The Demon’s Parchment cg-3

by Jeri Westerson

  But he did not strike out at the boy. Instead, he ran a thoughtful finger over his own lips. “Surely you were old enough to get work on your own. Why did you not stay with your master?”

  “I didn’t have no master. Me mother worked as a scullion for a merchant. I kept the fires. When she died they threw me out. Didn’t want no part of me.”

  “Could you find no similar work?”

  “No. I was too angry for it. Those sarding masters. Flung me out like the dregs of a pissing pot.”

  “And so you found yourself on the street. Can you tell me what a typical day was like?”

  “Why?”

  Jack had never looked so angry and Crispin furrowed his brow at him. “Why do you think, boy? Do you think I wish to know out of prurient curiosity? Do you forget who you are speaking to? Do you not recall that I spent many a day on the streets myself, begging for my meals?”

  Jack’s toughened expression softened. He kicked at a dirty lump of snow, wetting the toe of his patched boot. “I . . . I reckon so.” His glance darted away from Crispin again, hiding his many secrets. “You . . . you want to know what a day was like?”

  “Yes. It will help, perhaps, to follow in the footsteps of the dead child. I know what my days were like. But it must have been quite different from that of an eight-year-old boy.”

  Jack gnawed uncertainly on a finger until Crispin dropped his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Let us to an alehouse, Jack. We will warm ourselves and share wine. Maybe some bread will help you decide whether to speak or no.”

  Jack allowed himself to be steered toward a nearby tavern. When Crispin opened the door, the noise spilled out with a cascade of raucous laughter. The sharp tang of a reed and a drum bleated out a tune that some were singing to. It looked to be a better kept place than the Boar’s Tusk, but, to be fair, this tavern was in the shadow of Westminster Palace and the clientele were apt to be wealthier than the patrons of the Gutter Lane’s alehouse.

  Crispin guided Jack to two stools by the hearth and waved to the alewife.

  “Aye, good masters,” she said to them.

  “Good wife, please bring a jug of wine.” Crispin handed her the coins. “And a loaf of bread, if it is not too dear.”

  She examined the silver and nodded. “A loaf and wine,” she said, and left them. Alone again, they measured their surroundings. Jack said nothing, staring at the men nearby in their fine fur-trimmed gowns and long-sleeved houppelandes. From under low lids, Crispin observed Jack’s nervous movements.

  At last, the woman returned, placing the round, day-old loaf on the hearth beside them, poured the wine into the bowl, and left the jug at Crispin’s feet.

  He handed the bowl first to Jack, who looked up with surprise. “Go on, boy. Take it.”

  With dirty fingers, Jack took the bowl and lifted it to his lips. He took a long quaff and, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, handed the bowl back. Crispin drank what was left and reached down to the jug to refill it. “Have some bread, Jack,” he said, nodding to the loaf and taking his own quaff.

  Jack tore a hunk from the bread and raised it to his lips. He chewed openmouthed, staring at the floor.

  “Do you wish to tell me?” asked Crispin after the boy had eaten a bit and drank another bowl.

  “In truth, Master, no. But . . . because you are my master, and a good and kind one, it is fitting to help you. And so I will tell you what I know.” He clutched the hunk of bread in his hand, fingers curling protectively around it. “Before I met you, life was hard. If I was lucky enough, I found a place to spend the night. Sometimes it was a stable or sometimes a sheltered doorway. I even spent the night in privies.”

  Crispin nodded into the bowl Jack passed to him. “Yes, as did I.”

  The lad looked up at him in wide-eyed awe before he nodded. “Aye. Winter was the worst, but they wouldn’t keep that strict an eye on things in winter when it was cold. Keeping themselves inside all safe and tight, mostly.”

  Crispin nodded again, remembering.

  “In the morning,” Jack continued, “me first order of business was to find food. Church steps were crowded with men who’d just as soon slit your throat as let you beg alongside them. So I found the best place was outside alehouses. Men leaving the taverns with scraps of bread and cheese and their own bellies full would see fit to toss the rest to me. When I got good at it, I could cut a purse or two when crowds of men went in or out, but that meant I was done at that doorstep for the day. Many a lad got himself carted off to Newgate ’cause he stayed put, got greedylike, and wouldn’t move on. They were the cod-pated ones. Wouldn’t listen to nobody.” Jack tore a piece from the hunk of bread in his hand and chewed it thoughtfully. The more he talked the more relaxed he seemed to be.

  “There were lots of boys,” he went on. “Some were apprentices caught stealing and tossed out by their masters. They were the worst, as they thought they was better than the rest of us and wouldn’t listen to reason.”

  “Did you help one another?”

