The Demon’s Parchment cg-3

by Jeri Westerson

In fact, there was much to absorb, from the fact that Berthildus was another secret Jew to this Odo they were so afraid of. Yet if Odo was this mysterious man who was apparently welcomed at Westminster, then he did not know that Berthildus and Middleton were secret Jews. Or did he? The pieces to this puzzle were baffling and out of sorts. The devil was behind it, the stranger insisted, and it had to be so. For what could bring such opposing persons together but the Tempter himself?

  Was this Odo working with the Church or was he merely a madman that the Jews were trying to control, as Middleton had said? He was admitted to Westminster. That’s where he had followed Crispin. It was not unlikely Crispin could encounter him again there, be the one spying instead of the one spied upon and find out what he was truly doing at court.

  Who was he trying to fool? Crispin was at Westminster to see Julian. He could no longer deny it.

  He passed through the Great Gate at Westminster Palace, determined to find the lad. He had much to say before he moved on with his investigation. Much indeed.

  Passing through the Great Hall, he skirted trunks and furniture. Clearly court was ready to take its leave to the country for Christmas. All of the court would be going, except for Radulfus. That warmed Crispin’s heart. The man intended to admit himself to the king’s party. Good luck to him! Good luck to them both!

  Down the corridors he went, barely mindful to keep his face down. He passed Bill Wodecock and he was damned if the man did not turn toward him with a disapproving scowl. Crispin did not acknowledge him. Better that way. Instead, he followed the winding passageway to the queen’s rooms and beyond to where the Jews resided. With any luck, the physician’s son would be alone.

  The way was deserted. He reached the door at the end of the corridor and knocked. The boy answered it and fell back from the door, wide-eyed. Before he recovered and slammed the door in Crispin’s face, Crispin took a hold of it and forced it open. When he entered the room, he slammed it closed. Searching over the boy’s shoulder, he saw that they were, indeed, alone.

  “Now then,” said Crispin.

  Julian held his hands out, trying to fend him off. The bruise on his jaw was somewhat satisfying. “Forgive me! Forgive me! I did not mean—” But Crispin lunged forward and clasped Julian’s arms and practically picked him up. Crispin’s eyes raked over that face; prominent cheekbones, dark green eyes. His hair was a mousy brown and hung to below his bruised jaw line.

  Crispin loosened his hold on one arm and clutched the boy’s chin, causing Julian to wince. His eyes slid over the abrupt planes and angles of cheek and jaw, sliding further to that long, smooth neck.

  So it was true. The feelings that threatened before suddenly erupted within him. The confusion, the crossed emotions, the anger. It all made sense to him now. He felt his heart thrumming, his breath quickening, and a distinct tightening in his groin. How could such a thing excite him?

  By all the saints. He hoped he wasn’t about to make an arse of himself.

  Slowly, he lowered his face until he could feel Julian’s rasping breath against his chin. “Tell me something,” he said, his voice a low rumble in his throat. “The truth now.”

  Julian opened his lips. “What?” It was not so much a word as a breath. His eyes locked on Crispin’s.

  Crispin leaned further, his nose almost touching the other.

  “Tell me . . . are you . . . a woman?”

  Was it relief he saw in her eyes? She said nothing and the merest of smiles began at the edges of her swollen mouth. She nodded.

  “God be praised,” he sighed. And then he leaned forward and closed his mouth hungrily over hers.

  16

  She tasted like exotic wine. His tongue traced her swollen, cracked lips and then he sucked, tasting a renewal of coppery blood. His hand left her arm and tucked beneath it, finding the swell of a bound breast. She was leaning her whole weight into him now, but when he cupped her breast, she sighed a soft moan.

  He filled her mouth once more before he drew back a little, lips still teasing hers. “Tell me your name.”

  “It is . . . Julianne.”

