The Demon’s Parchment cg-3

by Jeri Westerson

  A disquieting sensation crept over Crispin as Jacob pled his case. No. The physician seemed far too sincere, too compassionate.

  Julian, on the other hand . . .

  “I must think on all this, Master Jacob. These tidings are disturbing.”

  “But—”

  “I will inform you when I come to any conclusions.” He swept Julian with a spiteful look before he signaled to Jack.

  Now, how the hell were they to get out of the palace unseen?

  He opened the door cautiously and stuck out his head, staring into the gloom of the corridor. This chamber was near the king’s. God’s sense of humor failed to tickle.

  Crispin flipped his hood up and tugged it low over his forehead. Taking a deep breath he plunged into the corridor with Jack close behind.

  “Master, what—”

  “Be still, Jack,” he whispered. He cocked his head to listen. It was late. Most of court would be abed or perhaps playing a late game of chess or tables.

  He stepped into the all-too-familiar corridor, hearing the soft click of the door shutting behind him. That was that. They were certainly on their own now.

  Crispin walked carefully, keeping along the walls and listening before he proceeded. He cast a thought back toward Jacob and his parchments. This was damnable. If that Jew was responsible for those deaths, Crispin certainly did not want to appear to be helping him. He recalled the stories he had heard of Jews murdering children. But this had been more than a murder. It had been rape and mutilation, which sounded to him like some sort of sorcery. The man admitted to the use of magic with those damnable texts. But Jacob’s appalled expression did not appear to have been faked. Was he being entirely sincere?

  He turned a corner. The wooden floor groaned under his step and he stopped, measuring the empty corridor. When the small noise failed to raise an alarm he continued his steps and his musings.

  What of Julian? A sour lad. There was something secretive in his eyes, something Crispin did not trust. Was that boy capable? His distaste for Crispin’s country was palpable. When Crispin shoved him against the wall the boy felt pathetic beneath his crushing grip. Such a slight youth might wish to prove himself stronger over smaller, weaker boys. Was he monster enough to have raped and killed? Maybe his father had no stomach for blasphemous experiments, but what of his son?

  And Crispin had neglected to search the bedchamber. Foolish! He had been so concerned with getting out of there that he failed to do the most rudimentary of investigations. A child’s mistake. He would not make that mistake again.

  And yet. How was he to investigate at all? It would certainly involve those of the court. He would have to return and make inquiries, but how was he to do that when the king’s mandate still stood? After Crispin had foolishly refused to beg for his lands and title Richard had screamed it to the court that Crispin was not to return. He had even refused the king’s gold. That had been foolish indeed.

  He noticed Jack was not as skittish and had graciously accepted Jacob’s pouch of silver when the physician had pressed it on him in the chamber. At least one of them had a head on their shoulders.

  But for how much longer?

  Crispin was about to inquire of Jack what their next move should be when the door beside him opened. Before Crispin had a chance to react, a hand reached out, grabbed him by his hood, and dragged him inside.

  6

  Crispin scrambled for his dagger, but his arms were trapped in his twisted cloak. It had all happened so fast. The door, the man. Jack somehow followed, almost crying out but stifling himself.

  When Crispin wrestled away he turned an angry expression on . . . the duke of Lancaster! “Damn you, Crispin!” shouted his former mentor. “What, by the mass, are you doing here?”

  Crispin clamped his open jaw shut and straightened his disheveled coat. He smoothed back the hood from his face and stood bareheaded before his lord. Former lord, he reminded himself.

  John of Gaunt glared down at him with dark brows and a dark beard. Being the king’s uncle, his apartments were close to Richard and his queen, Anne.

  “Your grace,” said Crispin, bowing with as much dignity as he could muster. Jack sloppily parroted his master. “How did you know I was here?”

  “I heard the commotion in the corridor and I lay in wait for you. How could you be such a fool as to come here?”

  He cast his eyes to the floor, feeling like a child chastised by his sire. “A paying wage, my lord. I must go where the business takes me,” he muttered.

