The Demon’s Parchment cg-3 Page 12

  “So I see,” said Exton, licking his fish-lips. “What was this man doing to warrant such swift justice?”

  He displayed the book before he let it drop to the mud. “This, Lord Sheriff. I caught him red-handed with stolen property.”

  Crispin tried to swallow, but the blade in his throat made that difficult. His eyes rounded trying to watch the proceedings.

  The sheriff shifted his mount forward. He eyed Radulfus first and then cast his glance to Giles, who was shaking his head vigorously. When he next turned to Crispin, there was hint of hysteria in his eyes. “What have you to say for yourself, Master Guest?”

  “It was not stolen,” he rasped. “It was a loan from Abbot de Litlyngton. Go ask him yourself.”

  “Perhaps I shall. And to do that properly—” he turned to Giles, “I will need the accused, Lord de Risley. If you would be so kind as to tell your friend, my lord.”

  Giles grabbed the man’s arm again. Crispin’s heart had not stopped its clamor and it stumbled once when he thought that Exton’s brief reprieve was only that. Would the man run him through anyway? Defy the sheriff and Giles just for spite?

  Exton didn’t press the matter. He waited, expression vacant. His horse impatiently tamped the courtyard.

  With a sigh and the tilt of his head, Radulfus pulled back his blade and very deliberately sheathed it. Crispin coughed a breath, which only tore the skin at his throat. He felt the hot blood dribble down his neck.

  De Risley helped Crispin to his feet, but Crispin shook him off, flushing darkly. That Giles should witness his moment of weakness!

  The sheriff pointed to the slushy snow. “Pick up the book.”

  Crispin cursed under his breath. The precious book that Abbot Nicholas had entrusted to his care was now wet and muddy. He leaned over and raised it from its mire, shaking off the excess water.

  “I have this now in hand,” Exton prompted, a little surer of himself.

  Giles seemed in no hurry to leave the scene. “Crispin, I—”

  “My lords,” Crispin said with a bow, dismissing them.

  Radulfus laughed and Giles glared at him and at the sallow Cornelius, who looked nervous near Radulfus.

  Finally, the three mounted. They reined their horses about and looked back at the sheriff over their shoulders. “I trust you know what to do with lawbreakers, Lord Sheriff,” said Radulfus.

  “Indeed I do, my lord.” He bowed to the men before Radulfus and Cornelius trotted away toward the palace gate. Giles looked back with an apologetic expression.

  Exton watched anxiously until he saw the back of them and turned angrily on Crispin. “Master Guest. Your behavior is untenable.”

  Froshe edged forward at last. “Just what is it you did to prick his ire?”

  Crispin rubbed his neck, wiping blood across his palm. “I did nothing, my lords. Nothing but cross his path, the bastard. I never set eyes on him before today!”

  Exton whipped around, glaring at the crowd. “Disperse! All of you. Unless you wish to be arrested for disturbing the peace.”

  The milling people quickly fled with none looking back, hiding themselves in shops or into alleys.

  “You might wish to speak more quietly—” warned Exton.

  “And cautiously!” piped Froshe.

  “Yes. Much more cautiously if you intend to insult courtiers in the streets. Whether you know their names or not!”

  “He is a bastard. And more.” The bleeding would not stop and he stooped to gather snow to press it to his sore neck. “And what I said was the truth. My mere existence seemed to compel him to violence.”

  “I am beginning to know just how he feels! Need we go to Westminster Abbey to prove what you said about that book?”

  “Of course not!” The skin at his neck was numbed by the cold snow, feeling like a corpse’s skin. He let the crimson snow fall and brushed uselessly at the mud and sticky snow at the back of his cloak. “The abbot loaned it to me. I’d swear to it on my sword, if I still had one.”

  Exton scowled. It was beginning to resemble Wynchecombe’s. He glanced along the street again. No one was close enough to overhear them. He leaned over the saddle pommel and said quietly, “I take it you are here to investigate the . . . you know.”

  Crispin stretched his neck tentatively. The numbness was still there but no amount of snow could temper the humiliation that still flushed his cheek. “Yes.”