  He smiled against her mouth, kissed her again, and nibbled his way across her cheek. He pulled her smaller body against his, feeling his stiffening groin come up against . . . nothing. He truly didn’t need further proof but it was nice to have it. “Ah,” he whispered to her soft skin. He ran his stubbled cheek against her smooth one before finding her mouth again. He lingered over hers before her tentative tongue slid past his lips. A rush of emotion stiffened his whole body and he let her explore for a moment while his hands found her backside. Strange how he had somehow known all along. Relief mingled freely with his awakening desire.

  “Was this your father’s idea?” he asked breathlessly. She seemed a novice in the art of kissing, but she was a ready student. He wouldn’t mind spending time tutoring her.

  “We . . . we came upon it together.” Crispin found her throat—that smooth, feminine throat—and licked and bit at it. She moaned for a moment before continuing in a staccato. “I wanted t-to learn the art of the physician. He w-wanted to protect me from Gentiles on our travels. It seemed to be—oh!—th-the perfect solution.”

  His mouth found her ear and he sucked slowly on her lobe. Her knees seemed to give way and if he weren’t holding her with one arm wound about her waist, she would have slumped to the floor.

  Still so wrong. Crispin chided himself for choosing so poorly when it came to women, but his tastes were never satisfied by those found on the Shambles.

  “Are you . . .” He kissed her jaw and left a trail to her mouth with his tongue. “A maiden?” he said to her lips.

  “Yes,” she gasped. “But I have wanted you. I have never met a man like you: intelligent, thoughtful. You are my . . . equal.”

  He pulled back and looked at her. “Equal?”

  “For a Gentile.” There was a sly smile on her lips as well as in her eyes.

  “Indeed.” He studied her face again and gently touched the bruise on her jaw. “I’m sorry for this.”

  “You were justified, I suppose. You thought I was a man.” She reached up and ran a finger down his nose. “You seem to have had your own encounter.”

  He smiled. “Trouble manages to find me.” He swept the cap off her head, running his fingers unfettered through her stringy locks. “Your hair . . .” he said regretfully.

  She ducked suddenly out of his reach. “It is only hair,” she muttered. “I am a woman in every other way.”

  A bit of hysterical laughter tried to bubble up in his throat. The irony! She in her boy’s clothing and John Rykener in his woman’s garb. Was anything as it seemed?

  His hands lighted gently on her shoulders. She leaned into it to chin his hand affectionately.

  “Julianne,” he said, enjoying the slightly different accenting of the name. He kissed the top of her head, feeling a surge of need well in his chest. But just as these warm feelings crested, they were slashed with a rush of dejection. He saw their situation in one sweep, like figures on a tapestry. This was not just any woman. Not only was she masquerading as a boy—something that was enough to get her landed in Newgate—but she was a Jew! And Jews and Gentiles did not mingle. Was he to toy with her affections merely to satisfy an itch? He knew there was a fine line between the raw emotions of anger and lust. He had crossed over that line with her numerous times. But he couldn’t take what he wanted. He owed her father more respect, if not as a father at least as a client.

  She seemed to draw the same conclusion. “What’s to be done?” she sighed.

  Her hand covered his for a moment before she turned, looking up at him with sorrowful eyes. He wondered now how he could ever have been fooled.

  “This is foolish,” she said. “You are a Gentile. That would seem to be the end of it.”

  Crispin nodded. She was right, of course. He shouldn’t be touching her. But it had been so long without the touch of a woman, even a woman in men’s clothing. Even a Jew. He shou
ld stop. “We are both fools.” His hands traveled up her arms. “You must eventually go back to France. I . . . must remain here. Nothing can come of this.”

  “But why? The king exiled you from court. You have no ties here.” He stiffened and pulled away, but like some irresistible pull, he swung back and looked at her. Yes, she had a face that could not be entirely characterized as feminine, but the look she returned was as coy as any maiden. “I asked around court about you,” she said quietly. “I learned many . . . interesting . . . things.”

  He raised a finger to toy with the collar of her man’s gown. “While it is true that I no longer have ties to court, I feel obligated to remain in London. Call it penance, if you will.”

  It was her turn to frown. “You owe no further allegiance to his Majesty. You are no longer his knight.”

  The words were like a slap. “I owe my allegiance to the crown. And to the people of London.”

