“Nicholas would scarce appreciate his hounds used in such a manner. Besides, they know me.”
The old monk cocked his head in a gesture of disbelief. “Eh? Who are you then?”
“As I was about to say, I am Crispin Guest. If you tell him so, he will see me and you can spare yourself much grief.”
“Crispin Guest? Why didn’t you say so?” he grumbled into his cowl and trudged back the way he came.
Crispin sighed and waited for an escort to open the gate. He did not wait long. Brother Eric arrived and with a quizzical tilt to his cowled head, unlocked and opened the entry. He did not scold Crispin but it was there in his manner. Crispin followed him silently to the abbot’s quarters and waited alone until Vespers were done. The fire was the only light and he warmed himself before it, sighing in contentment at the amount of heat radiating from the generous flames.
The door swung opened and Nicholas entered. He seemed glad to see Crispin though he wasn’t smiling. “Master Guest, so late?”
“Forgive me, Nicholas. But this could not wait.”
Nicholas took his chair by the fire and Crispin took the other. He studied the face of the man, his old friend, and wondered how to begin. Nicholas took the task from him.
“Has the book been useful to you?”
“It has been . . . instructive. But mostly because I now question its veracity.”
“What?” The monk leaned forward. He pushed his cowl back. The fire painted his features gold, cutting deep shadows into the ridges of his lined face. “Thomas of Monmouth has always been regarded highly for his scholarship.”
“But I wonder how his scholarship was schooled. Who told him the details of these tales?”
“The Jews themselves, I imagine.”
“Under torture? Yes,” he said, recalling his own. “A man will say much under those circumstances.”
“Crispin,” said Nicholas, “I am surprised. You have always taken my word before.”
“Not this time.”
The monk shot to his feet. “Indeed! And what have I done to deserve such treatment at your hands? We have been friends!”
“And I have no wish to jeopardize that friendship. But this is more important than friendship.”
The monk’s face was stricken and Crispin was awash with guilt. For a moment, Nicholas hovered uncertainly. Would the monk demand he leave? He would reluctantly acquiesce, of course, but feared tearing a rift between them that could not be crossed.
Instead, the monk slowly lowered to his chair again, sitting back against it with a frown. “Very well,” he said sourly. “My curiosity has gotten the better of me. What is it that is more important than friendship?”
“The truth. Thomas of Monmouth made his accusations against the Jews, citing their mission to kill a Christian child at the Passover . . . with a communication system so vast it staggers the mind. But the Scriptures themselves, the Old Testament, prohibits this shedding of blood, especially of drinking it. Why, if they demark themselves so much from our society because of these strict laws, would they break them for this? And why have there not been more stories of such boys throughout the ages? One a year?” He shook his head slowly. “Tell me you recall a record of it.” He watched the old monk’s face carefully, saw the eyes search fathoms deep, his lips twitch. “And yet more strange,” Crispin went on, “why are there still Jews on English soil?”
Those old eyes flicked toward him. “There are those who live in the Domus Conversorum, but they are now Christian.”
“I am not speaking of them.”
The monk fell silent. His steady gaze finally turned toward the hearth. “So you know.”
Crispin gritted his teeth. “And so did you, though you did not deign to tell me.”
“And why should I? Does it have a bearing on this situation?”
“It might! How long have you known?”
“Some of us have known a long time. But little has been said. There has been an inquisitor on the matter looking into it.”
“An inquisitor? Who?”
“I do not know his name.”
“Have you met him?”
“Yes.”
“Is he young, blond, from the north?”
Nicholas stared. “How did you know?”
“I have met him, too. What is his purpose? Surely Canterbury can take care of its own issues.”
“It was the Archbishop who requested he come. Apparently, he is an expert on these cases.”
“What is his purpose?”
“I beg you to remember to whom you speak, Master Guest,” he said with quiet dignity.
