The Demon’s Parchment cg-3

by Jeri Westerson

  “Save the boy!” he croaked and then coughed uncontrollably.

  Carried further until he felt the cold on his face, they climbed.

  He was suddenly released into the snow where he groaned and slowly rolled to his back. He breathed the fresh, cold air, filling his lungs with relief, but even that was small comfort to the anguish that stabbed his heart. “Jack,” he whispered.

  “M-master!” came the weak cry beside him.

  Crispin turned. Jack lay in the snow beside him. He gathered the shirtless boy in an embrace, unable to speak for his gratitude. Below him, he was vaguely aware of fire licking into the starry sky. His ancestral home was engulfed in flames and smoke, and its sturdy walls were beginning to crumble.

  His still hazy mind was filled with jumbled thoughts. Jack, alive and safe. Giles dead. How were they saved?

  The sound of timbers falling stole his attention at last and though he knew he was far from safety, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight below. As each wall fell, as each arch toppled, a bit of his heart was ripped away. So final. The home of his ancestors, the manor house given to them by a king so many centuries ago, nothing but blackened rubble. This was the end, then. No going back. No returning to better days. While the house still stood, there always seemed to be that one slim chance, that possibility that the world could be righted again and everything could be put back in its place.

  But not now. Not ever again. A frost colder than the snow chilling his face and hands clutched at his vitals. His time had slipped away. He would never be master of Sheen again. Never.

  A shadow swooped above them and a feeling of panic gripped him. A figure blocked the starry field. He swung his cloak over Jack’s bare shoulder before he slowly faced his savior.

  20

  “Holy God!” Jack screamed. “The Golem!”

  Crispin curled his arm protectively about Jack.

  The creature moved forward and the moonlight washed his face and chest in silver light. His head was small on wide shoulders, but perhaps it was only a trick of the eye, for his shoulders were unnaturally wide, piled as they were with pelts and hood. Crispin looked up at the face of the creature . . . and saw clearly that he was only a man.

  “My God. Who are you?”

  The man shuffled, peeking at Jack burrowed deep into Crispin’s cloak. “Odo,” he said in his gravelly voice.

  “You’re Odo?”

  The man nodded. He fumbled at his tattered cloak. His fingernails were crusted with dirt and something lighter, like white dust. No. Not dust or dirt. Clay.

  “You’re one of the potters in London.”

  The man nodded again.

  “But . . . what—?”

  “Hugh was my friend,” he rasped. “I followed. Bad, bad men hurt Hugh.” His voice winced higher and a sob escaped.

  “Hugh? Berthildus’s son, you mean?”

  Odo nodded.

  “You . . . couldn’t protect him.”

  He shook his head sorrowfully.

  “So you took it upon yourself to protect other boys.”

  He nodded.

  “You followed me here.”

  Odo nodded.

  “Now you understand that I am not one of the bad men.”

  He bowed. He reached a hand forward as if wanting to pet Jack, who cringed back, but then Odo let his large hand fall to his side. “Bad men not hurt boy?”

  “No. We stopped the bad men once and for all. They won’t hurt anyone else ever again.”

  Odo considered this and turned his face toward the burning house. Crispin looked, too. Watched flames lick at the stones and timbers that had once brought such joy to his young life. Home. But that such evil had occurred in his beloved manor . . . He was glad to see it in ashes. Better that.

  Odo turned back to Crispin. The man smiled. “You are friend.”

  But before he could speak again, they heard shouts closing on them. Odo looked up and with a fearful face, quickly disappeared back into the woods.

  “Wait!” Crispin stared into the darkness of tangled boughs and listened for his footfalls but could hear nothing. As big as the man was he was as silent as the night itself.

  “Unbelievable,” he said to the icy air.

  “Then . . . he’s not a Golem?”

  Crispin hugged the shivering boy tighter. “No. There is no Golem, Jack. Only that poor hulk of a man.”

  “He . . . he was only trying to help them boys, then?”

  “Yes, it appears so.”