  Froshe leaned over. “Are you making any headway?”

  Crispin scanned the street himself and his eye fell on a familiar and gratifying sight. “No. But if you leave me to it, I can carry on.”

  They both straightened. The scowls they cast at him could melt ice. “That’s the thanks we get for saving your wretched life?” said the Fishmonger. “I should have let him stick you to the ground.”

  Crispin composed his features and faced Exton. In his best courtly posture, he bowed low to him. “I am deeply grateful, Lord Sheriff.”

  “Hmpf. I’ll wager you are. My advice? Stay away from de Risley and his ilk. Just do your job,” he added with a harsh whisper before looking at the crowd again. “Report to us tomorrow. If we are to spend coin on you, Master Guest, I want to see results!” He wheeled the horse and trotted away with Froshe following quickly behind him. The retreating hoofbeats drummed hollowly in Crispin’s chest.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the ginger-haired boy approach, wearing the tabard of the duke of Lancaster. “Master,” he said tentatively. “Master Crispin . . .”

  Jack’s face was a feast of sorrow. Clearly he had witnessed his disgrace. He clutched tightly to a bundle, his teeth worrying his chapped lips.

  Crispin felt ill at ease under the boy’s scrutiny. He tried to shirk the memories of the last few moments but it stuck to him as tenaciously as the mud that was ground into his cloak. He turned away on the pretext of surveying the square. “Jack” was all he said.

  “The livery,” said Jack. He raised the bundle slightly. “I’ve got one for you, too.”

  “Good.” Across the street there was a narrow close. He headed for it, motioning Jack to follow. The walk was good for him. It allowed the clammy humiliation to slip from his shoulders. He left it back there in the street, discarded like chewed bones. When they’d reached the shadows, Jack handed him the bundle and Crispin shook it out. Another tabard with the Gaunt arms. Unbuttoning his cloak, he slipped the livery over his head, fitting it over his shoulder cape and over the scrip, keeping it safe. He whirled the cloak back over his shoulders and buttoned it again. He glanced down at Jack. “How do I look?”

  Jack shrugged. After all he had seen, it didn’t seem as if he knew what to say.

  Crispin laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “You stayed out of the way. That’s as I would have it.”

  “I didn’t protect you! I was . . . afraid.”

  The vehemence and the words from so small a source stunned him. He took a moment to collect himself, mulling the sentiments. “Jack,” he said quietly, his grip firming on the young shoulder. “You do your best. But in such an instance, it is wisest if you stay clear of me.”

  “But—!”

  “No, Jack. No arguments. It’s my command. And my wish.”

  Jack blinked rapidly, his eyes glistening. With mouth clamped tight, he gave a curt nod. Crispin gave him one in reply before he turned to the busy street in front of them and set out for the palace.

  9

  With his hood over his head and Lancaster’s arms painted across his person, Crispin and Jack slipped unquestioned through the great portico, past guards and pages. Jack spoke not a word. Crispin sensed his fear. He was not beyond a little healthy fear himself. At every turn he was in dread of encountering Giles and his wretched cousin again. What would the man make of Crispin’s new livery? Would he be accused of stealing it? There would be no sheriff to stop Radulfus’s vengeance then.

  The great hall was bustling with people, talking in small groups, citizens hoping for an audience with
certain nobles, pages milling near their lords, servants trying to stay out of the way.

  But it was the servants Crispin wanted to question. He headed toward a door he knew led to a narrow passage through which the workers often passed. Jack was at his heels, sticking close, like a calf to its mother.

  Within the passage they encountered many liveried pages, and Crispin decided to try them first.

  “You there!” he called, stopping a blond boy wearing the arms of some minor noble.

  The boy paused and looked Crispin up and down. “Aye?”

  “Can you point out the servants who serve the Jew’s quarters?”

  The boy’s eyes scoured Crispin and Jack a second time. “And why would you be wanting to know that?”

  Crispin straightened, showing off the colors across his chest. “My lord wishes to know. Why else?”