Crispin took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The old man’s hands twitched on the chair arm. “My apologies, my Lord Abbot. It is just that I have been entertained by this inquisitor to my peril and I would simply like to know—”
“What!” He launched from his chair again and pressed a hand to Crispin’s with concern. “Are you well? Did he . . . did he . . . ?” He seemed to notice Crispin’s swollen face for the first time, and reached forward.
Crispin leaned away. “Very nearly. And I am well, though a little hungry, truth be told.”
“How neglectful of me.” He hurried to his door and spoke in low tones to his chaplain, Brother Michael, returning to his place by the fire. He fidgeted now, snatching guilty looks. “Why did he wish to do you harm?”
Crispin stretched out his feet, feeling warm for the first time today. “I stopped him from performing an unseemly act. He was about to steal a boy. A Jewish boy.”
“Why would he do that?” asked the monk.
“At the time, I thought it was for some nefarious purpose. But now . . . I think it was to question him. Which, come to think of it, might have been just as nefarious. Why did you not tell me about this man?”
“I did not think it important for you to know. Crispin, there are some things you may not be privy to. I know your curiosity is insatiable, but there are times when you need to curb it.”
“This man is dangerous, Nicholas. He means these people harm.”
“Why does this concern you? Jews are, by law, prohibited on English soil. They must convert or leave.”
What was it to him? Green eyes and a boy’s barbered hair. That was far more than it should have been.
Brother Michael brought a tray and set it on a small table between them. The abbot silently prepared the bread and soft cheese with much ceremony, then served Crispin a generous helping.
They both ate in silence, occasionally sipping from their goblets. It would have been a pleasant repast, with the fire crackling and the ordinarily good cheer they shared. But words had been said, feelings exposed. Crispin had needed to utter them, much to his regret.
An apology poised on his lips. But no. He could not allow these ideas about Jews to poison his investigation. He was a man who loved the truth, and if these words had been lies, then they could not help his case or his disposition.
Bells suddenly tolled and Nicholas rose wearily, wiping the crumbs from his cassock. “Compline. I must go. And so must you.”
“Nicholas.” He reached out and touched the man’s sleeve. “If my tone was harsh, I did not mean . . . I would not put our fellowship at risk.”
Those old eyes searched his, flicking back and forth. “I know,” he said, patting his hand. “You do involve yourself so.”
His thoughts fell to Julianne once more. “That I do.”
He felt the weariness in his bones. Trudging back to London was a chore he had not desired, especially as the icy night swept over him. He hunched in his cloak and hood, breathing hard clouds into the air. The Shambles seemed a world away, and he could not help but glance over his shoulder from time to time, thinking that nightmare of a creature might appear again and seize him with those large, clay hands.
Once he passed through Newgate and plodded down Newgate Market, he looked over his shoulder again, only a bit more secure that the walls of London would not be breached. Newgate looked bac
k at him, implacable and rigid, its portcullis grimacing with ice-slicked teeth. Crispin had to solve this. And soon. Exton and Froshe could not be patient forever. That vile Odo had given Crispin some clues, even as he had battered him. He said that the devil was at the heart of it, and that may be so, for the devil surely whispered his vile lies to the bastard who had committed these crimes. But if this Golem were real, and Crispin had to grant the nature of his own eyes, then this monster was certainly not innocent. It was up to no good that he could see. But when it spoke to him, and he shivered again at the thought, it had told Crispin that it was trying to protect something. The Jews, he supposed. But why go to the palace? Did it need to protect Julianne and her father?
The thought made him stop in his snowy tracks. Might someone be after them? That mysterious man, that Odo. But he was the abbot’s inquisitor, wasn’t he? Yes, he meant the Jews harm, but surely he would not dare touch the queen’s physician! Except . . . The man wanted those parchments and might do anything to get them.
