The Demon’s Parchment

whispering. “There were other boys . . . they couldn’t find no way. They couldn’t steal enough to keep them fed. Everyone knew them. They’d let men . . . lie with them. There were secret stews of them. In Southwark.”

Crispin clenched his jaw. Men who would pay panderers for the use of boys. Yes, the Bankside on the opposite shore of the Thames housed all manner of filth and degradation. He knotted the hem of his cloak. He wanted to ask, but did not have the heart for it. Who was he to judge a man? If Jack had sinned, then he had done it as a necessity. Crispin reckoned the boy had paid many times in penance—more than the beads of a rosary—if he had to stoop to such evil to keep alive under the shadow of London’s cathedrals.

“Then it is possible,” said Crispin tightly once Jack had fallen silent, “that this boy could have come from those stews?”

Jack’s pale humiliation gave way to thoughtfulness. He clamped his jaw as he ruminated and eventually shook his head. “No, Master. I do not believe that boy came from the stews.”

“And why not?”

“Th-the boys who were tied up, as this one was, they were also beaten. Not to punish. But for sport. That boy at Newgate. He wasn’t beaten.”

Crispin recalled the pale, dead flesh of the corpse in the bowels of Newgate. The boy had bruises around his neck and on his hips, but nowhere else, neither old scars nor new. “Have you . . . ever heard of the rest? The cutting? The strangulation?”

Jack shook his head. “No, Master. Sometimes a boy was lashed so badly he was no good for the house no more and was left in the streets to die. But I ain’t heard of aught like we saw.”

Crispin handed Jack a full wine bowl. “Thank you, Jack. I—It was surely difficult to tell me.”

“No one should die like that,” he said softly, almost dreamily. “That ain’t no way to die. That ain’t no way to live.”

“Indeed not. I will find this killer, Jack.”

“I know you will, sir. And I’ll be right there beside you.”

The color had come back to the boy’s freckled cheeks. Crispin was glad to see it.

He was about to offer Jack a word of encouragement when a shadow lanced over the boy’s face. Jack looked up and Crispin turned.

“Bless my wretched soul, but if it isn’t Crispin Guest.”

Crispin stiffened. These encounters were few, but when he did come upon an acquaintance from his past, he did not usually bear it well. He rose to hide his discomfiture and because the man was a lord and it would not do to sit in his presence, even though once upon a time he was perfectly within his rights to do so.

“Giles,” he said with a rigid bow.

“My Lord de Risley,” the man corrected with a smirk. “At least in front of these—” and he motioned to the room. Giles smiled warily. His beard followed the curve of his jaw in a thin, tight line as did his neatly coiffed mustache.

Crispin’s cheeks burned. “Of course . . . my lord.” And he bowed again. Jack scrambled to his feet and looked from Giles to Crispin worriedly.

“Crispin,” he said, ignoring Jack. Giles looked Crispin up and down not seeming to notice Crispin fisting his hands close to his sides. “It has been many a day since I’ve seen you last,” said Giles. “When I heard the news of your arrest all those years ago, it tore at my heart.”

Crispin nodded. What could he say?

“But I am glad to see that you live.” He offered a warmer smile. “How fare you? Are you well?” Without waiting for an answer, he sidled closer, looking around at the crowded tavern. “But Crispin. So close to court? Is that wise? The king . . .” The smile was back. “But of course, you were always a bit wild, weren’t you? Never one to hide. To take the easy path. Was it not so in our jousting days? You were the one who always took risks, always getting hurt—”

“Always besting you.” It was Crispin’s turn to smirk.

Giles’s expression tightened before he released a laugh. “I suppose you did win most of our contests. But not the fair Margaret.”

It was Crispin’s turn to lose his smile. Did Giles have to remind him of those days? Margaret had been Crispin’s lover and she had left his bed for Giles’s. It wasn’t Giles’s fault, of course. She was fickle. And Giles flaunted his wealth, giving expensive gifts. Margaret was a fool for it. But it had stung, nonetheless.

Giles moved toward Jack’s seat and took it, paying little attention to Jack struggling to get out of his way. The man sat wide-legged on the stool and warmed his hands at the hearth. “Sit with me, Crispin. God’s eyes but I am glad to see you. May we share wine?” Giles leaned forward and rested his arms on his thighs. He took up the empty bowl and waited. Crispin shot a glance at Jack and the boy quickly filled it. “When was the last time we met? Do you recall?”

“Nine years ago,” he said, sitting. “A tourney at Aquitaine, I believe. I unhorsed you and we fought on foot.”

Giles smiled and drank. “Yes. I think it was a draw.”

It wasn’t, but Crispin let it lie.

“Yes,” Giles went on. “What a bitter opponent you were. You had an unusual style. Learned at the knee of some Frenchman.”

“My Lord of Gaunt taught me, my lord. All that I learned of warfare and swordsmanship came from the duke personally.”

“Well, we all know Lancaster has devious ways.”

Crispin scoured the room quickly. No one had caught their intimate conversation. If they had, many more would have come to the aid of the duke of Lancaster’s honor. As it was, Crispin was hard-pressed to defend it himself these days.

He had bested Giles in all their endeavors, save the one with Margaret, but it was mostly on the lists, where cleverness often won the day over brute strength. If de Risley had ever bothered to learn that lesson, he could have won over Crispin in their many tournaments or even on the battlefield. More often than not, Crispin had captured several knights to ransom, where as Giles de Risley had killed his prey, thus leaving him with nothing to earn. Too impatient was Sir Giles, looking for the easy way rather than the better part.

He drank more of Crispin’s wine and studied him. “The lists are not as merry since you left them, Crispin,” said Giles, mirroring Crispin’s own thoughts. “I enjoyed riding against you.”

“I, too, miss them, Giles.”

“Alas,” he said. “A pity the king did not see fit to restore your knighthood.”

“Ah, but he did.”

Giles sat back with surprise. “When was this?”

“When I saved the king’s life from an assassin. Surely you must have heard—”

“It seems I did hear something of the kind,” he said, cheered. “But then, something must have gone wrong.” He looked him up and down again.

“Indeed. The king’s offer balanced on a task I could not perform.”

“Oh? And what was this chivalrous deed he implored of you?”

Crispin straightened his shoulders. “I was to beg for it.”

Giles burst into peals of laughter. “And that—” he said between gasps, “you certainly would not do!” He slapped his thighs. “Crispin! You have always made me smile. Such youthful vigor! But I am certain that your refusal of the king was warranted. You must be doing well, then. A comfortable existence here in London? Am I right?”

Crispin endured the man’s laughter silently.

Giles prodded with his elbow. “Tell me, Crispin, for truly I wish to know. Tell me where it is you live.”

“I do live in London.”

“Yes, yes. But where?”

“I live . . . on the Shambles. I thought everyone knew that.”

Giles’s laughter stopped abruptly. “Oh. You aren’t jesting? Oh, Crispin.” He lowered his face and shook his head. “I thought—Ah, I see. Tell me. Is there something I can do, something I can say?”

“No. Thank you. I have learned to earn my keep here. And I am”—he tested the word in his head before he