  The boy seemed little impressed. He shrugged and looked around. When he lifted his arm, his finger pointed out a man of middle years with a round face, squat brown hair streaked with gray, and hard black eyes. “That is Bill Wodecock. He would know.” Having discharged this information, the page slipped into the shadows. It didn’t matter. Crispin was now focused on the man. He wore the king’s livery and Crispin suspected he might have sway over some of the other servants.

  “Master Wodecock! I would speak with you.”

  The man in question turned. The cogwheels of his mind seemed to be turning, trying to come up with a name to the face he seemed to recognize. If he were in the employ of the king some seven years ago, he might well remember Crispin. That meant Crispin had to work fast. “I would speak with you regarding a matter of some import. Is there a place to talk?”

  “I cannot tarry now,” said the man, continuing to walk at a quickened pace. “If you would ask a question of me, you had best do it on the run.”

  “Very well,” said Crispin, matching his pace to the older man with Jack bringing up the rear. “I seek the servants to the Jew physician.”

  “Why?”

  “I must ask them questions.”

  The man’s gaze flicked once to the tabard and the duke of Lancaster’s arms. “I ask again. Why?”

  “It is not for me to know. It is for my master’s sake.”

  They reached a corridor that was empty but for themselves and a guard stationed at the other end, far from them. Wodecock stopped at last and gave Crispin a hard look. “I know you are lying. You are Crispin Guest. Give me one good reason why I should not hail yon guard.”

  Crispin sighed. Jack edged behind him that much more. “I suspected you knew me. And I also suspect you know something of why I am here.”

  “I don’t pretend to know anything. It is unwise for a servant to presume.” He looked back at the guard and scratched his broad chin. “I know what you do now, Master Crispin. I have ears, haven’t I? But there are some here who won’t talk to you no matter what you are investigating. It is too dangerous.”

  “Then I need to talk to those who do not fear it.”

  The man gave him a wary smile. “I see the king hasn’t killed the pride in you. God help you.”

  He turned to go but Crispin grabbed his arm. “This is no mere whim, sir. I need your help to prevent more mayhem.”

  He shook off Crispin’s grasp. “I am not your servant, Master. No matter who you once were. And I care little for what you think you are doing here. Be grateful I have not cried out for that guard.”

  “I beseech you. I am here to save lives. Whatever you may think of me and my character has nothing to do with my mission now.”

  Wodecock sighed loudly and tapped his foot. “By my Lady,” he grumbled. “You are just as imprudent as ever, Master Guest.” He shook his head, his flattened hair moving not at all. “Very well. I do not do it for you. I do it for my wife’s nephew whom you saved from the gallows nigh on two years past. Not that he hasn’t deserved the gallows since.” His next words slid from him reluctantly. “Go to the Jew’s corridor as close as you may. I will send someone anon who might be willing to talk with you. More I cannot promise.”

  Crispin offered the man a brief bow. “I thank you, Master Wodecock.”

  “Hmpf” was his reply, before he whirled on his heel and hurried on his way.

  Crispin caught Jack’s eye. “Let us hasten to the queen’s chamber.”

  “I don’t like this, sir,” said Jack, following. He was as skittish as a cat in a kennel. “It don’t matter what livery we wear. Going back to that corridor is cod-pated. The king could appear.”

  “He could appear anywhere, Jack. This is his palace.”

  They wended their way carefully through the corridors and found a guard at the archway to the corridor where the queen’s chamber lay. It was also the corridor to the duke of Lancaster’s apartments and Crispin took courage from their livery that they would not be stopped. With head down, he approached the guard with Jack at his side and released his held breath when they passed him unmolested.

  Would lingering in the corridor arouse suspicion? He realized he knew little of the life of the servants who waited on him since birth. Though he served as a page for Lancaster, his life was far different from the likes of Wodecock and lesser servants who stoked fires and changed linens. Many slept in their masters’ chambers in cramped alcoves.

  As they waited, a master of wardrobe exited the queen’s chamber, urging two female servants forward, their arms full of linens. Crispin turned his face away but he felt the man’s questioning eyes on him. The footsteps receded and the corridor fell to silence again.

