The Demon’s Parchment cg-3

by Jeri Westerson

  “You tread on dangerous ground, Father. We are here by the grace of the king, but that grace may not extend to . . . to this.”

  Jacob sighed deeply and raised tired eyes to Crispin. “Maître Guest, have you ever heard of the Kabbalah?”

  The Kabbalah? Vague impressions of half-remembered stories whispered through his mind like wisps of candle smoke. “Jewish magic,” he answered warily.

  Jacob shook his head. “Not magic, sir. But theology. The spiritual nature of—”

  “Christ’s toes! Jewish magic? I risked life and limb to creep into court for Jewish magic? The devil take me for the greedy fool I am!” He snapped to his feet and headed straight for the door. Pulling it open he looked back at Jack.

  Scrambling up, Jack snatched Crispin’s cloak from the fire and scurried to catch up.

  Crispin heard Jacob’s frantic steps behind him but kept going, only slowing and bending slightly so that Jack could drape his cloak over his shoulders.

  “Maître Guest! Maître Guest!”

  He suddenly recalled where they were and how loud Jacob was. He wheeled and clamped his hand over the old man’s mouth, pulling him into an embrace. “Be silent!” Crispin glanced quickly about the long corridor but saw only the flicker of torchlight.

  But then, hot stabbing pain pierced the arm he had wound about the man’s neck and he released him at once. “God’s blood!” He looked down and saw red darkening his right sleeve.

  Looking up with murder in his heart, he stared into the eyes of the lad, Julian, his bloody dagger still raised in the air. “Get away from my father, you dog!”

  “Damn you to hell!” He rushed the boy and slammed him and his wrist with the dagger against the wall. The boy cried out with the suddenness of the attack and the dagger dropped with a thud to the wooden floor. Jack snatched it up and held it tight. His teeth ground his lower lip and he was clearly itching to use the weapon on Julian.

  “What have you done?” cried Jacob, grabbing at Crispin’s arm.

  Crispin yanked it from him and stepped back.

  Everyone turned and froze at the sound of a door unbolting.

  Without a second thought, Crispin dashed back into the Jew’s chamber and felt like smiting himself for having to cower behind a door.

  “What goes on here?” A woman’s voice in a thick, foreign accent. Crispin spied the corridor through the crack of door and post. She had emerged from the queen’s chamber. One of the queen’s Bohemian ladies, no doubt. She took in the scene: Jacob reaching for his son who was still flush against the wall and Jack, standing with a bloody dagger, face like pale cream. “Physician?” she said, her voice tinted with fear.

  Jacob assessed his surroundings and bent in a faintly obsequious posture. He put a hand to his breast and bowed to her. “Mistress, the lad here is a patient but he is reluctant to receive my care.”

  “Shall I call for the guards?”

  He shook his head. He was the model of calm. “No need. You will come into the chamber now, won’t you garçon?”

  Jack looked from Jacob to the woman and slowly nodded. “Aye.” He lowered the dagger and tried to hide it behind his back. “I, er, hurt m’self. With me knife. The good physician here offered to help.”

  “Does the queen need me?” Jacob asked, trying to look past the broad woman into the candlelit chamber.

  “No. We heard the noise and I was sent to investigate.”

  “All is well, and you may tell her Majesty so.” He took Jack by the arm and steered him toward his chamber. With a backward tilt to his head, Julian followed after him. The woman continued to glare in their direction even as Jacob closed and bolted the door, resting his forehead against it.

  He took a breath and faced Crispin, gesturing toward his arm. “Let me dress that.”

  Crispin glared at Julian who sneered back at him.

  “You attacked my father.”

  “I was merely silencing him. He announced my name in the corridor. Do you know what would happen to the lot of you if I were discovered here?”

  Julian’s eyes rounded. “What have you wrought upon us, Father?”

  “Have I not told you at least a thousand times, Julian, to be still! We need this man. And for the moment, he needs our protection.”

  Julian sunk to his chair with a look of despair shadowing his face.

  Jacob took Crispin’s good arm and led him back to his chair by the fire where he pushed him into it.