  Jack shook his head unapologetically. “I ain’t no saint, Master. If’n I was to stay alive, it weren’t no charity I could be giving. I had to look out for m’self.”

  Crispin nodded. He, too, had tried to band with the others. In numbers there was safety and strategy, but they had not trusted his palace accent nor his unfamiliar ideas.

  “And so?” Crispin urged.

  “Well, some boys were worse than others. They became more animals than men. I’d see them sniffing along the shore near the fishing boats and they’d eat the leavings. Fins and tails. They’d eat them raw like a dog. I can’t say that I blame them. Hunger is a powerful sin.”

  “Yes,” murmured Crispin, taking a delicate bite of his bread, but leaving the majority for Jack.

  “I . . .” Jack lowered the piece of bread to his thigh. “I was hungry enough . . . to do the same at times. The hunger can gnaw such a hole inside of you.” His voice broke and he took a bite, taking a long time to chew. Crispin looked away to give him a moment. “I—There were times, Master Crispin,” he whispered, “when I would have eaten anything.”

  Crispin grunted his affirmation.

  “There were times,” he said in that same low, pitiful voice, “that I did.”

  He touched Jack’s sleeve.

  The boy swallowed. “There were other boys . . .” He shook his head and blinked his eyes. His voice trembled, 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 l
ike 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 said—“content.”

  Giles offered a weakened smile. “You were always so stoic, Crispin. When I married Margaret, well . . .” He drank from the bowl. “I thought you would hate me after that.”

  “No, Giles. I did not hate you. I suppose it was for the best. After . . . everything.”

  “Yes.” He leaned over his thighs and turned the now empty bowl in his hands. “After Margaret died all those years ago—”

  “I was sorry to hear of it.”

  “Ah, so you did hear? Well. The child died as well. That was a sorrowful time. And do you know, the one man I wanted to talk to, to gain some comfort from, was you? But, of course, that was impossible then. Now you seem to move about more freely.” He grinned. “I am glad of it. We were often rivals but it was never personal. I’d like to think we were friends.”

  “We were.” Crispin looked away into the fire.

  “Yes. Well. After Margaret died, I decided to move on.”

  “Have you remarried, then?” Crispin did not realize how starved he was for court news. It never seemed to matter before.

  Giles looked embarrassed. “No, not remarried. But . . .” He turned the bowl in his hands. “In fact, I suppose you should know that I have recently acquired . . . that I have purchased—Dammit, Crispin. I do not know if these are good tidings or not.”

  “Tell me, then.”

  “A manor house along the river in Sheen, not far from his Majesty’s lodgings. I have only moved into them a few months ago—”

  Crispin froze, a cold feeling slipping around his heart.

  “I am taking good care of them. After Margaret, the house seemed too empty. A change of scenery. And when his Majesty offer
ed it, I—” He looked at Crispin’s face and abruptly rose, his own expression stricken. “Maybe this isn’t the time. I’d best take my leave. God keep you, Crispin. I’m certain we will meet again.”

  He set down the empty bowl, but in his haste to depart, his foot caught it and kicked it toward the hearth where it clinked against the clay jug and cracked it, spilling its wine like blood.

  3

  “That man,” murmured Jack when they had escaped to the street. He trotted after Crispin’s hurried steps. “Who was he, Master?”

  “Giles de Risley,” Crispin grunted. “A peer of the court. An old friend.”

  “Aye, I reckoned that much. But what did he mean about all that talk of a manor in Sheen?”

  Crispin whipped around and bore down on Jack. “He was talking about my house, Jack! My ancestral home! The king sold it to him for some godforsaken favor.”

  Jack blinked. “M-maybe he was lying—”

  “No.” Would that he were. But Crispin knew it in his bones to be true. He couldn’t begrudge Giles, and if it had to be so, a friend within those walls was better than an enemy. Still, with the house lying empty it had almost seemed as if it were waiting for Crispin’s return. The last hope of his old life, the last gleam of redemption. But with his manor gone to Giles, his past was now forfeit.

  Despair closed over Crispin like a dense fog, and all he knew was to get back to the Shambles as quickly as possible.

  Jack followed but Crispin turned on him. “Go back to our lodgings, Jack. Await the messenger from the sheriff.”

  “But Master Crispin, what of that Jew—”

  “Go, Jack! I am in no mood.”

  The boy knew when to flee and flee he did. Crispin watched him go with only half an eye. He wanted drink and plenty of it. Only this, he knew, could numb the approach of life’s many failures steeling upon him.

  After a long walk, he returned to London, back to Gutter Lane and the Boar’s Tusk. He pushed open the door and sat hard in his usual seat. Ned brought him a drinking jug of wine without a word and Crispin set to drinking himself blind.