  “Merciful Jesus. What a world is this!”

  “Verily,” he murmured.

  The sound of shouting and of many feet slogging through the snow reached them and suddenly, figures clambered up the hill and stopped, looking at Crispin and Jack in bewilderment. Crispin didn’t even try getting to his feet. In his best courtly manner, he said, “If you would be so kind as to take us to the king’s manor. I urgently need to speak with his grace the duke of Lancaster.”

  During their brief journey, Crispin glanced back at what was left of the manor, his heart wrenching with the dying glow of it. The smell of smoke in his nose would not soon leave him.

  When they reached the king’s manor, the king was mercifully abed. That meant Crispin would not have to face him. But facing Lancaster was no better. After much pleading, Crispin and Jack were ushered none too gently to the duke in his royal chambers. And when Lancaster’s eyes fastened on Crispin, his face darkened. He studied Crispin’s singed and bloody clothes and Jack’s nakedness. “What happened?” he asked of his guards.

  “There was a fire, your grace. At the Guest . . . I mean, the de Risley Manor.”

  Lancaster glared. “Was it contained?”

  “No, your grace. It looks as if . . .” He flicked an awkward glance toward Crispin. “It . . . it burned to the ground.”

  “Is this your doing?” he growled at Crispin.

  “No, your grace. But I was there.”

  “And what of Lord de Risley?”

  The guard shook his head. “Many died, your grace. We believe de Risley was amongst them. He was in the mews where the fire appears to have started.”

  “In the mews?”

  “No one knows why he was there, your grace. The servants said that he often . . . entertains there.”

  Lancaster’s sharp glare never left Crispin’s face. “Very well. Leave Guest here.”

  “What of his servant, your grace?”

  His eye fell on a cowering Jack who was wearing Crispin’s cloak. “Leave him here, but bring him some clothes. A shirt and a cloak, at least.”

  The guard bowed and left. Lancaster himself closed the door to his apartments and walked slowly toward the fire. Crispin felt the heat melt the permanent chill but he would not take his encircling arm away from Jack.

  Lancaster did not speak for several moments. The anger in his eyes told Crispin why and he waited for his lord to do the talking first.

  “Not your doing but you were there.”

  “It . . . it is difficult to explain, your grace. De Risley was the murderer I sought. Now he is dead. He started the fire.”

  “Is there proof of this?”

  Crispin shook his head.

  “Master Crispin saved my life!” cried Jack, startling both men.

  Lancaster gave him a look of incomprehension. Crispin supposed it wasn’t often that the lowliest servant ever dared speak to him let alone shout. Though Jack always seemed of a mind to confront Lancaster.

  Gaunt approached the quivering boy and bent at the knee to look him in the face. Crispin could feel Jack trembling where he clutched at his cotehardie. “He saved your life? Tell me.”

  Jack did, starting with the body of the young boy Crispin found and how Jack decided to lay a trap but never expected to become trapped himself. With comical gestures using Crispin’s cloak like a costume, Jack made it sound as if Giles and Crispin had fought hand to hand, that it had been a chivalrous battle to the death. It sounded to Crispin like the most hero
ic tripe any minstrel had ever croaked.

  When Jack was finished, Lancaster slowly straightened. He rubbed his beard like a carpenter sanding it smooth. “Giles de Risley toyed with boys, did he?”

  “As did his cousin.”

  “Did he kill that astrologer, Cornelius van der Brooghes?”

  With an unpleasant smile of satisfaction, Crispin said, “Yes. I witnessed it.”

  “May he rot in Hell.”

  Crispin vaguely recalled a strange fiery figure rising from the brazier. “I think that a safe wager.”

  “What will you do now?”

  “We need a place to rest for the night,” he said wearily. “We will leave for London at sunrise. But Jack, here, has been through much this night and he is in need of a dry place to sleep.”

  “And just where did you intend this quiet place, Master Guest? This is no inn.”