  Crispin squeezed the wound shut, scowling at Julian who was slowly shaking his head. He supposed he couldn’t begrudge the youth for protecting his father. Jack might have done the same for him. In fact, Jack was still holding the bloody knife and he was trembling. “Jack,” he said softly.

  The boy turned. His brow was stepped with worry lines.

  “Put the knife aside. I am in no danger.”

  Jack looked toward Julian, but Crispin shook his head. “No, I am in no danger.”

  With care, Jack lowered the knife to the sideboard and snatched the jug. “Master?”

  “Need you even ask?”

  Jack found Crispin’s bowl, refilled it, and handed it to him with a shaking hand. He took it with his good hand and downed the bowl.

  “I should take care with the wine, Maître Guest,” said Jacob returning to his side. “A dose is good for the blood, but too much . . .” He took the bowl from Crispin and handed it to Jack. He took the wounded arm and tucked the hand into his side, cradling it there with his elbow. Jacob rolled back the sleeve of Crispin’s cotehardie to his elbow and then did the same to his bloody chemise. Once the arm was revealed, Crispin got a look at the wound. Not deep, but it was still seeping blood.

  Jacob clucked his tongue and murmured something in an unrecognizable language. Crispin tried to draw his arm away, fearing some strange Jewish incantation, but Jacob held it firm. “Worry not, Master Guest. I have been told I have a light touch.”

  “It is not your touch I worry over,” he growled.

  This made Jacob look up and meet his eyes. “I was saying a prayer, sir. In Hebrew.”

  “Limit your prayers to English from now on.”

  Without a change to his expression, the man lowered his face to his task. “Shallow but not ragged,” he said, turning the arm and examining, allowing the blood to trickle out. “My son is usually a fine surgeon when not wielding a knife in anger,” he muttered. “I will not need to sew it. But I will dress it with a poultice and wrap it tightly in linen.”

  “I do not want your poultice. Just tie it off.”

  The bushy brows rose. “But the poultice will help the healing, soothe the pain, and prevent scarring.”

  “Did you hear me? I do not want your poultice.”

  He shrugged and opened his hand to his son. Julian reluctantly dragged himself to the table of herbs and jars, retrieved a roll of linen strips, and handed some to his father.

  Still cradling the arm, Jacob wrapped a length of linen over the wound, winding it tightly and expertly before tying it off with a firm knot over the cut. He began to roll the sleeves back down but Crispin yanked hard and freed his arm, doing it himself.

  Jacob sighed and stepped back.

  “I thank you,” said Crispin as caustically as he could. “Jack, let’s go.”

  “Wait,” said Jacob. His face implored. He scrambled back to the table where Crispin had dropped his coin pouch and snatched it up. He held it out to Crispin with his white hands. “The parchments. I need them back. They must be returned. Please. Take the silver.”

  With one hand on Jack and the other on the door, Crispin turned back. “We are a danger to each other, I fear. Go to the sheriffs with this.”

  Crispin pulled open the door and scanned the empty corridor, wondering how he was to sneak out of the palace right outside the queen’s own chamber.

  “There will be more murders,” said Jacob.

  Crispin froze. Slowly, he turned back. “What did you say?”

  “The murders,” Jacob w
hispered. “The boys. I have heard of the murders.” His tongue scraped his dry lips. “I know who is responsible.”

  5

  “Father,” warned Julian.

  Jacob made a tight jerk of his head, closing his tired eyes.

  “Explain yourself,” said Crispin.

  “Please.” Jacob gestured toward the chair by the fire. “Sit.”

  Cursing under his breath, he felt a twinge in his wounded arm, and finally stomped back to the fire. He sat hard on the chair.

  “I know you find this distasteful, Maître Guest.” Jacob sank wearily onto his own chair. “Forgive me. But the help I need will not come from the sheriffs nor from the court. I sought you out in particular because of the rumors that you often deal with objects of religious significance. Is this true?”

  Crispin felt the warmth of the fire at his cheek. It did little to warm the coldness creeping within him. “It is my curse,” he said, half-jesting.

  The man did not take it as a jest. He edged forward. “Then you are no stranger to the hand of the Lord.”

