The Demon’s Parchment cg-3

by Jeri Westerson

  “Simon, for the love of God! Please listen to me.”

  Wynchecombe seemed to take in Crispin’s desperation for the first time. It made him squirm a bit on his chair. “Have your say, Guest, and then get out.”

  Crispin paced, drawing his fingers through his snow damp hair. “My servant, Jack, is in trouble. Desperate trouble. He got it in his head to trap a child murderer by being the bait. I need a horse and your help to arrest the murderer.”

  “And why is it the sheriffs will not assist you?”

  “Because the man I accuse is a courtier.”

  “Goddammit, Crispin! And now you would draw me into your foolish plots? And have me arrested? No! Get out!”

  “My lord! You know I would not be here if it were not the direst of circumstances. Jack Tucker is an innocent lad. He will be used most foully and then slaughtered like a spring lamb. Help me, Simon. Help him!”

  Wynchecombe stared. Clearly he was not used to such emotions from Crispin and Crispin was certainly not used to showing them. He would rather cut his own throat than expose himself so to Wynchecombe, but he had little choice.

  Simon rubbed his hand under his bearded chin. “God’s teeth,” he muttered. “Where have they gone?”

  “To my . . . my old estates in Sheen. Giles de Risley purchased them for his own. It is not far from the king’s court. I will return the horse in good order. You know I will. Simon—”

  “I have given you no leave to use my name,” he muttered, thinking. “You have proof?”

  “I had a witness. But Giles killed him with his naked blade before my eyes. He is a cruel man without a shred of mercy. He told me how he likes to kill them, likes to make them suffer while still alive. I cannot let that fate befall Jack Tucker!”

  “All you want from me is a horse—”

  Silence. How long did they face one another? Crispin’s rapid pulse beat out the time as precious moments slipped away. How long would Jack Tucker have?

  Simon rose and scowled at his table. “Damn you, Guest.” His voice was low and deadly. “If you are wrong, I shall have you skinned alive and hang your worthless hide over my hearth.” He strode from the room and bellowed over his shoulder for a servant.

  Wynchecombe would not come with him but at least he gave Crispin a horse, and a fine one it was. Crispin wanted to urge the beast faster, but he feared to tax it. He stopped late afternoon to water and rest it.

  He paced beside the river, unable to rest himself. The day was drawing late. It wouldn’t be long until nightfall and he had to be in Sheen before then!

  The landscape was pearly white with snow. Black, barren trees veined the white expanse, scraping a gray, overcast sky. Once or twice, Crispin thought he heard something just beyond the dense thickets lining the road and verges. Possibly a deer or even an outlaw. He had the oddest sense that someone was following him, but each time he turned his head to the place he thought he heard a sound, there was nothing there but cold and snow.

  He mounted once again and took on a harder pace. Hours later as the sun was near setting, he rounded a bend in the river and took a sharp breath. He had not seen his estates in some seven years but there they were. A handsome stone manor house surrounded by walls with a gatehouse nearest the road. In the distance and through the mist, he could just make out the shape of the mill perched at a turn in the brook. He had spent many a day as a boy at that mill, vexing the miller with his questions . . . No. As much as he might wish to, he knew he had no time for revisiting the past.

  Lights in the manor’s windows meant that Giles and his retinue were there.

  Jack was in there.

  But how to approach it? Giles would need someplace quiet, secluded and undisturbed. The only place Crispin could think of—“The mews.” Vaults lay below the house’s foundations. Nothing was stored below, at least not in his day. It could be locked away from prying eyes. And there was access to the river. A convenient way to dispose of a body.

  He tied his horse in the dense copse above the grounds and crept down from the woods to the walls. In the icy darkness he thrashed through the dried reeds and found the disused door near the riverside. Disused in his day, perhaps, but here, the threshold had been dug away to make the way smooth and the hinges had been newly oiled.

  Crispin listened, putting his ear to the door. When he heard nothing he pulled the door ring. Slowly he opened it and peered around its edge. Nothing but the gray passage, though a light shone ahead around the corner.

  With the knife comfortably in his hand, Crispin made his way forward. Dusty barrels filled one arch and old beams lay stacked in another. Besides the mildew smell of the river, Crispin detected the slight scent of incense. A strange place for it, but he followed his nose and the light.