  “And it takes you to that Jew physician? What are you doing, Crispin?”

  He looked up at the man who had nurtured him, saved him, and ultimately betrayed him. He knew not how to feel anymore. Instead, he let his eyes grow cold and leveled his gaze with that of the duke’s. “I am earning my keep, my lord,” he said with more passion. “May I go now?”

  “No, you may not go!” Lancaster crossed to the enormous hearth and paced, his hands holding so tight to one another behind his back that they whitened. “Stubborn. Willful. Obstinate.”

  “All my patron names,” said Crispin.

  Lancaster flicked his head and glared at him. “Do not dare be flippant with me, Guest.”

  Crispin sighed. How was he ever to get out of the palace? Worse. How was he ever to get back in? Perhaps . . .

  “My lord, I urgently seek your counsel.”

  “Ha!” He stood with legs wide in front of the fire. His red houppelande was fringed by golden firelight and his face fell into shadow.

  Crispin took a cautious step forward. Lancaster could easily strike him for his insolence as much as help him. He wondered which was more likely. “My lord, there have been . . . unseemly murders. I have been sent to investigate them.”

  Lancaster’s eyes glittered and steadied on Crispin. “Murders? Which sheriff sent you? That ineffectual John Froshe? Or that fish-faced Nicholas Exton?”

  He hesitated. After all, he wasn’t supposed to say.

  “Never mind,” said Lancaster. “I can see you are loyal to one of those fools. More misplaced loyalty, Guest?”

  That stung. Why use Crispin’s loyalty against him? “All of London knows I am trustworthy.” It was no mere boast and Lancaster knew it.

  The duke said nothing to that. He glared at him for a moment longer before slowly pivoting toward the fire. “You were told not to return to court,” he said quietly. “How much is this physician paying you? Is it worth your life?”

  “It is not merely the money.” If you knew me better you would know that, he longed to say. “The murders,” he said aloud. “I could not let it lie—”

  “You could never let it lie.” He shook his head. Crispin stared at that straight spine, the sword-roughened hands behind his back.

  The room was too familiar. Crispin refused to take comfort in it. He shoved the memories back, memories of sitting before this very hearth with Lancaster, while the duke’s children careened through that archway.

  “Not when murder is concerned, my lord.”

  “So you say. Well, Crispin. What boon do you require this time?”

  A hard stone settled in his belly. He gritted his teeth. “I must investigate this murder. I need to inquire at court.”

  “Godspeed to that. You well remember that the king specifically forbade this very thing.” His eyes roved up and down Crispin’s form. “And I see how well you obey. For coin, Crispin? Oh, very well. Because of murder, then. Yet you are still here and still forbidden. Is it your deepest desire to earn the king’s wrath? Don’t answer that. I would rather not fall prey to more of your impudence.”

  Crispin rolled his shoulder. His arm began to throb where that cur Julian stabbed him. Maybe he should have allowed the Jew to put on his wretched poultice.

  Lancaster sighed and shook his head. Raising a hand to his temple he lowered himself to one of the chairs before the fire. “Crispin, Crispin.” Gaunt’s back was to him and it was only that dark head of hair over the top of the chair
’s back that Crispin could see. “How did we get here, you and I?” he asked softly.

  He grasped his wounded arm and cradled it. “Because you are right,” he replied, just as quietly. “I could not let it lie.”

  Lancaster raised his hand and motioned him to the other chair.

  He hesitated. Would Lancaster help him after all, or was there more lecture to be endured?

  In the end it didn’t matter. Crispin wanted to sit beside him, wanted to soak up all the time he could with his former mentor. But he was not so much of a fool to let his guard down. Warily, he made his way to the other chair and gently sat. He stared at the man’s profile for a long time. The hearth glow wove a pattern of dark and light over his pallid cheek, tipping the mustache with gold.

  “Have your servant serve us wine, Crispin. It’s chilly.”

  He turned to where Jack cowered in the corner and the boy suddenly stood to attention, looking for the flagon. He found it on the sideboard and filled two cups, serving Lancaster with a trembling hand. Crispin took the other from Jack and drank a bit of it before setting it aside. He had already had too much in the physician’s chamber. He needed a clear head with Lancaster.

