The Demon's Parchment (19 page)

Middleton paused, gauging Crispin’s reaction.

But Crispin did not know what to think. Not a man of deep faith, he felt only mild distaste at false Christians, but the uneasy feeling in his belly might just as easily be attributed to the other things Middleton was saying. He had never thought about the details before, never imagined uprooting children and families for places unknown with little but what they could carry. Yes, he had seen such an exodus after battles and thought little of it. These were the conquered. It was right that they were sent away. In the Holy Land, were not Christians exiled by the pagan Saracen?

The faces before him were not as he expected. They did not reek of evil or evil intentions. They did not sneer derisively as did the petulant Julian. They seemed like Englishmen.

His neck hairs bristled.

When Crispin had been exiled from court, he had at least been allowed to stay in London among the familiar. But to be exiled to a foreign kingdom . . .

His head hurt. That was it. That was why these revelations were turning his stomach.

Either that or the Jewish wine.

He said nothing, waiting for Middleton to continue. The man looked as if he could use some wine himself. “And so . . . you see us here.” His gesture included the assembled. “One hundred years later. We make no trouble. We respect where we live. Though we have no rabbi, no spiritual leader, our parish leaders read the Torah in Hebrew to the assembly. At least as much of it as we were able to acquire. We keep the traditions but we keep out of the way. It is always all we ever wanted.”

Crispin glanced at the boy again. The young face was serene, fresh in the knowledge that his savior, Crispin, would also be his champion. He wetted his lips. “Have . . . have you been missing any boys, Master Middleton?”

He shook his head. “No, Master. And we are grateful that John was spared today.”

Crispin considered. Boys snatched from the streets. Was the man who wanted the parchment responsible for the other four deaths? Was John to be the fifth?

Or are there
two
men abducting boys?

And where did this Golem fit in?

Exhausted, Crispin sighed. “Then this man who tried to abduct the boy. I ask again. Do you know him?”

“We do not,” said Middleton.

“Did any of you know the missing boys?”

They all shook their heads. This was getting him nowhere. He rose—a little more steadily this time, though his head did not hurt any less. What was he to do? How could he keep something so grave a secret? Was he not in enough trouble with the crown? Yet he had given his word, and if he had not his word, then he had nothing at all.

He glared at these faces. These
Jewish
faces. And the thought, dark and sticky, finally occurred to him. Oh they were benign, weren’t they? They with their humble spokesman and innocent-looking boy with a face like Jack Tucker. But this Golem, this demon, came from the minds of people such as these. A Golem would do the bidding of its maker, so said Jacob of Provençal. The missing boys had not been Jewish. So then this Golem was snatching good Christian boys for its mischief—

Wait.

What was he thinking? He rubbed the back of his aching head. He did not believe in this Golem. No, he did not! Despite what he thought he saw, he could not believe in such an outlandish thing.

And yet, if
they
believed it . . .

“I have one more question.” He took in each solemn face, each studied expression. “Have any of you ever heard of a . . . Golem?”

There was a gasp and the faces around him broke into wide-eyed fear.

“We do not speak of such things,” said a man with a rondelle hat.

“Indeed,” said Crispin with a sneer. “Well, I
am
speaking of it. Who amongst you knows how to make a Golem? You already admitted to knowledge of Hebrew.”

The gathering fell to silence. No one so much as breathed. Even young John was hauled against a hip and hugged into silence.

“No one, eh?” Crispin walked a slow circle, staring into each face. Eyes fell away from him with something like guilt. “These things can be discovered. Who amongst you has access to court?”

Again, silence.

Crispin scowled. “If none of you will talk, it will go badly for all of you. Speak. I will not hold responsible the entire community if you give up the one.”

But Crispin slowly realized that this was the wrong thing to say. Middleton raised his chin and stared defiantly. Others lifted their faces and soon Crispin found himself surrounded by a wall of rebellious people.

On the one hand, he was furious with them for their defiance. But on the other, he admired their fortitude.

“I have seen it,” said Crispin.

A woman holding and jiggling a baby over her shoulder shushed her companion who tried to hold her back. “What is your meaning? You saw . . . the Golem?”

There were sounds of protest, and a grouse or two about women holding their tongues.

“Yes,” said Crispin in a strong voice. “I have seen the Golem. He was large, broad-shouldered, with a small head. There was clay. . . .”

Whispers rumbled through the crowd and more than one gaze fell from Crispin’s.

They know something
. A quick glance toward Middleton revealed his startlement. And something more. Recognition?

“I tell you now,” warned Crispin. “If you are harboring this thing or concealing its whereabouts, I cannot be held responsible as to what happens to you. Speak!”

But the whisperings ceased and Crispin was right back where he started. Stubborn, these Jews.

He settled one hand on the hilt of his dagger. “For the time being, I see no reason to inform the sheriff of your . . . little community. But I cannot promise complete anonymity. Should it prove relevant to this case, I do not see how it can remain a secret.”

Middleton licked his chapped lips. “But if it is not—”

“I cannot speculate.
Everything
is relevant.” He pushed forward and the people stumbled out of his way. “I thank you for your assistance,” he tossed out. He felt unaccountably stifled and needed air. The crowd allowed him through the door into a smaller parlor where a servant was lighting a candle on a sideboard. The room was plain but clean, with a tapestry of a leaf and vine pattern hanging above the sideboard. Blank walls, walls devoid of crucifixes or saintly portraits. The image chased him out the door to a courtyard of pruned rosebushes and brown, tangled vines. It was a perfectly normal courtyard. But the absence of shrines or of statues suddenly stood out like a green leaf on the white snow.