  “How long can we tarry and not bring forth that guard?” whispered Jack into Crispin’s sleeve.

  Crispin turned his head slightly and eyed the guard . . . who was eyeing him back. “Not long, I fear. I pray that servant arrives soon.”

  Crispin was barely done speaking when a man in a quilted dark blue tunic carrying a bundle of fuel pushed past the guard. His head was covered in a leather cap with ear flaps whose ties swung freely as he lumbered. He was built more robustly than Crispin but of the same height. His eyes snapped up and captured Crispin’s gaze, keeping it as he approached. His shuffling step was hurried and he did not pause as he whisked by them. But a rasped “Follow!” hissed from the side of his mouth and Crispin and Jack joined him as he opened the door to the Jew’s quarters with a rusty key.

  The shadows swallowed them and the man turned swiftly, his back to the doorway. “Master Wodecock bid me speak to you,” said the man in a roughened voice. He looked older upon closer inspection, perhaps ten years Crispin’s senior. His eyes looked out from darkened hollows. The skin on his spotted face was stretched taut with an unhealthy pallor.

  “I will mince no words with you then,” said Crispin, eyeing what he could see of the corridor through the opened door. “The Jew physician claims that he is the victim of thievery. Parchments were stolen from him.”

  The man’s eyes widened a fraction but he said nothing.

  “Might you know of such a theft?” Crispin pressed.

  The man licked his lips. His pale blue eyes flicked over Crispin’s livery. “A theft?”

  Crispin measured his expression carefully. Something was dancing behind those troubled eyes. “Yes,” said Crispin. “Or perhaps . . . not so much a theft. But if, say, a nobleman requested such a thing. Perhaps even paid a servant to open the door for him . . .”

  The servant’s eyes shifted toward the floor. He licked his lips again.

  Aha.

  Crispin dropped his own gaze from the man and absently stroked the blazon on his tabard. “It is such a little thing, in the end, isn’t it? Open a door for a lord. Is this not the house of the king? Are these lords not the king’s minions? And what is this Jew but a servant of the king?”

  The man’s jaw muscles tightened on his stubbled jowl.

  Crispin fingered his money pouch. “I might have a halpen for a man who would share this information. Money well-earned, I may add. And with my being as discreet as a priest, no
one would know that such a man told me aught.”

  Those eyes darted back to Crispin and traveled over him efficiently like a shuttle in a loom.

  “Well then?”

  The man opened his mouth to speak when a sound in the corridor startled him. He whipped his head around and glared through the archway. A scowl set his mouth. Hurrying with his bundle, he dumped the wood and sticks into a box by the hearth. He wiped the loose bark and woodruff from his garments and returned to the door. Opening it a crack further, he peered out and kept a white-knuckled grip on the door. “I might find my way to earning that halpen. Meet me at Charing Cross. At Compline.”

  “Can you not tell me now—”

  “No time!” he rasped. “Later!” With that, he slipped out the door and threw it closed behind him.

  Frustrated, Crispin glowered at the closed door. It seemed a simple question. But perhaps it was not simple at all. Yet the fact that they were in the Jews’ apartment suddenly swelled to the forefront of his thoughts. Would this not prove a good opportunity to spy?

  Jack was already at the door with his hand on the ring when Crispin whirled away from it to go to the closed inner chamber he had not had the opportunity to examine before. He reached for the door’s latch when Jack was thrown aside by someone entering the room. A slender silhouette pierced the archway, a dagger in hand.

  Crispin yanked Jack out of harm’s way before the door closed again and the figure made its way to the fire. “What is the meaning of this?” The voice of Julian made whole the shadowed stranger. His knife flashed in the fire’s glow. Face still in shadow, the heat glittered fiercely in his eyes.

  Crispin made certain Jack was behind him. “We were speaking with a servant.”

  “So I saw. Why in our rooms?”

  “This is an investigation of a theft. Surely you expected me to look at your chamber.”

  “You are a liar!” The blade rose but Julian made no move toward them even as he vibrated like a psaltry string. His nostrils flared.

  Instinctively, Crispin raised his empty hands in appeasement, but it was only a ruse.