The Demon’s Parchment cg-3

by Jeri Westerson

  Crispin had no more words. He allowed the other man to gage his character by looks alone. He felt very self-conscious with his patched stockings and shabby cloak, but there was nothing to be done.

  At length, Wodecock turned away and strode through the great hall, leaving Crispin behind. He had walked a good length of the hall before he stopped and pivoted. He cocked his head impatiently and gave a short gesture for Crispin to follow.

  They wound their way silently through the crowded corridors. It seemed only ghosts were to remain behind at court when the king’s retinue journeyed to Sheen. Twenty days from now, Christmas would be a grand affair. Crispin remembered many of those feasts and gatherings from years past. Garlands of greenery would festoon the hall and the smells of meats and pies would inhabit the tapestries for days. Warm fires, good wine, even better companionship. It was a relief from the cold winter without.

  He dusted the memories aside and stopped when Wodecock stopped. The servant gestured to a narrow door at the end of the corridor nearest the stables.

  “That is the door, Master Guest. But it is locked as it should be. Do not,” said Wodecock, raising a hand to Crispin’s opened mouth, “ask me to unlock it, for I shall do no such thing. If you wish to speak to my lord Radulfus, you must wait for his return.”

  “And how long will that be?” How much time would he have to look those rooms over? He looked back at the narrow passage. There was no one there.

  Wodecock seemed to know what Crispin was thinking and he wagged a finger at him. “No tricks, Master Guest. If anyone should ask, I did not see you.”

  “Of course. Thank you, Master—” The servant turned on his heel and was already halfway down the corridor when Crispin finished, “Wodecock.”

  Alone in the corridor, he hurried to the door and tested the latch. Locked, just as Wodecock said. He hadn’t much time, so he set to work. He flipped his dagger from its sheath and reached into the collar of his tabard and coat to pull out the lace to his chemise and its sharp aiglet. With knife tip and aiglet, he manipulated the pins within the lock until they released the latch. Sheathing the dagger and stuffing the lace back under his clothes, Crispin rose and gently pushed the door open.

  The room was dark with only the faint, red glow from the ashes in the hearth. He slipped inside, closed and locked the door, and waited for his eyes to adjust, then lit a candle. A modest room, larger than the Jews’ quarters but much smaller than Lancaster’s. There were several chests still in the room. Crispin remembered that Giles and Radulfus were not invited to court for Christmas, but he would still be traveling to Sheen for the feast. Traveling to Crispin’s manor.

  He tried the lid of the first chest and found it open. Setting the candle above on the nearby table, he rummaged inside, but found nothing of worth.

  He went to the next, opened it, and looked inside. The third chest was locked. He used both aiglets this time. It took longer than the door, but the lock finally clicked and he lifted the lid.

  He could smell the blood immediately. Dried, but the coppery scent lifted up to his nostrils, nonetheless. He pushed past the gowns and plate when his fingers lighted on the rough weave of a small tunic. He pulled it forth and shook it out. It was a boy’s tunic. With blotches of dried blood. Crispin stared at it, trying to detach himself from what it meant.

  His fists curled into the small garment that had once belonged to a young boy. Which one had it belonged to?

  He cast the tunic aside and dug deeper, pulling out more; a ripped stocking, a shirt, another tunic. Far more than could have belonged to four boys.

  He ploughed further and came away with parchments rolled together. He set the clothing down and unfurled the skins. It was Hebrew with the strange drawings accompanying them.

  Evidence at last! But was it enough? A few torn shirts, some with dried blood, and an indecipherable parchment? The sheriffs would laugh in his face.

  A key turned in the lock.

  He looked toward the door and froze for a heartbeat before pinching off the candle flame and retreating to a curtained alcove.

  A figure entered and stood in the doorway for a moment, a brazen silhouette against the dancing fire of the rushlight without. The door shut and darkness swelled around them. Footsteps crossed to the hearth and a log or two were tumbled in. A spark and then flames tickled the tinder. The candle was relit and the man stopped, staring at the clothing tossed about, the formerly locked chest lying open. When he gasped, Crispin moved. His hand clamped hard over the man’s mouth and his blade pressed against his throat.