  He watched the older man drink as he slowly sipped the fragrant liquor. Dammit, but he missed living at court! He missed the intrigues, the news, the day-to-day minutiae intimated to him in shadowed corners and even darker bedchambers.

  He missed . . . this.

  Crispin cleared his throat and asked the question he’d been trying to forget. “Yesterday . . . I heard that the king granted my . . . my lands to Giles de Risley.”

  Lancaster’s face did not change. He blinked slowly. “That is true.”

  “Why?” He knew his voice sounded petulant but he could not restrain himself. “Why give it to him?”

  “To punish you for refusing his benevolence,” he said. “All of court knows that you and de Risley were rivals of a sort. Richard thought this meant that you were enemies. His hate of you is deep. I can only guess that he knew you would somehow discover it. You should be pleased that it is at least in the hands of a friend.”

  Crispin slumped, eyes distantly watching the flames. “But after so long. My home,” he murmured.

  “Come now, Crispin. It has not been your home for some time. No use weeping over the past. You are the last man I expected of that. You had your chance when the king offered to give you back your name and your lands. Why did you refuse?”

  He wouldn’t look at Lancaster. “You know why.”

  The man huffed a sound and sat back in his chair. “Yes, I know.”

  They sat in silence for a time until Crispin sighed. “I need a way to get into the palace.”

  “Don’t you rather need a way to get out of it?”

  “God’s blood!” he swore softly. “That, too. But my lord. I will need to return. I . . . I am loath to ask for your help—”

  “No you’re not. You’re no fool, after all. Much evidence to the contrary.”

  Silence again.

  Lancaster sighed. “By the saints, Crispin. How you put me in these situations I’ll never—”

  A knock on the door made them both swivel their heads.

  “Uncle John?” came the all too familiar voice that stilled Crispin’s heart.

  “The king!” hissed Lancaster.

  Crispin shot to his feet. Lancaster motioned to an alcove where an arras hung on an iron rod before it. Crispin rushed behind the tapestry just as the door opened. He tried to make himself as small as he could. God only knew where Jack was.

  “Uncle John?” said Richard, coming into the room. “I heard you talking.” He stopped.

  Jack, Crispin thought with a curse. Crispin heard someone scrabbling across the floor and a shorter form tossed the arras aside, nearly revealing Crispin. Jack looked up at him with fear rounding his eyes.

  Wonderful. This day was getting better and better.

  “I wanted to discuss the move to Sheen for Advent, Uncle,” said Richard. “I favor arriving on the Feast of Saint Nicholas.” Crispin couldn’t help himself. He very carefully moved the arras aside just enough to spy the room beyond it. Richard sported a wispy beard and mustache, not quite fully formed on his seventeen-year-old chin. He moved to the chairs by the fire and, with sparkling rings, fingered the second cup of wine.

  Damn.

  An eyebrow rose and Richard lifted his face to his uncle, eyes darting about the room, but he said nothing. Crispin let the arras fall back just as Richard cast an eye to the alcove. He cringed behind it wondering what he should do now. He could fall on his own dagger, he supposed. Dash his head against the stone wall, perhaps?

  “Mayhap it is too late in the evening to discuss this now,” said Richard. His voice was coming closer to Crispin’s alcove. Crispin braced himself even as Jack traced a cross over his own forehead, eyes firmly shut, lips moving silently.

  “You seem to be otherwise occupied,” Richard continued. “And I thought your lady wife was elsewhere this night.”

  “She is, your grace.”

  “Oh?” By the sound of his voice, he was standing directly before the tapestry. Crispin expected it to be whisked open at any moment. He held his breath. He could not reach for his dagger as he itched to do. This was the king, after all. He would have to submit to anything Richard demanded.

  The king made an impatient sound. “I do not approve,” he said quietly, “of that Swynford woman.”

