The Demon’s Parchment

The man limped to the stool and sat. His driver stood stoically behind him. “There may very well be more deaths.”

“It’s not the Jews. It can’t be. They have a biblical prohibition against drinking blood. It can’t be them.”

“Curious indeed. Who has schooled you in this, I wonder? It couldn’t be Abbot Nicholas.”

The idea that Crispin had been spied upon slammed his gut harder than the driver’s fist. “How do you know about—”

“So many things I have been watching. So many people in so many places. You say that little surprises you, Master Guest. But I’ll wager you’ll be surprised by what I have seen.”

Crispin got one foot under him. “If you know something about these murders you are morally obligated—”

“Morally? A strange term coming from you.”

“Never mind me! Children are dying. Innocent children!”

“Innocence. Such a vague term, is it not? A man might plead his innocence in one respect and be quite guilty in another. Where lies the guilt then? Where the innocence? But you are right. For the most part, children are innocent. Even these that you would protect. They are in the hands of God, no matter their sins.”

It was Crispin’s turn to sneer. “Surely you are not suggesting that they had any part in the sins against them?”

“I suggest nothing,” he said in such a way as to suggest much.

“That is a foul supposition. And you claim to be doing God’s work.”

The man frowned. “As I said. You have not seen what I have seen. You have not imagined the things I have encountered. It even stretches the bounds of my beliefs. Who could have expected such utter sin and blasphemy?” He turned his face away. Through his outwardly cool exterior, Crispin saw his body tremble with taut emotion he refused to show. “The Jews, for one. They live where they do not belong and take the charity of good Christians. Better that they were wiped off the face of the earth—”

A booming noise stopped him and he jerked around. The door crashed open and a man stumbled in. Blinded again by the light, Crispin fell back, covering his eyes. What now?

“Who are you?” the lord demanded.

“Get away from that man!” cried the voice in the doorway.

Crispin squinted. All he could see were silhouettes of three men. One had a club of some kind. Behind them he saw the vague shadows of others, heard their murmuring. But that voice had sounded terribly familiar.

“Rykener?” Crispin said, shielding his eyes with a hand.

Stephen, the driver, drew his sword with a metallic hiss and everyone froze.

John Rykener was the first to move and pointed at Crispin. “Release that man!” he said, in a voice slightly higher than before.

“You said there was to be a fight,” said a gruff voice behind Rykener.

“Well . . .” John turned to the men flanking him. They had uncertain looks on their thin faces.

“Fight!” said the gruff voice. “Fight, fight!”

The chant was taken up by the rest of the crowd, which Crispin could now see was considerable.

What the hell was John doing? Was this a rescue? Crispin rolled his eyes. Well, at least he was armed. He drew his dagger.

Odo moved behind his driver, who directed his sword toward Crispin.

“You do not know what trouble you are in, friend,” said Odo to Rykener and his companions.

“Nor you,” said John. He nodded to the men on either side of him. They were slight men with features as delicate as John’s. A sick feeling began roiling in Crispin’s gut. Were these more of John’s “friends”?

“You’re holding captive a very important man,” John went on. “The Tracker is not a man to be trifled with.”

Odo took a step forward. “Neither am I.”

“Perhaps it’s a fairer fight now,” said Crispin, falling into a crouch.

Odo sneered. “Do you truly think so?” He turned toward the noisy crowd in the doorway and waved his hand. “Disperse! You are interrupting an important interrogation—” But he never got to finish his sentence. The crowd overwhelmed with their guffaws and taunts. Even a few crusts of bread were tossed forward. It was plain that a Southwark crowd was not intimidated by his fine clothes and courtly bearing. He cut his gaze to Crispin.

Crispin grinned. “A fair fight.”

Odo gestured to the driver. Stephen turned to face Crispin, his sword looking too long compared to Crispin’s shorter dagger. He tightened his grip. A fight with a dagger against a sword could be won. He’d done it before. Once. But his head still felt a little woozy. He gritted his teeth and began to circle.

Stephen raised his sword, ready to chop downward, when John Rykener made a howling cry and suddenly burst forward. Before the driver had time to turn, Rykener had clasped his arms about his neck and jumped onto his back, limpetlike. The man spun in place, clearly at a loss as to what to do. He clawed at the arms choking him and then tried to use his sword to dislodge his attacker, but Rykener swung his body back and forth, keeping the driver unbalanced. Stephen turned his blade flat and whacked away at John, until John leaned forward, took the man’s ear between his teeth, and bit down.

The driver howled and ran backward full tilt into a beam. John smashed against it and cried out. He slipped off and tumbled to the straw-littered floor.

Winded, his ear bleeding, Stephen whirled back toward the room, his sword poised.

“Fight, fight!” the crowd continued to chant.

“Blessed Mary,” Odo murmured, clearly flummoxed.

“They want their blood,” said Crispin cheerfully. “Shall we give it to them?” He raised his dagger.

By now, John’s timid companions strode haltingly forward. One had a club in his hand. The other had what looked like a drinking jug. He swung it back and forth threateningly.

Odo signaled Stephen—and suddenly darted into the darkness. The driver soon followed.

That was it for the crowd. They all surged forward, squeezing through the narrow doorway, pushing Crispin and Rykener aside to stumble into the dark, searching for Crispin’s captors.

A groan of disappointment arose when a back door was discovered. Odo and his driver had escaped.

Crispin could scarce believe it. He felt a waft of disappointment, too, and slammed his knife back into its scabbard.

And then the noisy crowd returned and glared at Rykener and his two companions.

“We came for a fight,” said a tall, square-shouldered man with a grizzled beard. “You promised us.” He slapped his fist into a palm. “And a fight we will have.”

“You’re right,” said Crispin. He took in the crowd and then the large man before him, looking him in the eye. Then he swung his foot up and lodged it hard into the man’s groin. Down he went without another sound. Everyone stared wide-jawed at the man as he writhed on the ground.

“Anyone else?” asked Crispin.

The crowd seemed considerably more subdued, casting glances at one another before, as one, they shuffled guardedly toward the entrance, looking back only hastily at the man helped to his feet by two of his fellows.

When they had all dispersed, Crispin breathed a sigh of relief.

“Come along, Master Crispin,” said John. He seemed surprised at his sudden victory. “Let us make our escape while the going is good.”

John’s companions looked disapprovingly at their own weapons—a club and a jug—and tossed them to the stable floor.

When they all ventured outside, Crispin saw that they were before an inn. The blood-lusting crowd had, apparently, come from the inn and was now returning to their ale.

Crispin licked his lips, thinking a short delay was needed, but John was already pushing him out of the inn yard, his two companions shouldering him.

“Crispin, these are my friends,” said John as they walked. “We all share the same vocation.”

Crispin glanced over the men warily but it seemed disingenuous to complain since they rescued him. At least they wore men’s garb. “For your help, much thanks.”

A thin man with wispy blond hair smiled a toothy grin. “Any friend of John’s is a friend of ours.”