apartments.”
“And how can that serve the king, pray?”
“You know I cannot tell you.”
“You’re up to mischief, Master Guest. I cannot abide it.”
“Not mischief. But it also serves the king, I assure you. Can you not put your trust in me, Master Wodecock?”
Those eyes studied him and Crispin felt them like hot coals burning through his clothes.
“I find it hard to do so, Master Guest, and you know the reason why.”
Crispin had no more words. He allowed the other man to gage his character by looks alone. He felt very self- conscious with his patched stockings and shabby cloak, but there was nothing to be done.
At length, Wodecock turned away and strode through the great hall, leaving Crispin behind. He had walked a good length of the hall before he stopped and pivoted. He cocked his head impatiently and gave a short gesture for Crispin to follow.
They wound their way silently through the crowded corridors. It seemed only ghosts were to remain behind at court when the king’s retinue journeyed to Sheen. Twenty days from now, Christmas would be a grand affair. Crispin remembered many of those feasts and gatherings from years past. Garlands of greenery would festoon the hall and the smells of meats and pies would inhabit the tapestries for days. Warm fires, good wine, even better companionship. It was a relief from the cold winter without.
He dusted the memories aside and stopped when Wodecock stopped. The servant gestured to a narrow door at the end of the corridor nearest the stables.
“That is the door, Master Guest. But it is locked as it should be. Do not,” said Wodecock, raising a hand to Crispin’s opened mouth, “ask me to unlock it, for I shall do no such thing. If you wish to speak to my lord Radulfus, you must wait for his return.”
“And how long will that be?” How much time would he have to look those rooms over? He looked back at the narrow passage. There was no one there.
Wodecock seemed to know what Crispin was thinking and he wagged a finger at him. “No tricks, Master Guest. If anyone should ask, I did not see you.”
“Of course. Thank you, Master—” The servant turned on his heel and was already halfway down the corridor when Crispin finished, “Wodecock.”
Alone in the corridor, he hurried to the door and tested the latch. Locked, just as Wodecock said. He hadn’t much time, so he set to work. He flipped his dagger from its sheath and reached into the collar of his tabard and coat to pull out the lace to his chemise and its sharp aiglet. With knife tip and aiglet, he manipulated the pins within the lock until they released the latch. Sheathing the dagger and stuffing the lace back under his clothes, Crispin rose and gently pushed the door open.
The room was dark with only the faint, red glow from the ashes in the hearth. He slipped inside, closed and locked the door, and waited for his eyes to adjust, then lit a candle. A modest room, larger than the Jews’ quarters but much smaller than Lancaster’s. There were several chests still in the room. Crispin remembered that Giles and Radulfus were not invited to court for Christmas, but he would still be traveling to Sheen for the feast. Traveling to Crispin’s manor.
He tried the lid of the first chest and found it open. Setting the candle above on the nearby table, he rummaged inside, but found nothing of worth.
He went to the next, opened it, and looked inside. The third chest was locked. He used both aiglets this time. It took longer than the door, but the lock finally clicked and he lifted the lid.
He could smell the blood immediately. Dried, but the coppery scent lifted up to his nostrils, nonetheless. He pushed past the gowns and plate when his fingers lighted on the rough weave of a small tunic. He pulled it forth and shook it out. It was a boy’s tunic. With blotches of dried blood. Crispin stared at it, trying to detach himself from what it meant.
His fists curled into the small garment that had once belonged to a young boy. Which one had it belonged to?
He cast the tunic aside and dug deeper, pulling out more; a ripped stocking, a shirt, another tunic. Far more than could have belonged to four boys.
He ploughed further and came away with parchments rolled together. He set the clothing down and unfurled the skins. It was Hebrew with the strange drawings accompanying them.
Evidence at last! But was it enough? A few torn shirts, some with dried blood, and an indecipherable parchment? The sheriffs would laugh in his face.
A key turned in the lock.
He looked toward the door and froze for a heartbeat before pinching off the candle flame and retreating to a curtained alcove.
A figure entered and stood in the doorway for a moment, a brazen silhouette against the dancing fire of the rushlight without. The door shut and darkness swelled around them. Footsteps crossed to the hearth and a log or two were tumbled in. A spark and then flames tickled the tinder. The candle was relit and the man stopped, staring at the clothing tossed about, the formerly locked chest lying open. When he gasped, Crispin moved. His hand clamped hard over the man’s mouth and his blade pressed against his throat.
“Don’t move,” Crispin hissed in his ear.
The blond man wriggled uncomfortably and squeaked but stilled himself.
“You are the astrologer. Nod your head.”
Shakily, the head nodded.
Crispin was breathing hard. His knife was at the man’s throat and he’d like nothing better than to shove it in deep, choking the man with his own blood. Instead, he kept the blade steady and spit the man’s hair from his lips.
“I will remove my hand and you will not cry out. Do you understand? Nod again if you do.”
Slowly, he nodded.
“Good. You will tell me things. Things about these parchments and about these pieces of clothing. Now, I am removing my hand.”
Crispin steadily pulled his palm away from the man’s mouth. With the blade still pressed to his neck, he closed his hand tightly around the man’s upper arm and manhandled him into a chair. He came around to the front of him, his knife still in his face. “Your name?”
“C-cornelius van der Brooghes. Please, what is it you want?”
“Answers. You are de Risley’s astrologer. For what purpose does he need an astrologer?”
Sweat speckled the man’s face. He licked his lips, eyes wide. “His f-fortune. He follows the stars to f-find his fortune.”
“Indeed.” He scooped up the parchments and held them under the man’s sharp nose. “And what of these?”
“They are . . . important to his star charts—”
Crispin backhanded him with the stiff skins and held them before his dazed eyes again. “
“Important star charts. To help find the best days for—”
Crispin used his knuckles this time and the man fell back, nearly toppling from the chair. He whimpered.
“Tell me what these parchments are for. Did you steal them from the Jews?”
“They are only Jews. They do not know the power these parchments wield.”
“Are they for creating a Golem?”
Cornelius’s pale eyes lifted and searched Crispin’s. “A G-golem? What is that?” he whispered.
Crispin drew back his arm to strike again and the man cringed, holding his hand protectively over his face. “I do not know what you are talking about? Please! I don’t know!”
Lowering his hand, Crispin glowered. He leaned forward. “Then tell me this.” He bent to retrieve the bloodied tunic and fisted them into the man’s face. “What can you tell me of these?”
The eyes widened before he crushed his lids closed, shaking his head from side to side. “No. He’ll kill me.”
