The Demon’s Parchment cg-3 Read online

  “No, Master. No one remembered a boy gone missing, servant or beggar.”

  Crispin’s eyes adjusted to the darkening night and measured the many lanes ahead of him. “There are many more houses and shops to ask.”

  “We can’t ask them all, can we?”

  Crispin’s sigh created a curling mist around his face. He looked down the lane and scanned rooftops disappearing into the night. “The city is a big place. I do not see how we can ask them all. There must be another way.”

  “In the meantime, we must go to meet this Jew, then.”

  Crispin wound his cloak about him. Yes. He must.

  The streets were becoming deserted. The merchants’ stalls had been folded up and shuttered. Even the sounds of commerce had softened from the day. The muffled fall of hoofs tramping in the new snow and the squeak of a cart pushed back to its resting spot were the only sounds left from another busy day in Westminster.

  Crispin led the way to St. Margaret’s Street toward Westminster Hall. An icy mist rose from the Thames and every sound seemed to dampen beneath its heavy governance. The disquieting stillness sent a shiver down Crispin’s spine. It fell heavily around him, this sensation. He found himself stopping and looking around, bewildered. He touched Jack’s shoulder to stop him as well, and listened. It wasn’t so much something that he heard as it was something he felt. Jack looked up at him questioningly. Crispin beseeched those steady, tawny eyes, asking silently if Jack felt it, too.

  The world seemed to hold its breath.

  Crispin spun.

  For only a moment, with the light of a shopkeeper’s brazier filling the misty space behind, Crispin spied . . . something . . . against the snowy fog. A large, hulking silhouette. Broad shoulders supported a tiny head and large arms hung like hams at its sides. An unspeakable fear like none other suddenly seized Crispin’s heart. His first instinct was to grab Jack and drag his surprised form to him. His second was to draw his dagger.

  He blinked. And suddenly the alley was empty.

  “Master! What—”

  “Be still.” Crispin trotted down the narrow lane, looking for the . . . man, for want of a better word.

  The flickering brazier toyed with the shadows, sending them running in long, dancing shapes along the walls of shuttered houses. Crispin listened with all his might, stilling his own straining breath in order to hear.

  Ahead. Something like footfalls.

  He ran, snow flying from his heels. The quiet, narrow streets seemed to close in on him, their crowded structures twisting toward the middle, towering above Crispin’s head in their need to consume the sky.

  Before he turned a corner he scoured the ground under the fitful moonlight. Large indentations in the snow could have been footprints, but they were quickly filling with new flakes.

  He ran to the rhythm of his own beating heart for several more paces before he slowed to a stop. He listened again.

  Nothing.

  Jack came up behind him, beating the ground, skidding in the snow to grab hold of Crispin’s cloak. “Master!” He panted, eyes wide disks. “What was that?”

  Crispin rolled the dagger’s handle in his sweaty hand once before sheathing it. Baleful apprehension would not allow his heart to slacken. “Jack, by the Holy Rood, I . . . do not know.”

  4

  Disturbed more than he could say, it was after some minutes of searching—for what he knew not—before Crispin allowed them to return to the Great Gate. He took careful measure of the sounds and sights on the street, and when they backtracked, he tried Jack’s patience by keeping his eyes to the ground and even returning to the street where the pursuit had ended.

  Jack thumbed his dagger and kept licking his chapped lips. Crispin continued to look over his shoulder.

  When the gate was in sight again, Jack crossed himself for the hundredth time. “Let us hurry and meet this Jew, Master. I would be home in me own bed.”

  “Yes,” he answered distractedly before shaking it off. What was the matter with him? This business of dead boys was touching his mind. That was only some man going home to his warm lodgings. Some large man. Perhaps a blacksmith or a mason. How the shadows can make the ordinary sinister! He almost laughed at himself, but the lingering sense of disquiet would not allow it. He merely led Jack to the Great Gate and when they walked silently across the vast outer ward, they stepped up to an arched portico at the front steps. Under the arch, a porter warmed his hands over a brazier with several pages standing beside him.

