The Demon’s Parchment

Crispin said nothing. How to explain to the boy that men deceive, even the ones who seem benign? And yet . . . He relied on his gut instincts to carry him through many a difficult situation. And his gut told him that Jacob was the man he seemed to be. Jack’s innocent assertion was more pointed than the boy could have imagined. Crispin had dealt with Jews before in the Holy Land. Suspicious merchants and obsequious money lenders. He had naturally seen them in France in Avignon, as there they were free to do what they liked. He had assumed they were all as he imagined, all he had been taught.

He didn’t like the direction his thoughts were taking. He preferred, instead, to cast his thoughts on the murderous Julian, for it was easier to find evil in that narrow-eyed youth. He was more like the Jew he pictured in his mind’s eye. That lad was the one Crispin could not trust. His wounded arm throbbed with the thinking of it.

The quiet settled around them as they trudged back to London. The soft sounds of ice crunched beneath their boots. They passed Temple Bar and headed up Fleet Street before they could make the turn northward. They’d have to enter London by Newgate, and though Crispin hated to do it, he knew it was the only—

Wait. What was that?

He halted and reached out to grasp Jack’s cloak and pulled him to a stop.

Jack didn’t speak, only looked up from his shadowing hood, puzzled. Crispin held up a hand for him to listen. They both did, cocking their heads.

A steady thud coming their way. Hard, heavy footfalls. The Watch? Perhaps a man carrying a heavy burden. That would certainly have slowed his steps. Or it could be someone injured . . .

The chill at the familiar sound rumbled up his core. It sounded like . . .

Out of the shadows emerged a large figure. Jack gasped and Crispin froze, staring. The figure stopped where it was, standing between two close buildings. A narrow band of moonlight limned one edge of the hulking man but not enough to reveal his face. He had unnaturally wide shoulders and a seemingly small head.

They stood staring at one another for several heartbeats, little more than a stone’s throw apart.

All at once, the man turned and slipped quickly back into the shadows.

It seemed to break the spell and Crispin took off at a run. But when he got to the spot the man had stood, there was no sign of him at all.

A dog barked somewhere in the distance. The lonely sound only enhanced the isolated feeling of the empty street.

Jack was behind Crispin clutching his cloak. “Where’d he go?” His voice was breathless.

“I don’t know.”

“Was it . . . was it the same man from before?”

“It . . . might have been.” Crispin truly wasn’t certain.

“God blind me!”

And if it were, what did it mean? Crispin peered deep into the shadows, willing his ears to hear any faraway footsteps, anything that could yield a clue. He barely noticed Jack dropping to his knees into the shadowy snow.

The lad scrabbled about and gasped. Crispin could not see in the dim light what he was up to, but he could detect the boy trembling.

“What is it, Jack?” The boy didn’t answer right away but he had something in his hand. He leaned over him, trying to see. “Jack? What is it? What have you found?”

Slowly, he rose. He was looking into his hand. In the darkness, Crispin tried to make it out. Was it a stone?

Jack was still trembling. “Holy Mother protect us,” he whispered. He lifted his hand for Crispin to see but the dim light made it impossible. “M-master,” he said.

“What is it, Jack?” He grasped the boy’s hand and yanked it higher.

“See, Master Crispin. Clay!”

7

Impossible. Yet hadn’t Crispin witnessed many impossible things in the last few years? Was this not merely one more?

This was madness. There was a perfectly logical explanation for the presence of clay. His mind was simply having difficulty coming up with a plausible reason. He motioned for Jack to clean the clay from his hands.

“It’s the Golem!” rasped Jack, voicing both their thoughts and pushing his soiled palms down his cloak. “Holy Mother of God!” He began a litany of poorly mouthed prayers.

“It is no such thing!” Crispin blew a cloudy breath, one hand on his dagger hilt, the other holding his cloak closed. He peered again into the darkness, up the street and down. If he had not seen the man for himself, Crispin wouldn’t have believed he had been there. Except for those droplets of clay upon the snow like blood. That damnable clay.

“Let us get back to London, Jack. We need our beds.”

He pressed ahead but Jack still shivered in the snow, looking behind.

“Jack! JACK!”

A flicker of light sputtered to life in a window and its shutter opened a crack. Crispin grabbed Jack by his hood and dragged him into the shadows. A figure leaned out of the window and looked about before shivering and shutting it again.

“Come along!” he whispered.

He tramped heavily over the crunchy snow. After a time he no longer had need to drag Jack. The boy cleaved tight to him and they walked within the same shadow under the disappearing moonlight.

When they reached London’s walls they headed north to Newgate. Jack cringed on seeing the rigid towers crawl up into the sky, frost gleaming in pale patches across its stony surface. “Master Crispin! We ain’t going in there, are we?”

“It is the only gate I am certain to be able to pass through.”

“But can we pass out of it again?”

A good question. One he did not wish to ponder.

Without thinking further on it, Crispin raised his hand and knocked on the heavy wooden door. After waiting an interval he knocked again. This time he heard footfalls and a small door opened in the larger iron-clad portal. A man, face dented from sleep and wearing a skewed leather cap over scruffy hair, squinted at him. He held a clay oil lamp and pushed it forward. “Mary’s blessed veil,” he swore. “Master Crispin? What would you be doing here this time of night? And on the other side of the gate?”

“Trying to get in,” he answered curtly.

The man shook his head. “The sheriffs have gone home, Master. They wouldn’t like being sent a message at this hour.”

“I do not need to speak to either sheriff. I merely have need to pass through to London.”

The man scowled. “It’s past curfew.” But Crispin was ready with a farthing. The man’s face brightened when he saw the disk in his lamplight. “Aw now! Maybe it ain’t so far past!” His dirty fingers closed over the coin and snatched it from Crispin’s hand. With a mocking bow, he stepped aside. “Right this way, Master.”

Crispin urged Jack in ahead of him. He stumbled over the stone threshold. Crispin took the lead after that, trying not to think of what lay above him in the towers or below in the murky cells.

They reached the London side in a matter of moments. There, the sleepy porter gave Crispin a cursory glance