  He laughed unpleasantly. “Of this I know not. Relics, such as they are, are only relics to those who deem them so. They bear little significance to me.” He swallowed the half-truth with the toss of his head. “Are you saying these parchments are relics? That they have to do with murder? By all the saints, I am at my wits’ end, old man! Say your peace and have done!”

  “I fear, Maître Guest, that the monster has been released.”

  Jack sprang to his feet. “God blind me!” he shrieked. “Monster?”

  “He . . .” Crispin steadied himself and shook his head. “He does not mean that literally, Jack. He speaks of the monster of inhumanity—”

  “I speak of it very literally, good maître. It is the missing parchments. They contain the words of Creation.” He shook his head sadly and fingered his beard. “And I let them slip through my fingers. I’m a fool. I cannot forgive myself.”

  Crispin felt the tension in his body drain away. He saw in his mind a dark shape receding into the misty night. Heavy footfalls. Fear. “What . . . what is this . . . monster?”

  “But we saw it, Master!” cried Jack. “We saw it!”

  Jacob gasped. “What did you see?”

  “This is utter nonsense,” muttered Crispin. He ran his fingers into his shaggy hair. “It was a man, surely. Tall and very broad. A . . . a small . . . head . . .”

  Jacob covered his mouth with his trembling fingers. “The Golem. He has been animated. We are dead.” He reached for his robe and ripped the seam.

  “Father!” Julian was kneeling beside him, staying his hand from doing more damage to his robe. “No! It cannot be. This man is lying.”

  Crispin raised his chin. “I am not lying. That is one sin of which I am not guilty.” He glanced back at Jack to confirm it but Jack appeared too frightened to speak. Damn this! “Harken to me, all of you. There is no monster. There is only Jewish superstition and odd circumstances.”

  “The murders—” said Jacob.

  “The fact that you know about these murders makes me very suspicious.”

  Jacob shook his head. “When they first happened, I was the only physician nearby. They called me forth. I have since heard of two others. I saw the dead boys. Who but a monster would commit these horrible crimes?”

  Who indeed? “What are you implying? That this . . . this Golem . . . has murdered these children?”

  “I saw what was done to those boys.”

  “How did you know that I am investigating?”

  “One hears things. But that was after I had decided to seek you out.”

  Crispin narrowed his eyes and looked across the room, peering into the shadows of the alcoves, trying to discern the strange beakers and jars from the shapes of alchemic apparatuses. “What is a . . . Golem?”

  Jacob rose and returned to his table, unrolling a scroll with shaking hands. “This, Maître Guest, is the Sefer Yetzirah: The Book of Creation.”

  Curious, Crispin strode across the room and looked over the man’s shoulders. He gritted his teeth when he beheld the page of strange symbols interspersed with Stars of David. “These seguloth,” said Jacob, pointing to the symbols, “explain the book. Our Father Abraham was given the divine revelation of these pages by the Lord—blessed be His name—and the rabbis of old have discussed it and analyzed it for centuries. This,” he said, spreading his fingers over the tan parchment, “is the understanding of Creation itself. How the universe was created through the Sefirot, the Ten Sacred Numbers—”

  “Enough!” The room felt close suddenly. This talk of Jewish magic made Crispin’s skin crawl. “This monster. This Golem. What is it? Did you make it?”

  “Me? Oh no! Never! Only in extreme circumstances and only with the counsel of many wise rabbis would I attempt it. You see, Maître, the word ‘Golem’ means a ‘shapeless mass.’ It is made from mud or clay. The Golem is created to protect the Jewish people from harm. It is a sacred obligation. A man who has a Golem as a servant is naturally imbued with much wisdom and piety. Wisdom in being able to choose the right path, and piety in order to discern the Almighty’s will. If he does not possess these traits, then there is no controlling the servant. No, Maître Guest, it was not me. But someone else. Someone who wanted the power of the demon.”

  “So it is a demon.”