He walked backward, looking at its darkening shadows from behind as he drew further away. What to make of this! The London he thought he knew was becoming more foreign by the moment.

Crispin trotted across the lane and propped himself against a post. A nearby brazier warmed his left flank. Night had fallen during the time of his convalescence and he was glad for the wrong-side-out tabard that helped to keep him warm.

He surveyed the street from where he had come. Chancery Lane. It had been known as the Jews’ Street long ago and was even vaguely referred to as such in disparaging tones. No one was on the street now. The fog had thickened and shrouded the avenue in gray mist. The dark shapes of houses rose above the street like sharp-steepled gargoyles, looming near one another in some iniquitous coven. Yellow light limned shuttered windows and the occasional spark let loose and flew from a crooked chimney. But all else was dark and cold and lonely.

On the one hand were these Jews, who seemed aware of a Golem. But it was no fabled Golem whom Crispin had witnessed snatching a boy from the street. He had seen that nameless man with his own eyes, fought with him and saved the boy from some horrible fate. It would explain an anonymous carriage when a horse would do. Unspeakable acts could be accomplished in a closed wagon drawn through deserted alleys. But why then had the man entertained Crispin within it? To taunt him? He thought of Giles’s cousin and knew the answer to that. Such men needed to taunt, to prove themselves in ways that could not be achieved on the lists or among men of character.

If this so-called bishop devoured these boys then what was his purpose?

And what, by the mass, did it have to do with Hebrew parchments? Did this bishop want a Golem to serve his disgusting habits or . . .

Crispin stopped, his thoughts overwhelming him. Perhaps the old Jew was lying. Perhaps he
had
made this Golem but lost the means to control it when his parchments were stolen. Then who has the parchments now?

Wait, wait. That would imply that such a creature as a Golem existed.

“There is no Golem!” he barked. A man trudging down the lane and carrying a heavy sack over his shoulder stopped and stared at
him. Crispin glared back, his hand lying on his dagger hilt in warning. The man’s gaze flicked to the gesture and he moved on without a word, shambling through the gray snow.

Crispin watched him disappear in the gloom.
But what if the man in the carriage was
not
a bishop,
he thought. The honorific “Excellency” was freely wielded, might even refer to one of those astrologers Jacob spoke of. It was not uncommon for physicians to consult star charts. Divination played just as important a role as the use of purges and potions. Yet some astrologers were only in it for the money. Those could be found in wealthy households, making good coin from their signs and scratches and burning twigs, like some Greek priest in an ancient temple. Crispin had even known a few generals who would not set foot to stirrup until their astrologers had told them it was wise to do so.

He did not recall these generals being particularly successful.

There were indeed astrologers at court. It was rumored the queen favored one. But a woman desperate to produce an heir to the throne might be inclined to all measures at her disposal. Including hiring a Jewish physician.

Missing Hebrew parchments,
he mused. If an astrologer didn’t read Hebrew, might he know where to go to get someone who did? Perhaps through abduction of a Jewish child?

Crispin shook his head. He couldn’t go round and round like this. Something had to make sense. And a Golem did not.

“I’m weary.” His voice sounded strange and alone on the deserted street. What hour was it? And just as he thought it, the slow tolling of bells from Westminster chimed Compline. All to rest. The end of the day where silence reigned.

But to Crispin, it meant finally meeting with that servant and avoiding the Watch. Curfew was now in force.

It was time to leave these meandering thoughts for a brief while and concentrate on his rendezvous at Charing Cross. He reluctantly pushed away from the glowing brazier, and moved by feel
toward Westminster through the thickening fog. It was a long way made longer by the shrouding night and mist. He looped through dark, narrow lanes to Temple Bar and veered right along the wide avenue of the Strand, guided by the warm threads of light ringing the shuttered windows.

The road curved, following the bend of the Thames, and by this he knew he was drawing closer. Hidden by the fog he hoped the servant would find him before the Watch.

The stone cross of Charing Cross suddenly rose out of the darkness. It did not offer a traveler’s comfort but instead stood more like a disapproving nun, blocking his path.

Of course he did not spy the servant. That would have been far too easy. No, instead, he was to stand out in the cold and await him. He patted his arms and stomped a bit in the slush. Well, the man served at the pleasure of others. He couldn’t begrudge him too much for his delay.

He cast his eyes toward Westminster Palace but could not see beyond the dark rooftops before him. He began to speculate what the man would tell him, which lord he might implicate, for if he were hired or coerced into stealing those parchments, then he was hired or coerced by
someone,
and that someone might well be guilty of murder. Could it be as simple as this? No mysterious Golems? No sinister lords with dark carriages?

A cynical laugh tried to climb up his throat.

Crispin expelled a warm breath into the cold air. This seemed to be taking a long time, or did the cold just make it seem so? He marched in place for a bit before he decided to pace around the cross itself, warming his muscles by constant movement.

His stomach growled. He couldn’t recall the last time he had eaten. Was there any food at home? He hoped Jack was cooking something. Something other than turnips. “God’s blood, but I hate turnips.”

He circled the cross a few times, stomping at a marshaling pace.
“Where is that damnable servant?” He scowled in the direction of the palace as if by its nature his scowl could roust out the man from wherever it was he was hiding.

Impatiently, he climbed the cross’s steps to get a better vantage and peer farther down the lane, even if it were possible to see through the fog. He didn’t rise but a few steps when his foot jammed into something soft.

He glanced down. At first it looked to be a pile of clothing. Strange, his mind said, but his strident heart seemed to know better, and he reached down on instinct and encountered the form of a person huddled on the steps.

“This is no place to sleep,” said Crispin to the curled figure. But even as he reached, he knew. He knew.