  “Don’t move,” Crispin hissed in his ear.

  The blond man wriggled uncomfortably and squeaked but stilled himself.

  “You are the astrologer. Nod your head.”

  Shakily, the head nodded.

  Crispin was breathing hard. His knife was at the man’s throat and he’d like nothing better than to shove it in deep, choking the man with his own blood. Instead, he kept the blade steady and spit the man’s hair from his lips.

  “I will remove my hand and you will not cry out. Do you understand? Nod again if you do.”

  Slowly, he nodded.

  “Good. You will tell me things. Things about these parchments and about these pieces of clothing. Now, I am removing my hand.”

  Crispin steadily pulled his palm away from the man’s mouth. With the blade still pressed to his neck, he closed his hand tightly around the man’s upper arm and manhandled him into a chair. He came around to the front of him, his knife still in his face. “Your name?”

  “C-cornelius van der Brooghes. Please, what is it you want?”

  “Answers. You are de Risley’s astrologer. For what purpose does he need an astrologer?”

  Sweat speckled the man’s face. He licked his lips, eyes wide. “His f-fortune. He follows the stars to f-find his fortune.”

  “Indeed.” He scooped up the parchments and held them under the man’s sharp nose. “And what of these?”

  “They are . . . important to his star charts—”

  Crispin backhanded him with the stiff skins and held them before his dazed eyes again. “What are they for?”

  “Important star charts. To help find the best days for—”

  Crispin used his knuckles this time and the man fell back, nearly toppling from the chair. He whimpered.

  “Tell me what these parchments are for. Did you steal them from the Jews?”

  “They are only Jews. They do not know the power these parchments wield.”

  “Are they for creating a Golem?”

  Cornelius’s pale eyes lifted and searched Crispin’s. “A G-golem? What is that?” he whispered.

  Crispin drew back his arm to strike again and the man cringed, holding his hand protectively over his face. “I do not know what you are talking about? Please! I don’t know!”

  Lowering his hand, Crispin glowered. He leaned forward. “Then tell me this.” He bent to retrieve the bloodied tunic and fisted them into the man’s face. “What can you tell me of these?”

  The eyes widened before he crushed his lids closed, shaking his head from side to side. “No. He’ll kill me.”

  “I’ll kill you if you don’t. Tell me!”

  “Oh God! Oh blessed Jesu! What have we done?”

  He backhanded the man anyway. He felt the blood and spittle on his knuckles. The man began to shake and hug himself. “Holy Mother,” he whispered hoarsely. “He made me do it.”

  “Damn you! DO WHAT?”

  Crossing himself, he muttered in a foreign tongue that Crispin did not understand, rattled on and on before Crispin grimaced at him and knocked him in the side of the head.

  “English, you cur!”

  The astrologer barely acknowledged the cuffing. But his mutterings switched to heavily accented English. “I lured those boys. I brought them to him. Holy Mother grant me mercy, but I promised their parents that they would learn to read and write, that they would be gentlemen. Instead I brought them to him. Oh God! T
he blood!” He dropped his face in his hands and wept, snorting loudly through his bloodied nose.

  Crispin grabbed his hair and jerked his face upright. A crimson smear painted the man’s cheek. “What did he do?”

  “Oh God forgive me!”

  “He sodomized them. He murdered them.”

  Cornelius’s eyes were almost all whites now. “How did you know?” he gasped.

  Crispin barely believed it. But if he allowed his emotions to come into play, he could not deal with the astrologer as coldly as he needed to. With some measure of satisfaction, he realized that this was his evidence. “You must testify that Radulfus forced you to bring him these boys.”

  Cornelius looked up with bewildered eyes. “Radulfus?”

  But in the next moment, the door burst open, and Crispin realized how fragile his predicament was.

  18

  Radulfus and Giles pushed their way in and stopped when they spied the situation.

  Crispin leapt back and held his dagger uncertainly.

  Eyes flicking back and forth between the weeping astrologer and Crispin, de Risley motioned for his cousin to close and bar the door. “What goes on here?” His gaze encountered the clothes and parchments now strewn across the floor.

  “Much,” said Crispin.

  Giles reached for Cornelius, hauling him to his feet. “What have you done, you whoreson!”