  Jacob opened his lips as if to explain, but shut them again, his brows working over his eyes. Like a tutor speaking carefully to a pupil, he began. “Adam, the father of Man, was created from mud, from clay. From this clay, the Lord breathed life into him. And so it is similar with the Golem. He is made of clay and can be animated by reading the words on the Sefer Yetzirah and placing the word for ‘truth’ on its body. It is a soulless being with no emotions, no pity, no mercy. A man who uses a Golem for unholy purposes”—he shook his head—“is himself a monster.”

  “What makes you think this Golem of yours committed these murders?”

  “The strangeness of it. The cutting along the abdomen. The taking of the entrails.” He seemed to notice Crispin flinching and nodded. “As you noticed yourself. I do not think a Golem needs to feed, but there is so little we know of these creatures. The blood and entrails of a youth would be horrible nourishment, but nourishment just the same. If the Golem’s creator wished it, these things would be done. A Golem is only a shell. He does what he is told.”

  “And so,” said Crispin, walking slowly toward the alcoves. They seemed to compel him with their strange smells and instruments. “And so these papers were stolen from you. When?”

  “It must have been two months ago. That was when the first murder was discovered.”

  “Months? Why did you wait so long to say something?”

  “I did not want to believe it. I could not. But then, when the murders happened again and again . . .”

  “This is a matter for the sheriff, then.”

  “But Maître Guest, you yourself said you were investigating these murders. Surely you could keep it quiet.”

  “A monster on the loose? Should I not warn the populace?”

  “Oh no! That would be disaster!”

  “For whom? You?” He said the last nastily and meant it.

  Jacob drew himself up. “I am not afraid of your Gentile mobs, sir. Lives are at stake. It is more important than the life of one Jewish physician.”

  “Noble, I suppose.” Crispin scowled. “Why should I believe any of this? How do I know you are telling me the truth?”

  Jacob lifted his arms in an exhausted shrug. “You have no good reason, Maître. I am merely a Jew. I only thought, that if anyone would, you would believe me.”

  “Christ!” He thumbed the stubble on his chin and stared at the floor. “Who knew you had such papers here?”

  Jacob thought a moment. “I do not know. But I do know that my rooms have been plundered before.”

  “Oh? When?”

  “Many times since I arrived. My privacy here has been . . . les
s than private. Understandable when I am so close to their Majesties.”

  Crispin mulled this. “These parchments of yours. Are they written in Hebrew?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then this culprit must surely be a scholar of some sort to be able to read it.”

  “Yes. That must be so.”

  “Who in this court can read Hebrew?”

  “This I do not know. But there are astrologers, alchemists, and the like at court. I could not guess at how many.”

  “Do you lock your door, Master Jacob?”

  “Of course. I bar it each night and lock it each time I go out.”

  “And you, boy.” He turned to Julian, who rousted himself to glare anew. “What of you? Are you as assiduous at locking doors?”

  “Of course I am! I do not trust these English Gentiles.”

  “Many would have a key, though,” Crispin mused to himself.

  “Master,” said Jack, looking desperately at the window. “That is the bell for Compline.” He had not noticed the distant deep clang until Jack mentioned it. “It will be curfew soon. And the gate to London must already be locked. How are we to get back home?”

  “I have my ways, Jack, never fear.” But he did not relish traveling after curfew. He wondered bitterly if it was snowing again. He stared at the curtained window. “When did you arrive to these shores, Master Jacob?”

  “Two months ago.”

  “And the murders started then?”

  “Much to my regret.”

  “These are Christian children.” He pivoted and fastened his steely gaze on the physician. “The explanation could be far simpler than a supposed monster. ‘Entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem.’ ”

  Jacob’s eyes widened and for the first time, he did look frightened. “You . . . you accuse . . . me?”

  “You whoreson!” growled Julian. “I should have slit your throat rather than stab your arm.”

  Crispin spared him a cold glance. “I have not discounted your guilt in this, Master Julian.” He was satisfied to hear the boy’s gasp of outrage.

  Jacob braced himself against the table behind him. “I . . . I can well see how your Christian sensibilities could accuse me of such deeds, Maître Guest. But I assure you—I swear on my physician’s oath—that I cannot kill. And to kill a child . . . Never! Never.”