasn’t that it, Master Guest? And just why should you be so interested in my answer?”
There was nothing for it but to drop his heated face in his hands again. Crispin turned his head from side to side. He couldn’t forget Julian. It would take a very large dose of wine indeed for that to happen. “Just tell me!” he hissed through his fingers.
John slouched. He set the jug down between his legs and rested his long fingers on his knees. “I wish I knew,” he whispered. He cast a glance to the gown on the floor and a wash of uncertainty changed his expression for only a moment before it was lost again in the room’s shadows.
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