  Cornelius blubbered, trying to speak through his sobs.

  “Your cousin, Giles,” said Crispin. “Vile things he has done right under your nose.”

  Giles looked back at Radulfus. “Has he now?”

  “The testimony of this astrologer will most certainly condemn your kinsman. I am sorry, Giles. But you must learn the truth.”

  “Testimony? I do not know what you are talking about, Crispin.”

  “The murder of boys. Murder and sodomy, it grieves me to say. I will make certain your name does not come into it, Giles.”

  Giles’s steady gaze on Crispin might have been unnerving, but Crispin could see his mind working like a millwheel. “Radulfus?” He looked from Cornelius to Radulfus. “Murder and sodomy? There must be some mistake.”

  Radulfus glared.

  Giles shook his head. “It’s unbelievable. This can’t be true. Cornelius? Did you know of this?”

  Cornelius turned away from him and sobbed.

  Giles blinked hard at the man and then spied the bloodied clothing on the floor. He stooped and gingerly took up a tunic in his hand, turning it over and over. “Horrible. You would give testimony against my cousin here? Yes, surely you must.” He took Cornelius’s arm again. “Except for one thing.”

  Cornelius jerked and gurgled, twisting like an eel on a spit. He fell to the floor with a flood of blood and bile rushing from his side. With a dispassionate flick of his brow, Giles looked down at his own bloodied dagger and sleeve.

  Cornelius choked and writhed, face wet with blood and tears. He reached his hand toward Crispin, tendons straining against his pale hand, eyes beseeching. It had happened so fast. There was nothing Crispin could do. He watched in horror as the man sunk down, twisting as death took hold. He bled out, his cheeks growing pale, until his eyes rolled back.

  Giles coldly wiped the blood on the child’s tunic and dropped it to the floor. “So much for your witness.”

  “Giles!” The horror of it finally reached him. Cornelius had been surprised that Crispin thought Radulfus was the culprit.

  He had not meant Radulfus at all.

  Giles sheathed his dagger and shook his head. “Crispin, Crispin. Why could you not leave it alone?”

  “Giles.” It was a nightmare. How could it be true? Friendly rivals they had been, even stubborn rivals. Giles had stolen away Crispin’s lover and there had been words and fists exchanged. But that had been young men out to best the other. Surely Giles was not capable of this horror. He was not that man.

  Was he?

  Giles strode up to Crispin and grabbed him by the tabard, twisting the cloth in a fist. His bloody hand imprinted the material even as his breath ghosted over Crispin’s face. “Why couldn’t you leave it alone? We must have no witness, Master Guest. And no arrest.”

  “But Giles. For God sake. Why?”

  He took in his pale-faced cousin to his right. “Why? Oh Crispin. So much has happened over the last seven years. So much. When Margaret died in childbed, there was much to think about. She had brought a fine dowry to the marriage, as you know. But gold seemed to slip through my fingers. My coffers emptied. There was ruin around every corner, until—”

  “Cousin,” warned Radulfus.

  Crispin lunged forward. “Giles! I beg you. You must stop these vile crimes! To kill these innocent boys! To . . . to do the things you are doing to them—”

  “But I like doing what I am doing to them!” he screeched, his voice slightly hysterical. Gone was the innocent mask he had worn. Crispin saw him as he now was. Something had changed him. Something had rotted him from the inside. He was not the man Crispin had known, and the fearful realization of that stilled his heart and sickened his belly.

  Giles drew himself back and barked a laugh, bringing his cousin into his shared laughter. “The quivering flesh of these young, fresh-faced creatures. It is like taking a maiden, Crispin. Better. You should try it. I think you will find it pleasing.”

  “You disgust me!”

  “And the blood. No, I never thought to find such enjoyment in it. The young boys, yes. I have had that proclivity for some time. Even before Margaret. Oh she was a prize, indeed. Something to best you at. I never thought to find such success. I had finally beaten you at something. How it burned me to fail again and again. But Margaret was a willing sacrifice. And I saw how it hurt you.” He smiled. “Did she die in childbed? Did she?” Crispin tasted the bile in his throat but he could not lose himself to retching. He had to stay alert.