  Crispin approached, breaching the light cast by the brazier. The porter spied him and turned, grabbing his pike. “Hold there!” he warned.

  Crispin bowed. “I have a message for Jacob of Provençal. I was to meet him here.”

  The porter glanced at the pages, who looked reluctant to move.

  “I can send my servant if you do not wish to fulfill your obligations,” said Crispin, gesturing toward a scowling Jack.

  A page, with hair as black as Crispin’s, straightened and pulled at his tabard. “I shall go to the Jew. Whom shall I say is at the gate?”

  Crispin smiled. “He will know.”

  The pages shared a look with the porter, but the dark-haired one soon trotted to do his business.

  Unfortunately, the brazier was within the stone portico. Crispin and Jack were obliged to stand in the snowy courtyard without benefit of a fire. Jack trotted in place to keep the cold away. Crispin stood stoically under his cloak. He had long experience waiting in all manner of weather for a battle. This was no different.

  In time, the page returned with the physician. The man looked none too pleased and quickly scampered into the courtyard to meet Crispin in the shadows.

  “You are tardy, sir,” said the man in a severe tone.

  “I am here now. How am I to get into court?”

  Jacob looked back at the porter and pages and drew Crispin and Jack deeper into the shadows of the courtyard’s wall. “We will exchange cloaks.” He showed Crispin his. On it was the yellow rouelle designating him as a Jew. “Your servant and I will enter at the Queen’s Bridge, while you return this way.”

  “A feeble ruse,” said Crispin, eyeing the man’s full beard while rubbing his own clean-shaven jaw.

  “Keep your head bowed. I am all but ignored. No one sees me unless they must.”

  Crispin digested this even as he unbuttoned his cloak. He handed the garment to Jacob just as the old man passed his to Crispin. Crispin allowed a wave of discomfort before he spun the cloak over his shoulders and lifted his hood, hiding his face.

  “The corridor by the Painted Chamber,” said Jacob before he hastened out of the courtyard. The Painted Chamber? That was in the royal quarters, by the king and Lancaster. Crispin’s heart thrummed in his chest. But he turned to Jack and urged him without words to follow the man. Jack grimaced his distaste but nonetheless followed.

  Keeping his head down, Crispin walked like an old man, striding under the gate arch without the porter or any of the pages questioning him.

  Glancing back, he snorted. So, the old Jew was right. He wasted no more time and headed down the familiar corridors toward the southern end of the palace. Crispin had managed to slip into the palace on other occasions, but after the latest incident with the king, he doubted his presence would be greeted with much joy.

  Iron cressets burned, lighting his way, and there was occasional laughter muffled behind closed doors as he passed apartment after apartment.

  He waited in the shadows, his hood heavy over his face.

  A scuffled step. Crispin raised his head and saw both figures approaching; the older man and a reluctant Jack Tucker close behind him.

  “This way,” hissed Jacob, and Crispin and Jack followed his quick pace.

  Crispin had been curious as to what the apartments of a Jew would look like. A certain uneasiness warred within his gut. Would it be odd and foreign like the homes of Saracens in the Holy Land, full of exotic smells and strange furnishings? His heart quickened wh
en the door opened, but as his eyes adjusted to the dark, the fact of a normal room melted away his apprehension to disappointment.

  The hearth burned low. Jacob took a poker and urged the flames to life, adding a log. Crispin sneered at the wood in envy. He had no logs for his fire. Only peat and the meager sticks Jack bought from the wood sellers or managed to scavenge.

  Jacob used a straw to light several candles. As the room glowed, Crispin glanced about. Bright drapery hung on the walls, giving the plaster a cheery appearance. Shadowed alcoves pricked Crispin’s curiosity, where tables with various beakers and bowls stood ready. Except for the numerous bottles and canisters and the odd smells emanating from that direction, the room looked to be as any ordinary physician’s parlor. A door to the left must have led to a bed chamber. Not bad for a Jew, mused Crispin grudgingly.

  The chamber door opened suddenly.

