The Demon’s Parchment

“What?” The monk leaned forward. He pushed his cowl back. The fire painted his features gold, cutting deep shadows into the ridges of his lined face. “Thomas of Monmouth has always been regarded highly for his scholarship.”

“But I wonder how his scholarship was schooled. Who told him the details of these tales?”

“The Jews themselves, I imagine.”

“Under torture? Yes,” he said, recalling his own. “A man will say much under those circumstances.”

“Crispin,” said Nicholas, “I am surprised. You have always taken my word before.”

“Not this time.”

The monk shot to his feet. “Indeed! And what have I done to deserve such treatment at your hands? We have been friends!”

“And I have no wish to jeopardize that friendship. But this is more important than friendship.”

The monk’s face was stricken and Crispin was awash with guilt. For a moment, Nicholas hovered uncertainly. Would the monk demand he leave? He would reluctantly acquiesce, of course, but feared tearing a rift between them that could not be crossed.

Instead, the monk slowly lowered to his chair again, sitting back against it with a frown. “Very well,” he said sourly. “My curiosity has gotten the better of me. What is it that is more important than friendship?”

“The truth. Thomas of Monmouth made his accusations against the Jews, citing their mission to kill a Christian child at the Passover . . . with a communication system so vast it staggers the mind. But the Scriptures themselves, the Old Testament, prohibits this shedding of blood, especially of drinking it. Why, if they demark themselves so much from our society because of these strict laws, would they break them for this? And why have there not been more stories of such boys throughout the ages? One a year?” He shook his head slowly. “Tell me you recall a record of it.” He watched the old monk’s face carefully, saw the eyes search fathoms deep, his lips twitch. “And yet more strange,” Crispin went on, “why are there still Jews on English soil?”

Those old eyes flicked toward him. “There are those who live in the Domus Conversorum, but they are now Christian.”

“I am not speaking of them.”

The monk fell silent. His steady gaze finally turned toward the hearth. “So you know.”

Crispin gritted his teeth. “And so did you, though you did not deign to tell me.”

“And why should I? Does it have a bearing on this situation?”

“It might! How long have you known?”

“Some of us have known a long time. But little has been said. There has been an inquisitor on the matter looking into it.”

“An inquisitor? Who?”

“I do not know his name.”

“Have you met him?”

“Yes.”

“Is he young, blond, from the north?”

Nicholas stared. “How did you know?”

“I have met him, too. What is his purpose? Surely Canterbury can take care of its own issues.”

“It was the Archbishop who requested he come. Apparently, he is an expert on these cases.”

“What is his purpose?”

“I beg you to remember to whom you speak, Master Guest,” he said with quiet dignity.

Crispin took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The old man’s hands twitched on the chair arm. “My apologies, my Lord Abbot. It is just that I have been entertained by this inquisitor to my peril and I would simply like to know—”

“What!” He launched from his chair again and pressed a hand to Crispin’s with concern. “Are you well? Did he . . . did he . . . ?” He seemed to notice Crispin’s swollen face for the first time, and reached forward.

Crispin leaned away. “Very nearly. And I am well, though a little hungry, truth be told.”

“How neglectful of me.” He hurried to his door and spoke in low tones to his chaplain, Brother Michael, returning to his place by the fire. He fidgeted now, snatching guilty looks. “Why did he wish to do you harm?”

Crispin stretched out his feet, feeling warm for the first time today. “I stopped him from performing an unseemly act. He was about to steal a boy. A Jewish boy.”

“Why would he do that?” asked the monk.

“At the time, I thought it was for some nefarious purpose. But now . . . I think it was to question him. Which, come to think of it, might have been just as nefarious. Why did you not tell me about this man?”

“I did not think it important for you to know. Crispin, there are some things you may not be privy to. I know your curiosity is insatiable, but there are times when you need to curb it.”

“This man is dangerous, Nicholas. He means these people harm.”

“Why does this concern you? Jews are, by law, prohibited on English soil. They must convert or leave.”

What was it to him? Green eyes and a boy’s barbered hair. That was far more than it should have been.

Brother Michael brought a tray and set it on a small table between them. The abbot silently prepared the bread and soft cheese with much ceremony, then served Crispin a generous helping.

They both ate in silence, occasionally sipping from their goblets. It would have been a pleasant repast, with the fire crackling and the ordinarily good cheer they shared. But words had been said, feelings exposed. Crispin had needed to utter them, much to his regret.

An apology poised on his lips. But no. He could not allow these ideas about Jews to poison his investigation. He was a man who loved the truth, and if these words had been lies, then they could not help his case or his disposition.

Bells suddenly tolled and Nicholas rose wearily, wiping the crumbs from his cassock. “Compline. I must go. And so must you.”

“Nicholas.” He reached out and touched the man’s sleeve. “If my tone was harsh, I did not mean . . . I would not put our fellowship at risk.”

Those old eyes searched his, flicking back and forth. “I know,” he said, patting his hand. “You do involve yourself so.”

His thoughts fell to Julianne once more. “That I do.”

He felt the weariness in his bones. Trudging back to London was a chore he had not desired, especially as the icy night swept over him. He hunched in his cloak and hood, breathing hard clouds into the air. The Shambles seemed a world away, and he could not help but glance over his shoulder from time to time, thinking that nightmare of a creature might appear again and seize him with those large, clay hands.

Once he passed through Newgate and plodded down Newgate Market, he looked over his shoulder again, only a bit more secure that the walls of London would not be breached. Newgate looked back at him, implacable and rigid, its portcullis grimacing with ice-slicked teeth. Crispin had to solve this. And soon. Exton and Froshe could not be patient forever. That vile Odo had given Crispin some clues, even as he had battered him. He said that the devil was at the heart of it, and that may be so, for the devil surely whispered his vile lies to the bastard who had committed these crimes. But if this Golem were real, and Crispin had to grant the nature of his own eyes, then this monster was certainly not innocent. It was up to no good that he could see. But when it spoke to him, and he shivered again at the thought, it had told Crispin that it was trying to protect something. The Jews, he supposed. But why go to the palace? Did it need to protect Julianne and her father?

The thought made him stop in his snowy tracks. Might someone be after them? That mysterious man, that Odo. But he was the abbot’s inquisitor, wasn’t he? Yes, he meant the Jews harm, but surely he would not dare touch the queen’s physician! Except . . . The man wanted those parchments and might do anything to get them.

Suddenly, he found himself at the foot of his stairs. He dug into the icy steps and forced himself upward. Inside, he noticed the hearth was cold and Jack was nowhere to be seen. Damn that boy! He would be the death of Crispin yet. He grumbled as he tossed some peat into the hearth and bent toward it with his flint and steel. It was too cold a night for Jack’s mischief. If the boy didn’t get himself killed, Crispin would do the job for him.

He blew on the smoldering tinder and a few bits of lint helped it catch and soon the peat was burning with a