“I was very disappointed with our last encounter, Master Guest. Very disappointed. When I encouraged you to continue your investigations, I did not intend for you to follow
Crispin made an abbreviated bow in apology, but never said the words. “I cannot help, your Excellency, if my investigation led me to you.”
“Nonsense. Your insatiable curiosity led you to follow me. I’ve no doubt that this will someday be your downfall.”
“My lord, may I remind you of my current circumstances in London? I met my ‘downfall’ ages ago. And I have arrived . . . intact. More or less.”
“Less, I should think.” The man cocked his head. Crispin saw the briefest of shimmer in the blond locks. Golden, one might even call them.
“What were your intentions with that child?”
Crispin was used to the dark by now. He saw the gleam of teeth with the man’s smile. “My intentions were my own.”
“Then you can understand why I was reluctant to let you escape with him.”
The man nodded and lowered his head. He contemplated the floor for quite some time. “I suppose your intentions were noble and could therefore be forgiven. In time.” The man limped a little to reach a stool and sat with a grunt. He regarded Crispin with a shadowed face and glittering eyes. “What an unusual man you are. Perhaps I underestimated you. A dangerous thing to do.”
Crispin shrugged. He looked around the room pointedly, what he could see of it. “So what now? I have apologized. May I be on my way?”
“One wonders what you could possibly be doing here in Southwark.”
Still in Southwark, then. “Come, your Excellency. A man makes many a pilgrimage to the stews without this much fuss.”
He thought he could see the man’s face wrinkled in distaste. “Blessed
“And yet I still do not know
“You seem to be making little headway. Why have you not found my parchments?”
Sudden thoughts of Julian flooded his mind. He needed to get back to Westminster, but there was some question as to whether he would be escaping this stable at all. He gave it another inspection but the dimness made the edges of the walls disappear. It smelled of rat piss. An unpleasant place to spend his last hours.
“It is difficult finding a murderer,” said Crispin. “Find the murderer and find the parchments. But I think I am closer than you think.”
“Don’t try enigmatic with me, Master Guest. I invented it.” He rubbed his thigh, the one Crispin stabbed. “No doubt you think me too young to have such authority—”
“I was lord of my manor at quite an early age. And the king gained the throne when only ten years old. How can I begrudge you your authority? Whatever that authority is.”
The man looked at Crispin as a cat studies a mouse. “Just so.”
“You wish for me to continue my investigation? Or rather, are you hindering it? And to what purpose? These are the things that keep me up at night.”
“Are they?” The man bent forward and rested his clasped hands on his knees. “So I must conclude from your words that you suspect me of the heinous crime of murder.”
“And sodomy.”
A brow arched. Slowly, he sat up, easing his hands apart. “A grave charge, indeed.”
“Convince me. Why were you trying to steal that boy?”
“That is none of your concern. Yes, I see how that can be misinterpreted. But it is of no concern to you. Or your case.”
“That judgment I reserve for myself. Test it. Tell me.”
He chuckled again, that lifeless sound. “A most unusual man. You are a man who has been touched by the hand of God and yet you do not see what lies before you.”
“This again,” he grumbled. “I little believe in such things, Excellency.”
“Tut! My dear Crispin, you do not believe in the holy objects that grace your path?”
“I’ve had little reason to.”
He shook his head and his blond hair fell behind him. “But you should. You should be grateful for God’s protection from the devil, for he strides amongst us into every facet of our lives.” The accent that Crispin now recognized as Yorkshire, deepened as his voice intensified. “We must use every tool at our disposal to conquer the devil, Crispin. To shun God’s gifts is unforgivable.”
“I do not shun God’s gifts, for He has given me the gift of insight and discernment. What has he given you?”
“Authority.”
“Are you a cleric, then? You do not garb yourself so. And you are young.”
“A cleric? Perhaps. And my youth . . . is beside the point. I am accomplished with what I do.”
“And just what is that?”
The man smiled. “Rooting out the devil, of course.” He chuckled at Crispin’s expression. “Are you surprised?”
“Few things surprise me these days.”
“Then let us talk of your investigation.”
“Certainly. My Lord Odo,” Crispin tested.
The man smiled but said nothing. “Your investigation. You must know it has little to do with murder and more to do with the devil.”
“Does it? Is this what you, too, are investigating? Shall I guess further?”
“It will do you little good.”
“Indulge me. Perhaps you are seeking to discover the number of Jews living in secret in England.”
The man shot to his feet and stormed toward him.
“What do you know of it, Master Guest? Come, come.”
“Me? You want me to be forthcoming when you have been less so? I think not.”
A sigh. “I thought not to have to resort to this. Stephen!”
A door opened and with it a sharp lance of light that temporarily blinded Crispin. Footsteps hurried forward, and then a fist sank into his gut. He dropped to his knees, hitting the dirt floor hard.
He let out a gasp, ringing his belly with his arms. But the man, Stephen, did not move to strike him again. Crispin squinted up at the two shadowy figures now hovering over him.
“Well?” said Odo as calmly as before. “Have you nothing to tell me?”
“You haven’t asked me anything of worth.”
He squatted to face him, and Crispin edged back slightly, not knowing what to expect. “What do you know of the Jews living in London, Crispin?”
“There are two at Westminster Palace. Do you mean them?”
“No. What do you know of the Domus Conversorum?”
“Nothing. Converts live there. They are protected by the king. That’s all anybody cares to know.”
“But not you. Not the Great Tracker. You know more than that, do you not? Tell me. It will go easier.”
“Easier.” He laughed, recalling the torture inflicted upon him seven years ago. They had asked questions, too. Questions they also already knew the answers to. And like those long ago days best forgotten, Crispin remained silent.
Odo drew circles in the dust on the floor. Or was it in Crispin’s blood? He stopped and hung his hands limply from his bent knees before he straightened and rubbed his thigh again. “A pity. You could have helped me. And then likewise, I could have helped you.”
“What do you mean? Do you know something of these deaths?” He leaned forward even at the risk of another onslaught. “This is no game. It’s murder. These boys—these