Suddenly, he found himself at the foot of his stairs. He dug into the icy steps and forced himself upward. Inside, he noticed the hearth was cold and Jack was nowhere to be seen. Damn that boy! He would be the death of Crispin yet. He grumbled as he tossed some peat into the hearth and bent toward it with his flint and steel. It was too cold a night for Jack’s mischief. If the boy didn’t get himself killed, Crispin would do the job for him.
He blew on the smoldering tinder and a few bits of lint helped it catch and soon the peat was burning with a small flame, enough to begin to thaw his toes and cast some light into the room.
So, Jacob and this Odo wanted the Jewish parchments. Jacob to protect London, and Odo to . . . what? His motives were to rid London of Jews. A strange request, then, to possess parchments that could create a Jewish protector with Jewish magic. Perhaps, but it would be diabolical, create a Golem to wreak havoc, blame the Jews, and roust them out. Crispin shook his head. No, there was little need to stir the populace against Jews. Only an excuse, a rumor. Odo would not truly need to do anything.
Crispin lifted the tabard and untied the red thread. He held it up to the firelight, turning it. Someone entirely heartless had killed the servant and those boys. Someone with some ungodly motive. Someone vile and twisted, John Rykener called it.
Red thread. Some red cloth had been used. He divorced Julianne’s sash from consideration, though it was difficult once thought of. But something else had snagged in his mind. He knew this color. He had seen it recently. His thoughts fell to a rondelle hat with a long liripipe tail, certainly long enough to use as a garrote. And it did belong to a man who was, indeed, heartless and perhaps even bloodthirsty enough to commit these atrocities. Once the idea was in his head it stuck fast like a nail in a shoe. But he needed iron-clad proof.
He tossed the thread into the fire. It curled quickly and became ash.
Yes, he had gotten to know this man in the last few days. That cousin of Giles de Risley.
Radulfus.
The morning could not come soon enough. He had sat up in his chair all night, staring into the small fire, demons dancing before his eyes and in his head, telling him awful tales of broken boys and greedy, lascivious men.
Radulfus. Yes, he was capable. But as a lord, Radulfus was nearly untouchable. When Crispin accused him and brought his name before the sheriff, he would have to be very certain of his guilt. Crispin might even suffer the backlash and be slain in the streets as Radulfus had intended. A lord versus someone like Crispin? There was no contest. Crispin would lose and there would be nothing he could do. The sheriffs would suffer, too, and they wouldn’t likely stick their necks into a noose for him or anyone.
He hardly blamed them.
No, he had to find hard proof, something the sheriff would accept without question, something that could be taken to the king. Perhaps even Giles could be persuaded to help Crispin. Surely he had no knowledge of these doings. Yes, it seemed plain from their conversation that Giles might be up to no good, but he could be forgiven by helping Crispin now. He knew if he could talk to Giles he would have an ally. After all, the man owed him.
He had to get into their rooms and find that evidence. The last crime had been committed at Westminster. He was sure of that. There might still be something he could find, something that would tie Radulfus to this.
He glanced again to the weak rays of light spilling from the cracks in his shutters. It had to be Prime, or thereabouts. Time to head toward Westminster.
He rose, adjusted Lancaster’s tabard over his coat, gave a brief thought to the absent Jack, and cast open the door.
When Crispin arrived to the Great Gate, there were already many horse-drawn wagons and carts assembled, with bustling pages and servants loading them with supplies for the country. Boats, too, were secured at the docks. The king would likely travel up the Thames to his Christmas destination with wagons carrying the lesser courtiers. Court was leaving, perhaps that afternoon. Crispin would have to work fast. But first, he needed to know where Giles’s quarters were.
He swept the courtyard with a glance. No help here. He pushed his way in, either the tabard or the crowds making it simple for him to pass through to the great hall. More people jammed the space. But when Crispin turned his head, he spied the two people he never expected to encounter together.
Radulfus was leaning on a column and his hand was closed over Julianne’s shoulder. Clearly she did not enjoy his proximity and her eyes darted, looking for a way out.
With his hand on his dagger hilt, Crispin strode toward them and stopped himself in time before he ruined all.