  “Bah!” This time she pulled away from him and strode across the room in her distinct, manly gait. Her every mannerism was male. He wondered how long she had been masquerading as a boy. Since childhood?

  “Allegiance to people who scorn you?” she said. “It is a foolish enterprise.”

  “I could say much the same to you. You serve Christian monarchs who do not even allow you at the same table—”

  “We would not sit with a Gentile at table! To do so is against the Almighty’s law.”

  “And yet,” he said gently, striding toward her. He slipped his hand around her waist again, feeling now the gentle swell of the hip below. His other hand curved under her jaw. “You would kiss me. You would . . . lay with me.” He kissed her trembling mouth. A promise. He pulled her against him and she laid her head upon his chest. He stared down at the part in her hair, at the dark tresses scored by the whiteness of her scalp, smelled the fragrance of her, a combination of herbs and balsam. He wanted to kiss her again. Wanted to do much more. He reached for the nape of her neck when the door flung open.

  There had not been time to break apart. They merely gaped at the figure in the doorway.

  Jacob stared at them for a moment, that moment stretching longer and with it the realization on his face. He shut the door and threw the bolt.

  “Julian! Get away from him!”

  “Mon père!”

  “And you!” His finger jabbed. Crispin backed up until he jolted against a table with nowhere else to go. “What have you done?”

  “I . . . I . . .”

  “It wasn’t his fault, Father,” she said. “I kissed him.”

  “You what?” But instead of a further explosion, his voice deflated and he sagged against a chair, sliding into it.

  “And then . . . he reckoned that I was a woman.”

  “We are lost,” he said, shaking his head. “They will seize you and throw you into prison.”

  Crispin straightened. “Sir, I would never divulge what I have learned. Your secrets are safe. I would see no harm comes to Julianne.”

  “You must not use that name,” rasped Jacob, as if he had said it a thousand times before. “She is in danger every moment she is in England.”

  “Then dammit, man! Why did you bring her? Why this charade? Are you mad?”

  He couldn’t help but notice the smug half-smile on the woman’s face even as he rounded on the physician.

  “You do not tell me what to do!” It was the first time Crispin had seen Jacob act in this manner. Always, the subservience was foremost, but now he was the very portrait of a father. Crispin gulped and took a step back. “You will not touch her, do you understand? It is forbidden.”

  His glance slid toward Julianne, who did not look contrite in the least. In fact, she was openly leering at Crispin. He swallowed again.

  “Master Jacob—” But he did not know what he wanted to say. He could promise the man he would not touch her, but he knew that to be a lie.

  Before he could open his mouth, a scream broke the twilight.

  Outside.

  Crispin lunged toward the window and cast open the casement. A woman huddled with a cluster of other ladies in the garden near Lancaster’s window. She was sobbing and pointing toward the garden wall. Without thinking of his own well-being, Crispin leapt out the window and landed on the dead grass below. He gathered himself and rushed to the gate toward the women.

  “What’s amiss?” he asked.

  The woman merely pointed toward the wall.

  A long smear of gray clay swathed a portion of the wall from top to bottom. His heart gave a jolt, but he did not hesitate to leap forward and grab the top of the wall with his hands, hauling himself up.

  The narrow path along the Thames was deserted but there were large indentations in the muddy snow leading down the bank. Crispin scrambled after it.

  In the dim light, a large figure loped away, swaying with each long step. Crispin ran, skidding on the loose stones of the embankment at the low tide. He followed the hulking frame, even as it hurried with remarkable speed up the steep slope. Chasing after it, Crispin fell forward, catching himself with his hands on the sharp-edged rocks. Stumbling to his feet, he crested the slope and searched. A shadow ducked into an alley and he followed.

  The alley drew narrower as the buildings on either side leaned in, their eaves sharing secrets mere mortals were not privy to. The damp smell overpowered as Crispin took cautious steps, unable to see much as the shadows converged and swept through, obliterating details. A chill shot down Crispin’s back when one particularly deep shadow . . . moved.

