The Demon’s Parchment

“But Father—”

“No, Julian! I have allowed it for too long. These things must go.”

Crispin was unmoved by the physician’s rhetoric. “All very well, Master Jacob. But surely you are aware that these are human entrails.”

Jacob did not loosen his grip on the boy’s arm but his attention now lay fully with Crispin. “Human? No! They are animal entrails, Maitre. Animals! We examine these organs to understand their functions. Surely you can see—”

“I accuse your son of most foul murder, Master Jacob. That which you ascribe to some mythical Golem. It is your son who stands accused of murder, disembowelment . . . and sodomy.”

Crispin expected much, but he did not expect the curiously stagnant expression on the physician’s features.

Jacob merely shook his head and chewed his lip. “No. No, Maitre Guest. You are mistaken. On all counts.”

“I am not! This is the proof of it! These foul canisters! Can you deny it?”

“I do,” said Jacob firmly. “Julian might have been in error harboring these forbidden things, these animal things, but he means well.” He turned to his son, still holding fast to his arm. “Your notes are sound. Your conclusions scholarly.”

Julian beamed at his father’s praise, forgetting Crispin’s denouncement.

“Damn you both!” That snapped them out of it satisfactorily. The two turned toward him. “I am speaking of murder. Are you deaf?”

Jacob released the boy’s wrist and calmly set his hands before him, crossing those weathered fingers one over the other. Julian stood slightly behind his father, glaring. “I am far from deaf, Maitre. And you are far too loud for the hour,” he said, his voice lowering. “I submit to you that you are mistaken about my son. He is no murderer. Nor is he capable of the other things you accuse him of.”

“Forgive me, Master Physician,” he said tightly, “but I have seen what lesser men are capable of.”

Frustratingly, Jacob shook his head again. Crispin dearly wanted to wrench it from his neck. “He is an apprentice physician. He stays at my side, learning. These things you accuse him of, and horrific though they may be, are not possible. We do not kill. We save lives. Further, Maitre, the touching of blood is against our faith. True, I must bleed patients to revive their humors,” he said, raising a hand to Crispin’s openmouthed objection. “And in cleansing wounds.” He sheepishly nodded toward Crispin’s arm. Crispin felt a twinge where Julian’s knife had breached him. “But we are assiduous at purification,” said Jacob. “Some sacrifices must be made for our art. The Lord hears our prayers and our pleas for forgiveness. Julian has made his experiments, it is true. But to learn. These horrific tokens”—his hand swept over the table—“will be disposed of and shall not be spoken of again.”

“Mon pere!”

Jacob closed his eyes. “They shall not be spoken of again.” He waited for Julian’s silent submission before he opened his eyes and went on. “Julian is always at my side, as I said. Simply, he would not have had time to do the things you would accuse him of.”

“And yet he was here alone with me,” said Crispin.

“For a mere few moments. Tell me, Maitre Guest, in your expert opinion, would a man have time to do that of which you accuse my son and still have time to erase the offal and blood that would surely follow such an abomination? From the room and from himself? You are a man used to combat. You must realize the amount of blood that would be produced from such doings.”

Crispin gritted his teeth. God’s blood! The damned man with his slowly blinking eyes and his calm demeanor merely gazed at Crispin, certain in his pronouncement. Of course he could be lying and Julian might have been missing for longer periods of time. But then again, where would he have performed these deeds?

“This does not sufficiently explain away his guilt.” But even as he said it his stomach swooped unpleasantly. It was explaining it away very nicely, as a matter of fact. “You could be lying to protect him,” he snapped. Only after it left his mouth did he feel a slight twinge of loutishness.

Jacob lifted his chin and his cheeks darkened to a dusky hue. But his lips firmed and he spoke not a word.

Their silent joust yielded nothing. The man was formidable and his sharp gaze never wavered. This was no certainty of the man’s veracity . . . but it was close enough.

With a growl, Crispin spun away from both father and son and shoved his knife hard into its sheath. He found himself staring at the table, watching that god-awful thing floating in its jar. He hated like hell to be wrong. He hated still more to admit it. But there was something about that youth that irritated the devil out of Crispin, got under his skin like a rash. There had to be something he could blame him for—oh yes. With a sly grin, Crispin turned back toward them. “There is also the little matter of a dead servant who was about to inform me of a very interesting fact regarding your parchments, Master Jacob. A servant who made an appointment to meet with me . . . an appointment overheard by Master Julian.”

Relaxed, Julian’s lids drooped over his eyes and a brow arched. It galled Crispin that he did not seem to fear him or God’s retribution. “Yes, I heard that servant when you were talking to him. But I was not the only one in the corridor. There were several men behind me. Any one of them could have heard. You should have closed the door.”

“How very convenient. And impossible to prove. Give me your sash.”

Julian started and his hands went instantly to the scarlet sash at his waist. “W-what? Why?”

“I’ll give you exactly to the count of three.”

Those droopy lids snapped open. Whatever expression Crispin wore, it certainly convinced him. Julian hastily grabbed at the silken sash and unwound it. He held it forth and Crispin snatched it and stomped to the hearth. He held it to the light as he carefully untied the thread from his money pouch and laid it upon the silky cloth.

The colors were not even close.

Crispin braced himself. He almost tossed the sash into the flames for spite but held himself in check. Instead, he studied it. No tears, no sweat stains, no wrinkles as one would find had it been used as a garrote. It was in perfect order.

Without looking back, he thrust the sash behind him until someone took it from his fingers. He tied the thread to his pouch again. His shoulders winced when he heard Julian’s throaty laugh. “Are you satisfied now?”

“No.” His arms were firmly crossed over his chest. “What do you know of these secret Jews?”

It was Jacob’s step he heard approach and then the man’s shadow quivered beside his. “Secret Jews, Maitre Guest? What tidings are these?”

“I have encountered the unlikely habitation of a secret enclave of Jews, descendants of those Jews supposedly exiled from England. These were supposed to be converts, but they forsook their oaths and their baptisms.” He spat the last, disgusted by anyone whose oaths meant nothing.

Jacob made a snorting sound and pressed his hand to his mouth. “Interesting. But . . . I have nothing to do with them, if these tidings are true. And my son is also innocent of congress with them.” Jacob’s face was lit from the hearth, half in light while the other surrendered to shadow. The stark line of light served to emphasize the deep creases and wrinkles carving the man’s features. “Maitre Guest, it is late. You have had strange encounters today. And these murders are vexing and horrifying. I have not heard these details before. I only knew of the murders. I did not know of these . . . other matters.” He appeared worried, but he did not look at his son. “I will offer a prayer, for it is all I can do.” He gave Crispin a steady look. “And I offer assurances about my son. He is a man of science with a superb mind. But he is not a murderer. Nor is he any of the other things you would ascribe to him. Come back on the morrow, and we will talk of it. Perhaps he can tell you of the other men in the corridor.”

“No. I do not know who they were,” the boy retorted. Crispin wanted to strangle him. But then he realized the context of his thoughts and felt slightly ashamed. There had been far too much strangling of late.

He raised his eyes instead to Jacob. He wanted to offer an apology, an explanation, but it withered on his tongue. Holy saints, but he was tired. Bone weary and melancholy at all these events. Perhaps, just perhaps, he had not been thinking as clearly as he could have done. He was hungry and in need of wine. It was too late to patronize the Boar’s Tusk, but perhaps not too late to call upon Gilbert and Eleanor.