He threw himself against a pile of trunks, breathing deeply to get himself under control. He could not let Radulfus see him.
Radulfus raked his gaze over the boy he thought Julianne to be. And what Crispin saw on his face was unmistakable. He coveted him! His body leaned in and his smile was that of a crocodile. Yes, Crispin had been right about him.
And he was wearing his signature rondelle hat with the long liripipe tail.
“There is no need to rush off, so,” Radulfus was saying. His eyes took a deliberate perusal of her boyish form from top to toe. “I have never had a chance to speak with you, young friend.”
“There is little need. Unless you are in need of a physician.”
“Oh, I do have an ache.”
“Then I shall send my father to you.”
“I doubt he will be able to heal me as well as you can.”
“I am not a proper physician, my lord. My father is better qualified—”
“And I tell you”—Radulfus tightened his grip on Julianne’s shoulder so harshly that Crispin saw her wince—“that it is you I want.”
“My lord. Please.”
Radulfus cackled and pushed. Julianne fell from his grip and nearly stumbled to the floor.
Crispin was a hairsbreadth from revealing his hiding place. But he drew back in time and tightened his grip on his dagger, though little comfort it offered.
Julianne straightened and adjusted her gown, the yellow rouelle clearly visible.
“I changed my mind,” said Radulfus, looking down his nose at her. “Take yourself away, Jewish dog. Remove that pretty face of yours back to France. God knows why they accept your like.” Others had taken notice and turned to look. Radulfus, sensing his audience, looked around and gestured toward her. “Jews. Why should the king trust them with the queen’s health? Better to use good English physicians, eh?”
There were mutterings, but Crispin could tell what Radulfus could not, that the crowd seemed reluctant to naysay the king, even over this troublesome matter.
“The lot of them should be slaughtered,” Radulfus went on, oblivious. “I’ve a mind to gather some men to go to Chancery Lane and save the king’s treasury by burning down that House of Converts. Converts, indeed! How can you ever trust them? Who can believe their avowals, especially at this sacred time of year?” The murmurings became more directed. Perhaps they
were not willing to harm the king’s physician, but the idea of Jews, even converts, obviously did not sit well with the men of court.
Was a riot fomenting before his eyes? Crispin searched for help. He had promised the secret Jews to protect them, but if Radulfus brought down all of court to the site of the Domus, how could he hope to come between them and a mob?
A short, beefy servant suddenly pushed his way forward. The king’s colors on his chest and back assured him that the crowd would part, and part they did. Bill Wodecock approached Radulfus and bowed deeply. “My lord, Master Cornelius wishes to see you. He has sent me forthwith.”
Radulfus seemed perturbed that his rant was interrupted, but it was enough to foil the concentration of the crowd, who went back to the business of seeing to their baggage and goods.
Wodecock gestured to a page and instructed him to take Radulfus to that astrologer, Cornelius. Wodecock watched them go, dusting his hands together at a job well done. Crispin approached and stood behind him. “That was well played, Wodecock.”
The servant stiffened and barely turned toward Crispin in acknowledgment. “Sometimes a distraction is what’s needed.”
“Did Master Cornelius truly request to speak with Radulfus?”
Wodecock paused before he twisted round to look at Crispin with his tiny eyes. “He might have done.”
Crispin smiled and bowed. “Your servant.”
“Hmpf. Indeed.” Wodecock was on his way but Crispin stopped him.
“Master Wodecock. I wonder if you would further serve the king by directing me to Radulfus’s apartments.”
“And how can that serve the king, pray?”
“You know I cannot tell you.”
“You’re up to mischief, Master Guest. I cannot abide it.”
“Not mischief. But it also serves the king, I assure you. Can you not put your trust in me, Master Wodecock?”
Those eyes studied him and Crispin felt them like hot coals burning through his clothes.
“I find it hard to do so, Master Guest, and you know the reason why.”
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