  Crispin’s hand reached for his dagger. A young man, thin and pale, stepped through the opening. At first Crispin thought him to be a page, but the yellow rouelle on his dark, ankle-length gown soon snuffed that notion. He wore a scarlet sash about his waist and from it hung a gold chain with a key, a money pouch, and a small dagger. A thick, gold chain on his chest seemed an attempt to hide the rouelle. The youth glared with narrowed, jewel-green eyes. “Mon père.” His voice was harsher than Crispin expected from his slight features. It was almost hoarse. His brown hair hung limply on either side of his cheeks down to the jaw. A dark cap perched on the crown of his head.

  Jacob nodded toward the lad. “This is Julian. My son.”

  The boy did not acknowledge his father, but continued his mistrustful stare at Crispin.

  Jacob frowned. “Is this how I taught you hospitality? How do you treat guests?”

  Julian gritted his teeth and shuffled to a table near the high window. He poured four shares of wine into bowls, bringing the first to his father. When he settled his own to his chest, he leaned against the wall and studied Crispin from afar.

  “Qui sont ces mendiants?” Julian asked derisively.

  Exasperated, Jacob hissed at him, “English!”

  Crispin stiffened. “Nous ne sommes pas des mendiants,” he answered. His lips curled into a lopsided grin when Julian drew back sharply, spilling his wine.

  Jacob smiled. “Many Englishmen speak French. That will teach you to better guard your tongue.”

  Julian recovered and sipped his bowl, eyes wandering toward the dark window. His cheek was still pink.

  “I apologize for my son,” said Jacob with a sigh. He gestured Crispin to a chair. “He is often quick to judge and slow to change. It is the fault of youth, I am afraid.”

  “I would rather honest hate than useless flattery,” said Crispin over his wine. “ ‘People generally despise where they flatter.’ ”

  Jacob chuckled, noting Julian’s discomfiture at their speaking about him. “You quote Aristotle. How interesting.”

  Crispin lowered the wine from his lips. “I am surprised you would recognize the words of a pagan philosopher, Master Jacob. I was not aware that your . . . people . . . would read such men.”

  Jacob waved a hand vaguely. “It was Jewish scholars who rescued the words of pagan philosophers from obscurity.” Crispin narrowed his eyes at that, but Jacob went on, despite Crispin’s obvious skepticism. “I have learned many things from many sources, Maître Guest. Though the Scriptures and the words of the ancient rabbis resonate in my craft, I realized quite early in my schooling that not all the wisdom of the ages belongs to the Jews . . . merely most of it.”

  Julian snorted a laugh but hid his expression in his bowl.

  Jack hovered behind Crispin’s chair, gulping his wine before Crispin twisted around and took the bowl from him. “Master Jacob,” said Crispin tightly. “Perhaps if we can get to the business at hand . . .”

  Julian grumbled. “I do not know why you had to bring this Gentile into our suite, Father,” he muttered. “Who cares if something is stolen from a Jew, after all?” Julian fixed his glare on Crispin. The boy had an evil glint in his eye. “A man who does such work for money. Is that not why there is a sheriff?”

  Crispin stood. “Then call in the sheriff. Here.” He reached for the coin pouch and dropped the offending bag onto a table. “Take back your coin, Master Jacob.”

  Jacob looked beside himself. He touched his forehead and groaned. “You see what you have done?” he hissed at his son.

  “I do not care! We do not belong in England. Their laws are a disgrace. We defile ourselves by being here! We belong in Avignon where a Jew is treated with dignity.”

  “You know nothing!” he hissed at the boy. He turned entreating eyes to Crispin. “Maître Guest, I implore you. I need your help. London needs your help.”

  He gave Julian a stern look. “I would counsel your son to keep his arguments to himself from now on.”

  Julian pressed forward, opening his mouth as if to speak, when Jacob wheeled on him. “You will be still!” Surprised, the boy blinked rapidly and clamped his lips shut. The fist at his side trembled.

  Jacob nodded. “Maître Guest. I apologize for such an unruly household. My wife died when he was only an infant. I fear that he did not receive the benefit of Patience from a mother’s touch as perhaps he should have done. Please, sit. Have more wine. Julian, bring a stool for the servant boy.”