  Shadows played on the columns and low vaults. Crispin slithered against a column and listened. The echoes played with him and though this place should have been familiar, he thought it had been too long since he had been here and things had changed—

  “Don’t move, Guest.”

  Hot blood swirled through his veins and he turned. Radulfus nodded the tip of his blade toward Crispin’s chest. He chuckled low. “I do not know why, but I had the strangest feeling you’d be here. Must be the devil whispering in my ear.”

  “He’ll be doing more than that soon.” Crispin gripped his dagger until Radulfus glanced at it.

  “Drop it,” he said. He poked Crispin with the sword tip. “I said drop it.”

  Crispin did. It clanged on the floor and echoed the deed over and over. Crispin backed up, until he was against a column. “Does he have the boy?”

  “How the hell did you know—” He shook his head and smiled. “You amaze me. I have often heard Giles speak of you. He told the most atrocious lies. Oh, I never believed him. I can tell a jealous man when I hear one. He always wanted to best you. I suppose, in a way, your degradation should have pleased him no end, but he’s the type of man to want to have done it for himself.”

  “And so he bought my manor.”

  “Yes. And can barely afford to run it. He’s a fool.”

  “Then why do you condemn yourself with him and his doings? Why not flee?”

  He smiled. It was the smile of a snake with the cunning of a scorpion. He ran his tongue over his lips. Was it forked or was it just the light? “I . . . enjoy what he does. We share in it. All of it. That boy in there,” he said, nodding with his head to the faint glow too far away from Crispin’s reach. “We shall both partake of him before he is slain. Or perhaps . . . even after.”

  Crispin grimaced but Radulfus leered. “He has not told you all, has he? It matters little now since you will be dead.” He gave a great sigh of satisfaction. “Have you ever given much thought to your religion, Guest?”

  “Is this your feeble way of telling me to pray my last?”

  “No, you misunderstand me. We are baptized, catechized, eat communion bread, do penance, repeat. But where does it lead? Tell me, Guest. How often are your prayers answered?”

  Crispin tried to keep his mind on point. It was useless to ponder the man’s words, for in truth, Crispin prayed very little. But this was definitely not the time to consider that!

  “I thought not,” the man continued. “But Giles and I have found a better way. A better master. One who does not merely answer prayers on a whim but who grants our deepest desires.”

  “More blasphemy? Your souls are already in peril—”

  “But our souls are our bargaining chit.” His eyes gleamed in the dimness. Crispin studied him now, wondering how these two had found each other. “I am talking about the other Lord.”

  Crispin raised a brow. “The . . . other Lord?”

  “The Prince of Darkness. The Devil himself. We have found a way to summon him to our bidding. And in such a way as to indulge our own . . . habits . . . as well.”

  “What are you saying? That . . . that the killing of these boys is some sort of unholy mass?” The scent of incense wafted toward him
again. It smelled bitter to him now.

  “That is precisely it! That wretched Cornelius first proposed it. It was he who had the knowledge of Hebrew, he who first suggested the idea from scrolls he had read. I do not believe his mastery of the language was all he said it was, but that is no matter. He gave us what we needed. But the poor fool had no stomach for the rest of it. He was weak, wanted nought to do with it. His greed kept him close.” A blaze of light from behind painted the vaults with temporary gold. Radulfus smiled. “Giles is preparing. That boy should be incapacitated by now. Unable to move but aware. Tonight, Giles will say the words, the final stroke that will open the Gates of Hell. Riches, power. All of it will be ours.”

  Crispin was beyond horrified. “You are both mad.”

  Radulfus blinked and slowly nodded. “That is, indeed, a possibility. But it doesn’t matter. Oh the rush of it! With each killing we grow stronger, closer to our Lord!”

  Struck speechless with revulsion, Crispin covertly looked about, trying to find a way of escape. But his back was to the room where Giles was and Radulfus stood before him with a sword.

  Crispin couldn’t help but look back toward the light as it flared again. “But . . . an innocent life, my lord,” he said, stalling. “These crimes. You cannot expect to escape justice forever.”

