The Demon’s Parchment

“Then why don’t he come up?” asked the boy, twisting his cloak across his chest.

“A very good question. Why don’t you go down and find out.”

“Me?” Suddenly the mystery did not need solving so urgently. “He might be a madman. He’s been there a straight hour and he hasn’t moved.”

“All the more reason to see what he wants. Go on now, Jack. If apprentice you wish to be, then you had best obey your master.”

“I knew that would bite me in the arse,” he grumbled. Securing his cloak, he marched toward the door. He took a firm grip of his knife sheath and looked Crispin in the eye. It was moments like these that Jack seemed so very young. Of course it was true. At twelve, his cheeks were still plump from childhood, and though his voice cracked a bit, it hadn’t yet deepened. “If I don’t come back, it’s your fault.”

“Shall I keep watch? Is an old man so much of a threat to you?”

“I’m going!” he replied sullenly, and slipped through the door.

But Crispin did keep watch through the chink, and saw Jack appear cautiously below. The man tore his gaze at last from Crispin’s second-storey window and stared at Jack. The creak of cart and hiss of wind made it impossible for Crispin to hear their quiet exchange, but he could well tell by Jack’s pantomime what he told the man. He appeared to be entreating him upstairs, but the man shook his head. It seemed that he was content to stand in the snow and merely gaze up at the window.

Crispin studied the man anew. “Hmpf. Now I grow curious.”

Footsteps at his door told him Jack had returned. The door opened. “Bless me,” said Jack, shaking the flakes from his cloak and stamping at the threshold. “He does want to talk to you, sir. But he will not come up.”

“Oh? Does he say why?”

“No, sir. He seems most stubborn about it. I told him that the Tracker was not in the habit of meeting strange men in the cold streets instead of his warm lodgings.”

No, indeed. He had no wish to leave the feeble warmth of his room, but the larder was decidedly bare. “It seems I have no choice but to humor this miscreant. Tell me, Jack. How did he seem to you? What was his character?”

He knew the boy liked to show off his growing skills, and on cue, Jack puffed up and hooked his thumbs in his belt. “Well, now. He is a man of middle years, well-spoken, neat and clean.”

“London or foreign?”

“Foreign. French, I think. His speech has got a light touch, if you get my meaning. He seems like a gentleman.”

“Then he’ll have the coin. Very well. I shall meet this mysterious man on the street.” Crispin buttoned his cloak tight, pulled his chaperon hood up over his head, and yanked open the frost-bitten door.

He trotted down the narrow stairwell, mindful of the icy last step, and when he reached the lane, he studied the man with steel-gray eyes. The man turned and measured Crispin but did not approach. Instead, he bowed. “Do I have the pleasure of meeting the great Crispin Guest?” The accent was soft but unmistakably French.

“ ‘Great’ is a matter of perspective. But Crispin Guest I am. And you, sir? You find your occupation by staring at my window. To what end?”

The man took a step closer. Crispin eyed his gown, a dark woolen robe cut in solemn lines and trimmed with black fur. His skin was pale and his beard grew past his chin but was not long enough to graze his chest. There, on the breast of his gown, Crispin observed something unexpected: a round, yellow patch carefully stitched into place.

The man saw Crispin eye it but did not comment. “My name is Jacob of Provencal.” He stepped closer. “I am a physician. From the continent.”

Crispin said nothing, waiting.

The man continued. “I have heard others speak of you, of this ‘Tracker.’ You find things. Lost things.”

“Indeed. It is my bread and butter.” His stomach took that moment to growl. The tips of his ears warmed.

The man smiled. “En effet. I am looking for a most important object. A dangerous one. It must be found before, well, it simply must. I beg that you come to my lodgings and we shall discuss it there.”

Crispin turned an eye to his window, knowing well Jack was spying on them. “And where are your lodgings?”

“At court.”

He hadn’t meant to, but Crispin stiffened. The man watched him with a judicious eye. “I . . . have also heard,” the man said carefully, “that you may not be welcomed there.”

“An understatement. It would be difficult my going to King Richard’s palace. But I know of another place that might suit. Someplace closer. Will you permit me to lead you to an alehouse?”

The man hesitated. He pressed a pale finger to his lip and glanced up at Crispin’s shuttered window before he lowered his head. He muttered something under his breath and lifted his face. “Very well, then. Lead me.”

Crispin tramped through the slushy snow with rag-stuffed boots. He did not wait for the sound of the man’s footfalls behind him, though they came anyway in a faint and reluctant step.

He tried to tread into the already dark hoof marks carved into the snowy streets, but his stride was not as long as the draft horses, and his boots were soaked and cold by the time he made the turn at the corner to Gutter Lane where the Boar’s Tusk cast its weighty shadow across the road. When he came to the door he waited. The man approached and Crispin opened it, gesturing him through. Crispin followed him in and the warmth, which his own humble lodgings lacked, clapped his cold cheeks hard. He felt his bones thaw as he moved into the dim room to find his usual seat near the fire, his back to the wall and facing the door. He gestured for the man to sit opposite him.

Jacob gathered his cloak and gown around him and sat gingerly on the bench.

It wasn’t long before a plump matron came to their table with a sweating jug in one hand and two clay bowls in the other. “Crispin,” she said with a wide smile.

“Eleanor.” Seeing her warm and friendly face touched off a spark of warmth within him. She and her husband, Gilbert, owned the Boar’s Tusk. They were the first to befriend him since he came to the Shambles some seven years ago.

“Will you share wine with me, Master Jacob?” said Crispin to the wary man.

Jacob shook his head and squinted at Eleanor’s expression. “I mean no offense to this good woman here, or to her establishment. But I may not partake of anything . . . here.”

Crispin’s eyes flicked to that yellow rouelle on the man’s breast once more before settling on his lined and drawn face.

Flushed, Eleanor merely poured a bowl for Crispin and left the jug before she scooted away. Crispin surveyed the room of uneven wooden tables with their hard-worn benches and stools, scouting for familiar faces or eavesdroppers. Some tables were lit with candles, their greasy odor lifting and blending with the smells of toasting logs, roasted meats, and sweaty woolens. There were few patrons this afternoon. It was too cold to venture forth other than to earn one’s daily wage. Yet Crispin usually found himself in his favorite tavern each day. Little wonder his funds were low when he insisted on his wine.

He took up the bowl, silently saluted his companion, and drank. The wine was slightly bitter, but it didn’t matter. It warmed him and dulled the ache in his heart when he considered his empty money pouch and the depths he had to plumb to fill it.

Jacob hunkered in his robes and surveyed the other patrons with a wince of disdain. “We are quite alone, Master Jacob,” said Crispin between quaffs. He poured more into the bowl and set both jug and cup on the table, turning the cup slowly with his fingertips. “What is it you wish to tell me?”

Jacob canted closer to the table and placed both arms on its surface. He clasped his long, pale fingers together. “Maitre Guest, I have heard many rumors as concerns you.”

“Could any of them possibly be true?” He smirked and drank another dose.

“I come from afar, Maitre. But even I have heard of the Tracker . . . a man who was once a traitor.”

Seven years had passed yet still he hated the term. He gripped the bowl. “Traitor I was, sir, though I do not