  He froze. It moved again. A sliver of waning light dimly outlined a head and broad shoulders before the shadow tilted back and disappeared again.

  But it did not run.

  “You there!” said Crispin. The waver in his voice was from being out of breath, surely.

  A grunted reply.

  Crispin felt a shivering wind sweep up from the Thames, pebbling his skin. “What . . . who are you?”

  And then a voice. The frostiest midnight could not have chilled his heart more than this slice of voice, both gravel and mud slurred together. “Must . . . protect,” it said.

  Crispin was tempted to cross himself. “Holy Mother of God,” he muttered. He slid his knife from its scabbard and felt the comfort of the hilt in his flexing hand. “Protect? Protect what? Who?”

  “Pro-tect,” said the unearthly voice again. And then a shoulder caught the light as the figure turned. Crispin felt the heavy tread of footsteps lumbering away. He girded himself and pursued.

  The creature ran. For his size, he could run well and knew the alleys even better. He quickly outstripped Crispin, seeming to have no end of energy. Crispin ran solely on the hot blood in his veins, but he was a man and a man tires. His muscles screamed at him and his lungs burned. The creature was relentless and clever and though he pushed and pushed himself, Crispin could not catch up.

  His steps slowed and he finally had to stop. Bent over his thighs, he wheezed in the cold air by the lungful. He listened with a heavy heart as the steps drew farther away and finally dimmed altogether.

  Raising his head, he blinked into the cold and licked his dry lips. “I don’t believe it,” he told himself. “I don’t believe it.” But even as he tried to convince himself, he could not swear that he had been in conversation with a human man. Surely this was what Odo had been speaking about. If he had tried to abduct that boy, perhaps it was for information about this creature, for Crispin, as implausible as it seemed, was now convinced that he had encountered a Golem.

  17

  Crispin trudged back the long way to the palace courtyard, but as he suspected, all was barred due to the late hour. There was no point in going in. Except that Julianne was there and he suddenly ached for the feel of her, to wash away the fear and uncertainty that had grasped his heart for the last several days. The world was not as it seemed. Tonight, he had seen something darker, from the pits of Hell. Unnatural. And it made him long for the comfort of a woman’s arms.

&
nbsp; But a Jewess? As much as she teased he could not oblige, either her or himself. A quick tumble would yield him some relief but afterward, for her . . . No, he could not do that to Jacob, who seemed an honorable man. He rubbed the back of his neck before he jostled his hood up over his head. Was it the fact that she was forbidden that so enticed? Or that she was clever? “Leave it alone, Crispin,” he told himself. Jews were scorned by society, not even allowed legal residence in England. Yet there were Jews hiding in secret but living openly as Christians, and still others who had converted and lived silent lives like monks in the Domus. Who were these Jews? Where did they come from? Why did they not leave the confines of the Domus? Was it they who had created that hulking creature, bent on the destruction of London’s Christian inhabitants? There were answers to be had and one man might very well know them. In fact, that man had to answer for much.

  Instead of turning toward London, he turned again toward Westminster Abbey.

  Crispin pulled on the bell rope at the abbey gate. Likely, the monks were in Vespers, but there had to be a porter still roaming nearby.

  Just as Crispin was about to pull the bell rope a third time, a monk with a hurried step emerged from the shadows. The disgruntled look on his face was illuminated by the lamp he held aloft.

  “Peace!” he grumbled. He was an old man and his thick, white brows furred over the tight band of his eyes. He looked Crispin up and down with a watery gaze. His toothless mouth was wrinkled like a dried fig. “Young man, do you know the hour?”

  “I do,” he said with an apologetic bow. “But I have need to speak with Abbot Nicholas. Tell him—”

  “I will tell him nought. Young men should know better than to tramp about when Vespers have struck. Begone. Get you to your own home. It is late.”

  He turned to go when Crispin grabbed the bell rope and gave it another hard pull, pealing the bell in a harsh jangle of metal on metal.

  The old man cringed and swiveled back, waggling a finger at Crispin’s raised brow. “Miscreant! Do I set the hounds on you?”