  Giles chuckled. “I suppose you’ll never know. There was much blood in the bed that night. Blood. And I found the idea of it . . . pleasing. The battlefield was never as pleasing as this.” He strutted now, walking up and down before the still body of the astrologer. “Do you know why I cut out their entrails?”

  “Giles!” hissed his companion.

  “No, no, Radulfus. I think Master Guest should know. At least some of it. After all, he’s worked so hard to get this far.” He stepped forward and Crispin, a bubble of horror filling his chest, took a step back. “Have you ever held the quivering entrails of your enemy in your hand, Crispin? No? I know you have killed many men. And surely you have seen it. But to never have held them? Such a pity. Do you know that viscera is not merely warm, it is hot. It holds such heat that steam rises as the hot blood oozes over your fingers. That’s because the boy is still alive. You can feel the blood pulsing through the viscera. It is fascinating, truly. They are drugged, of course, so they cannot ruin my fun.”

  Crispin could not look away. Even as the slick blood of the astrologer filled his nose with a metallic scent, his eyes met Giles and he saw demons within.

  “And witnessing the moment—that very moment—that life leaves them,” Giles continued, his voice drifting dreamily. “It’s the eyes, Crispin. They dull. Their gloss seems to fog over, as if a veil shrouds them. It is at this moment that I like to feel the slick entrails in my fingers as they cool. And then I cut them out and save them in jars for my own amusement. Later, I can look at them.”

  Crispin thought desperately. What could he do? This monster could not be stopped! If these boys had been the sons of wealthy merchants perhaps something could be done. But no one would come forth for these boys. De Risley was unreachable. Crispin snatched a glance at the dark-eyed cousin, Radulfus. Both were looking curiously at the cooling body of the astrologer.

  “I suppose we shall have to call someone about Cornelius,” said Radulfus. He stepped back, trying not to soil his boots with the pool of dark blood. They both looked up at the same time. “We could blame him for it,” he offered.
<
br />   “I could not do that to an old friend,” said Giles. “Even if we weren’t truly friends.” He gave Crispin a chilling grin. “Hurry you now, Crispin. We will tell them that we caught Cornelius stealing from us. Consider it a debt paid. But I might just as easily change my mind.”

  Throat dry, Crispin made one last frantic attempt to think of something, but Radulfus shifted toward him. “Out, Master Guest,” he said, sliding his hand seductively over the hilt of his sword.

  Crispin cast a sorrowful glance at his dead witness, and with a feeling of disgust at himself, could do nothing more than stumble through the door. He shuffled like a dead man through the crowded corridors, scarcely marking the chaos around him. When he made it to the Great Gate he looked back at the bustle of oblivious servants and noblemen, turned to the wall, and vomited against it.

  He held the wall to steady himself, and when his belly was empty he wiped his mouth and pushed away. “Margaret.” He had not loved her, had not thought of her in years, in fact. They were paramours, exchanging favors in the others’ bed. But he could have fought harder to keep her, to save her. Had Giles truly killed her or was that more taunting? Crispin didn’t know him at all. Hadn’t ever known him. How could he have been so wrong about someone? Was nothing as it seemed?

  The cold was even worse now. The chill wind slashed against the rawness of his cheek. The futility of it all. What good was being this damned Tracker if he could not protect the citizens of London? He could go to the sheriffs, he could explain it as clearly as he could, but he knew, he knew there was nothing the sheriffs would do. Not against a nobleman. There was no evidence against him for murder. True, if the sheriffs could arrest both Giles and his cousin Radulfus, torture could extract the truth, but neither sheriff would do such a thing on Crispin’s say-so.

  And these victims. A beggared victim was little good to him. There would be no one to pay the bribes to the sheriffs, no one to put forth the accusations that would hold any weight.

  With a frustrated cry, Crispin wrestled the tabard from his body and heaved it to the dirty snow, ignoring the strange looks from those milling outside the gate on the street. A waste! What good were the duke’s arms to him? None of it was any good to him. If he had only been a knight he could have properly faced Giles, could have accused him. But Giles was right. He was nothing. Less than nothing. If he could not bring criminals to justice then what was his purpose now?