  “Don’t I? Giles has made quite a study of this. With the help of that dog Cornelius. He needed my help. And my money. But I’ve gotten my money’s worth. I don’t believe I have ever enjoyed myself with a woman as much as I have enjoyed those dear, struggling boys. He’s been doing this for years, you know. Dropping the bodies into a dried-up well on his old estates. He’s been getting a bit sloppy of late, letting those boys turn up so easily along the Thames. But it makes no matter now.”

  Crispin gritted his teeth. “It must come to an end.”

  “My dear Master Guest, who’s to stop us? You?” And he poked him again with the sword blade to emphasize it.

  A hand as wide as a ham lanced out of the darkness. Crispin gasped as it suddenly closed over Radulfus’s face from behind and yanked him back into the gloom, his sword skittering across the stone floor without him.

  Crispin jolted back, his heart thundering. Muffled squeals and shuffling of feet went on just a few feet from him in the blackness.

  Then silence.

  Never taking his eyes from the place Radulfus disappeared, Crispin leaned down and took up his dagger in his trembling hand. “My lord?”

  A shuffle. Out of the gloom a large figure, larger than Radulfus, stood at the edge between light and shadow. Its small head nearly touched the low vaulted ceiling.

  “Pro-tect,” said the gravelly voice.

  “God’s blood,” he whispered, breathless.

  “Pro-tect.”

  “Yes,” he said, voice steadying. “Protect. Are you here to protect the boy?”

  “Protect boy,” it said, before it swung an arm out, slamming Crispin in the head. He whirled and collided with a column. He slid down in a haze of blood and pain. A dark shape lumbered past him, but he heard no steps.

  Dizzy, Crispin raised his eyes, searching for the hulking figure but saw nothing move out of the darkness. Where had it gone? Had it been a figment of his imagination?

  From behind, the light whooshed again and Golem or no, Crispin knew only that he had to reach that light, had to save Jack, and despite the sweet darkness straining to pull him under, he heaved himself up and staggered toward it.

  “Radulfus? Is that you?” came the voice from the light. “Come quickly! We are almost ready!”

  Crispin pushed himself from column to column. Everything around him was blurry from the pounding ache in his head. Blood trickled into one of his eyes. But the thought that his knife was still miraculously in his hand spurred him on and he was at a doorway. Carefully, he slid inside and leaned against the arch. Braziers burned brightly against a far wall where strange markings were etched on the stone, much like he had seen on Jacob’s parchments. At the other wall were tables engorged with food and drink, while pillows and furs lay strewn about on the floor, fit for a Saracen. Among the many pillows lay a pale, ginger-haired figure, devoid of shirt, his stocking-covered legs splayed lazily, his head lolling drowsily to the side.

  “Jack!” he hissed.

  Crispin stumbled forward only to be stopped by Giles’s voice behind him.

  “You! Damn you, Guest! You won’t ruin my plans.” He swung and Crispin ducked.

  Giles grinned, getting a good look at Crispin’s bruised face. “I see Radulfus took care of you.” He laughed and gestured back toward Jack. “You know this boy, Crispin? I knew you had the predilection.”

  Jack was breathing, he could see that, but he was obviously drugged. “What did you do to him, you bastard?”

  “Had I known he was your plaything, Crispin, why . . . I would have been certain to steal him sooner.” Giles laughed.

  Crispin steadied himself. “I’m taking him home.”

  The man sighed. “That would foil my plans considerably. Tonight is an extraordinary night.”

  “Afraid the Devil won’t come? I have an inkling he’ll make a special journey just for you.”

  “Oh, so Radulfus told you.” He seemed disappointed. He snatched a glance behind. “I wonder where my cousin has gone off to.”

  Crispin put a hand to the side of his aching jaw. It did not help his throbbing head. “I imagine he’s explaining a few things about now.”

  “Explaining? To whom?”

  “Saint Peter.” Stall! “I may not look it, but I did not lose our fight.”

  Giles frowned and looked behind again. Crispin took that moment to reach toward Jack but Giles stuck out his foot and easily tripped him. He barked his chin on the table and tumbled to the floor. Head spinning with stars and the edges of his sight fraying with blackness, he could not rise any higher than his knees.