  “With your permission, your grace, if we may stay with your . . . your servants.” It had taken the rest of his courage to mouth that aloud. To beg to sleep with Lancaster’s servants! Surely the duke would accede to that.

  His dark eyes studied Crispin’s reddening face for some time. “I see. And then?”

  He raised his chin but not his eyes. “I must go to the Jewish physician. He hired me to recover something for him that is now lost. I must inform him of that fact.”

  “Before you inform me?” asked a voice behind him.

  Crispin whipped around. The stranger from the carriage stood in the doorway to Lancaster’s inner chamber. Crispin was instantly on his guard. He longed to unsheathe his blade but there had been enough mayhem this night. Instead he said, “What is he doing here?”

  “Your betters, Crispin,” warned Lancaster. “The Bishop Edmund is my guest.”

  “Tut, your grace,” said the man. “Master Guest and I have met before. Under trying circumstances, to be sure, though never formally. I am Edmund Becke, a humble bishop from Yorkshire, on a mission.” He bowed. “Am I given to understand you have been successful in your trials? Did you, by any chance, obtain the object I desired?”

  “The parchments you wanted?” The man frowned at Crispin’s deliberate release of information. Too bad if he had wanted to keep it a secret from Lancaster. “They didn’t belong to you. They should go to their rightful owner.”

  “Rightful owner?” Becke seemed genuinely puzzled. “I am the rightful owner.”

  “I beg to differ. Parchments in Hebrew? Could those possibly be yours?”

  The man’s face darkened. “Yes. They would certainly be mine to confiscate. The parchments you speak of are illicit, smuggled into England for the purpose of its secret Jews to continue their unholy worship from their Scriptures.”

  Crispin felt the tiniest of twinges in his gut. Somehow there were too many parchments afoot. And he was beginning to feel as if he had been duped.

  “What the devil are you two talking about?” bellowed Lancaster.

  “Master Guest knows.” The bishop stepped closer and looked Crispin in the eye, holding his gaze captive. “Give them to me.” He held out his open palm.

  “That was what this was all about? The Jews’ wish to worship?”

  “These Jews do not belong on English soil. Give them to me!”

  “Give them to him, Crispin.”

  Crispin gave an angry grin. “They burned. All of them.”

  Bishop Edmund looked aghast before his expression changed. He chuckled. “That shall save me the trouble of burning them myself, at least. We shall soon purge these Jewish creatures from the land as easily as burned parchment.”

  Creatures. Crispin could not help but picture that boy, John, in his mind, innocently thinking that Crispin could protect their secret. Well, he had, for what it was worth. Not that it would do them any good in the long run.

  “May I go?” he spat. He refused to meet Lancaster’s gaze.

  Becke waved his hand. “I am through with him. For the moment. But I suspect Master Guest and I shall meet again.” He offered Crispin a last smile. “I am supposing you wish you had taken my gold now, eh?”

  “You would suppose wrong.” He looked to Lancaster once more. “May I go, your grace?”

  Lancaster swept the two of them with his glance. “Yes, Crispin. It appears you are done here. But when you are through with your other business, you and your servant may find rest in yon alcove. Let it not be said that I was uncharitable this Advent season.”

  “Let it not be said,” he grumbled. He instructed Jack to stay, even though there was a pleading look in his eye. It wouldn’t do for Lancaster to see how indulgent he was with his own servant. He decided he would be safe enough in Lancaster’s care.

  Once in the corridor he asked a sleepy servant where he could find the Jewish physician and was directed to a door at a far end, away from the other chambers.

  When Crispin knocked, it was some moments before Jacob opened the door. “Surprised?” The man’s shocked face did not stop Crispin from shoving his way in.

  He gave the room a glance before turning on the physician. “I found your parchments.”

  Julianne was pulling on her dressing gown as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes with one hand and carried a candle with the other. She smiled upon first seeing Crispin, but her face took on a look of shock. Bruised, with clothes singed by fire and covered in another man’s blood, he must look less and less like a proper suitor, even a Gentile one. As much as he wanted to fall relieved into her arms, now was not yet the time to rest.