  “You are enigmatic, sir,” Crispin offered as Julian did as bid. “At first, you tell me that something dangerous has been stolen from you. And then you tell me your theft involved mere parchments. And just now, you intimate that London is in danger. I think it might be best to get to the point.”

  The firelight painted Jacob’s white face with deeply etched lines of age and worry. Julian had eased into a folding seat and watched his father with pursed lips and glittering eyes.

  “I am certain, Maître Guest, that you have been schooled in the sciences. You seem to be a well-educated man.”

  “My education would be beside the point.”

  “Oh no. I do not think so.” Jacob settled himself deeper into his cushioned chair. “It is the very point. Have you ever heard of your Englishman William of Ockham?”

  Surprised that the Jew had, he did not show it on his face. “Indeed. It is part and parcel to my personal philosophy. Lex parsimoniae. ‘Entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem.’”

  A slight clearing of a throat behind him. He raised a brow toward Jack. “It means ‘entities should not be multiplied beyond necessity.’ ”

  “ ‘The simplest explanation is the best’ ” offered Julian.

  Crispin glanced at the young Jew, who gave him a triumphant smirk. He almost returned an admiring smile. Turning his metal wine bowl in his hand and feeling the raised designs under his fingertips, Crispin added, “Aristotle also coined: ‘A likely impossibility is always preferable to an unconvincing possibility.’ ” Julian wore an approving expression before he seemed to remember himself and lost it again. “I have learned that truth is truth, Master Jacob,” Crispin continued, “no matter the age, no matter the philosopher.”

  Jacob’s chapped lips curved into a brief smile. “You are an interesting man, Maître. But there is still much to tell. I asked about your studies in science because it is so appropriate to our discussion. Great scholars of the age—Thomas Aquinas, John Duns Scotus, Roger Bacon, Gersonides—bear the one truth, the one we all hold dear. And that is that the Lord Almighty, blessed be His name, is the architect of our universe, of all that we can possibly understand and conceive. That the Lord holds every answer to every mystery. Is this not so?”

  Crispin ran a tongue over his lips, tasting the last of his wine. “Yes.”

  “And to these few scholars, He opens the door but a crack, allowing in a mere candle flame of light. There is so much more to know.”

  “Someone has stolen your research, then,” Crispin offered, trying to hurry him along.

  “My research? No, not mine.”

  He turned to the you
th. “Yours, then?”

  Julian seemed startled to be addressed and opened his mouth to comment when Jacob jolted from his chair and paced before his book-laden table. He pondered the books for some time before pouncing and rummaging through them. Piles of parchments tied together with leather covers. Scrolls with unfamiliar writing, at least unfamiliar to Crispin from the brief snatches he saw of them before Jacob discarded one to pick up another. “Astrology tells us much; our personalities, our humors. Divination through numbers and patterns—”

  “Father!”

  Jacob stopped his furious searching and looked up.

  Julian gritted his teeth. His eyes were wide and furious. “You trust this Gentile with too much!”

  Crispin had begun to assess the young man as intelligent and worldly, until he opened his mouth again.

  “He has my silver in his purse,” said Jacob.

  “And do you truly think that is enough to buy his silence? I implore you! Make him leave. Forget about those parchments—”

  “No! The damage that has already been done! It grieves my heart to think—” He shook his head and leaned against the table. “Maître Guest, if you give me your word, I shall trust you. Can you give me your word and your oath that you will not use this information against me?”

  Crispin wriggled in his seat. “Master Jacob,” he said carefully, mindful of the venomous stares from Julian to the back of his head. “It would be difficult for me to swear before I know all.” The man seemed sincere enough. But he was a Jew, and Crispin had little experience with such people. But the coins were needed. Dammit.

  “I give you my word,” said Crispin slowly. “If you will have me swear, then I shall.”

  Jacob smiled. “No need, sir. I believe you.” He looked toward his son. “You see, not all men are false. Some, though they be English, can be relied upon.”