  Giles was beside him and grabbed his hair, yanking his face up. “I’m glad you are here, Crispin. You can witness my triumph. Always you were snatching victory out of my hands. Not this time.”

  Crispin’s bleary eyes slid to the helpless form of his servant, half-naked, prepared for an unspeakable act of violence.

  Giles laughed again, seeming to read the patter of Crispin’s mind. He left him and moved to Jack, lifting him. The boy whimpered and writhed, trying to fight off the potions. Giles carried him to a table before the brazier and laid him upon it. He took up a stack of parchments, showing them to Crispin. “You see these? Magic and secret incantations worked on over many years. Do you see the ink? It is blood, Crispin. The blood of my boys. I dipped my quill in their still warm and running blood and I wrote out the words so I could read them aloud at this triumphal moment.” He turned away from Crispin and spoke his words to the strange markings on the wall. The braziers on either side of him seemed to flush and spurt with an unnatural glow. Crispin tried to shake out the dizziness in his head and climbed to his feet, bracing a hand on a table. He saw a flash of silver, the knife in Giles’s hand as he waved it over Jack.

  Through his hazy vision, Crispin saw the flames rise and cast wavering shadows on the wall. The flames took shape. One looked like a dragon while the other was the image of a figure rising slowly from the flames.

  “It’s working!” cried Giles over the roar of fire. He whirled back toward Crispin, a smile of victory on his face. “Ha! You can never stop me. I will be wealthy and powerful! And you, my poor, poor Crispin. Look at you. Bloody. Bruised. Helpless. You can’t do a thing!”

  Helpless? He cut his glance to Jack but his vision was darkening. Blacking out. He had to hold on. He had to do something.

  Giles laughed and it was that maniacal sound that gave Crispin a sudden bout of strength. He shook out his glazed head, gritted his teeth. Leaning against a pillar, he slowly pushed his way upward. His legs shuddered, no longer willing to uphold him, but from his will alone and the desperate blood surging through him, he thrust himself away from the pillar
and stood upright. He took a long breath, braced himself, and leapt on Giles, spinning him around.

  Giles’s face opened in surprise, but before he could react, Crispin growled, “Think again, you bastard!” and shoved his dagger deep into the man’s gut.

  Giles grunted with the impact, but it wasn’t nearly enough for Crispin’s vengeance. He yanked the dagger upward, ripping open the cloth and flesh. Gore oozed over his hand and he remembered Giles’s taunt about how he enjoyed the feel of viscera in his hands. With a cry of bloodlust, Crispin yanked the blade all the way up to the man’s sternum. Giles’s wide, astonished eyes finally turned to fear. He choked a red cough, spattering his chin.

  Crispin thought he heard the sound of something screaming, and the flames wavered wildly behind him. The smell of sulfur and puffs of angry black smoke choked the air before settling down to a gentle flickering of light.

  Crispin yanked back his blade and watched the man sink to his knees. Gurgling, Giles reached his bloody hand toward Crispin, beseeching though he could no longer speak.

  Awash in wet crimson, Crispin watched dispassionately through the smoky haze as Giles struggled, life slowly ebbing, his guts now steaming in the light. Hot blood dripped from Crispin’s knife hand, down his fingers, over the hilt, and slithered along the blade to the floor. “Here’s your sacrifice,” he growled. “Let the Devil take you.”

  The flames twisted around the logs in the brazier and a candle sputtered. Giles breathed his last in a terrible rattle of groaning and the twisting of his body. A sudden whoosh of stale air whirled about him, riffling his hair. In his last throes, his leg jerked and toppled a brazier. The burning log rolled along the straw floor, leaving a blazing track. The fire jumped and wrestled with the furs and pillows. The stench of burning hair filled Crispin’s nose as the flames climbed, reaching the low rafters and burst into life.

  Jack was suddenly surrounded by flames. The throbbing in Crispin’s skull finally overwhelmed him and he fell to his knees. No! Not now! He pulled himself forward, tried to crawl toward Jack when something large loomed over him. He could no longer see from the smoke and ash, but someone was lifting him by his waist, swinging him around, and suddenly he was moving, held like a sack against a hip. He felt the heavy footfalls as they left the smoke behind.