  But Jacob, too pleased with the tidings, surged forward. “Where are they?” His eager hands opened, waiting to receive them.

  “They were destroyed,” he said with a certain amount of satisfaction. “But even had I recovered them, I would have been forced to hand them over to a Yorkshire bishop. He seems to think they are smuggled Scriptures to be given to the secret Jews of London.”

  The color drained from Jacob’s face and he slowly sank into a chair. “Oh.”

  “Father, what is he talking about?”

  A shaky hand reached up and touched her arm. “My dear child. Forgive an old man for his folly. For the pages of Creation were indeed stolen. But I used that as a ruse to hire this gentleman. I knew of his education and sought to arouse his curiosity by citing their strange provenance. For along with them were the parchments I was truly most concerned about. These were a portion of the Torah. A Torah I brought from France to give to a small band of Jews hiding in London.”

  “Mon père! Why? Why risk such a dangerous move?”

  “You are not blind, my child.” His body spoke of a deep weariness, but his voice took on a harder edge. “You have seen the persecutions. Our life in Provençal has been good, but it hangs by a thread. The whim of a monarch can send us into certain poverty and sorrow. When I knew I was coming to England, I made preparations.” His eyes blinked once at his disguised daughter before he turned them to Crispin. “My apologies for deceiving you, Maître. I could not very well tell you my mission here without putting lives at risk. As a physician, it is my task to heal. And if that healing is merely spiritual, well. Then that is also my task. And a blessing.”

  “You placed me in unnecessary danger without full disclosure. That is unacceptable.”

  “Yes. Yes, for that, too, do I apologize. But I am only guilty of the sin of omission. The parchment to create a Golem was missing, but I did not worry over its loss as much as I let on.”

  “You waited two months to hire me.”

  “It took two months before I first heard of you.”

  “There seems a great deal of deception about you, Master Jacob.” And he looked pointedly at Julianne. She pulled her gown tight about her and raised her chin insolently. “Do not fret over the loss. I do not think they will fall to the wrong hands in this instance. I rather think they were also destroyed.”

  Jacob nodded. “Perhaps a better end to them. The loss of the Scripture, however, is of great sorrow. It is only that my people wished to worship in the t
ongue of their forefathers. Why is this so wrong?” He shrugged and stared at the shaky candle flame in Julianne’s grasp. “I will still pay you for your efforts, of course.” He pushed himself up from his chair and ambled slowly toward an iron chest. Withdrawing a key from a ring on his belt, he unlocked it and pulled out a small pouch. “I think this silver will cover your fee.”

  Crispin did not allow pride to get in the way of his taking this money. It was certainly well earned. He stiffly bowed his thanks and then turned to Julianne. “I would speak with your daughter, sir. Alone.”

  “No.”

  “Father, please.”

  Jacob did not look as if he would relent, but after a moment of reflection he shuffled toward the inner chamber, pulling the door after him but leaving it ajar.

  He gazed at her, small and solemn in the light of the one candle. “I had to see you. I . . . wish to continue to do so.”

  She took a step closer. “That is madness.”

  He pushed a hand through his crusty hair, thinking of the last few hours. “I am mad.”

  When she set the candle down she touched the blood on his clothes and face. “Crispin. What happened to you this night?”

  “Much. Jesu, but I am weary.”

  “But . . . you are unhurt?”

  He nodded. A hand lifted and touched a lock of her hair. “I have been thinking about you a great deal.”

  She shook her head, but gently so as not to dislodge his caressing hand. “We can do nothing, you and I. The best thing we can do is forget each other.”

  He stepped forward and engulfed her in his arms. The candle flickered in those glistening eyes. “I am afraid I cannot do that.” He bent his head and took her lips. Even as she tried to shake her head, her mouth responded, opening. The kiss lasted until he needed to take a breath. “Julianne,” he whispered to her forehead, kissing the warm flesh. Maybe something good could come of this horror. Maybe . . .