  Gaunt sputtered but said nothing. Crispin well knew why. It was an open secret that the duke had had an ongoing dalliance with Katherine Swynford for the past decade. She had been the governess to Gaunt’s daughters, and when her husband died they had grown close. Crispin had even talked with Lancaster once about it in disapproving tones. He could still feel the lump he received on his head for his trouble.

  “The sanctity of the marriage bond must not be compromised,” said Richard in a courtly tenor. “The Lady Constance deserves better.”

  “Forgive me, sire,” said Gaunt, his voice tight. “But this is not the crown’s affair.”

  “Is it your affair, Uncle? Of course it is. But any form of scandal in my court cannot be tolerated. May I suggest,” he said walking away from the arras, “that she not accompany us to Sheen for Christmas.”

  There was a long pause until Gaunt finally said, “As you wish, sire.”

  “Well then.” Crispin heard Richard take a seat and settle in. God’s blood! Was he ever to get out of the palace this night?

  “I want my barons there. But I do not wish to discuss any weighty matters while in residence, Uncle John. I rely on you to keep my counselors at bay. I want the queen to enjoy herself. And she cannot do so when my brow is furrowed. No, this is the season for joviality. And with God’s blessings, we might at last have an heir to look forward to. I’ve paid enough for that damnable Jewish physician. Let us hope he is worth his salt.”

  Lancaster still said nothing. Richard must have gestured for his own wine, because Lancaster tugged at the arras, showing his reddened face to Crispin and Jack. “Boy, serve the wine.”

  Jack gave Crispin a desperate look before he was dragged from the alcove by the duke. Crispin heard his stumbling steps as he retrieved the wine for the king.

  “God’s wounds, Uncle John. Where by the blessed Mother did you get this wretched child to serve you? He looks like a beggar.”

  “Hmpf,” said Lancaster. They fell silent as they drank.

  “Come, boy,” said Richard. “More wine. And do try not to spill it on my shoes this time. I could have you skinned and made into my slippers.”

  Crispin cringed when he heard wine splattering on the floor. Jack choked out a sob.

  “Now, now, Nephew. You’re frightening the child. There, there. I’ll take that. Go back to your cot.”

  Jack scurried around the tapestry, his hands over his face. He was trembling, and Crispin put his arm around his shoulders to calm him.

  “An unusual locale for your beggar s
ervant, Uncle John. I do not recall a cot being there before.”

  “My lady wife often changes the arrangements in these lodgings, sire. I can barely keep up.”

  “Hmm. Perhaps you should keep the tapestries open. After all, you rule your household, do you not?”

  “I prefer them closed, sire.”

  “Do you? Are there more servants you would shield from me, Uncle?”

  “Not at all. I have no secrets from you, Nephew.”

  “No? Then open that tapestry.”

  Crispin flattened himself against the wall. He and Jack exchanged grim expressions.

  Steps approached and the duke grasped the arras. Crispin held his breath. He stared at the flat, smooth nails on Gaunt’s fingers, the golden rings gleaming with a cold light.

  Fingers tensed on the thick cloth, ready to throw it back when Richard said lightly, “Never mind.” The duke’s hand stayed. But Crispin saw the merest tremble in the cloth. “It’s late,” Richard went on in a satisfied tone. Did Richard never tire of games? thought Crispin. But even as the king scowled at the heavy drapery, he confirmed Crispin’s judgment of him when he said, “Unless you care for a game of chess?”

  “Is the queen abed, then?” asked Lancaster, voice steady.

  As expected, he heard Richard rise immediately. “Perhaps I should get back to her. She does hate these English winters. She is convinced there is a draft in her chamber. I can find no evidence of it. But women can be foolish.”

  Lancaster remained silent.

  The king’s steps retreated to the door. Lancaster walked in longer strides to head him off and opened it for him. Richard paused. “Good night, Uncle. And heed my advice. Do not soil your marriage bed with a momentary dalliance. Take heart from my example. I dote on my wife and she is ever loyal to me. Never give your spouse cause to betray you.”

  “Yes, sire. That is good advice. God give you rest.”