The Demon's Parchment (14 page)

Westminster Abbey lay across a snowy expanse of courtyard, spiny with peaks and arches, as prickly as a hedgehog. The white snow drifted into the mason’s details of carved stone, ledges, and trefoils, defining their textures and curves.

Crispin debated with himself whether he should enter the church at the north entrance or back by the chilly cloister. The idea that the church might be a bit warmer won out, and he trod up the snowy path toward the Norman portico. Inside was dark, but the large rose and clerestory windows offered pale, colored light as if through the iridescent wings of a mayfly.

The nave was not empty. It teemed with men of all stripes. Though there were some kneeling by the distant rood screen, others paced across the shining stone floor. Business was flourishing. Clerks, scribes, and lawyers eager for employment from merchants and nobles, wore away the tiles in their quest. One clerk looked up hopefully before his eyes shadowed over Crispin’s threadbare cotehardie and flicked away again.

The air smelled of old incense and must. A draft made the open nave cold, flickering the candles, but the interior was not as cold as the naked world without. Crispin’s eyes adjusted and then searched the arched nave for a cassock.

The columns were surrounded by scaffolding. It seemed every great cathedral in England was being reworked and made anew, a caterpillar sloughing off last year’s skin in hopes of emerging as a butterfly. Crispin supposed the money was well spent, but there seemed to him to be the same number of beggars at the almsdoor. Funny how he never gave it much thought before, when he was donating his coin purse for a chapel to be built at Sheen. A chapel in which others, Giles de Risley among them, now prayed.

The columns and pillars of stone shot up into the dim, vaulted ceiling. Taller than any forest, it was a feat to be admired. The mason’s art was more than craft. It was too bad Crispin had not been apprenticed so.
I’d never be out of work if I had been
.

His eyes scanned again down the nave and peered past the pillars into the wooden choir with its own carved spires. There he saw a monk lighting candles, and headed toward him.

“Good Brother,” he said, delaying the monk as he raised his silver candle lighter. The monk turned to him. He was young, perhaps little more than a boy. His hood was drawn low over his brow. Brown eyes glittered with surprise that he should be addressed. He said nothing, but waited for Crispin to speak.

“I need to see Abbot Nicholas. Could you take me to him?”

The monk’s eyes widened. Crispin expected it. He interrupted what would surely have been a sputtered excuse. “My Lord Abbot and I are old friends. He will see me. I will tarry here if it please you. Tell him Crispin Guest awaits.”

The monk could not seem to argue with this. He closed his mouth and blew out the wick at the end of his lighter. Scurrying down the aisle toward the south transept, he looked back once. Crispin followed, knowing that the young cleric would return this way. He strolled to the door at the crotch of the south transept. Three large quatrefoils within circles of stone reared above the arched entrance, upheld by lancet arches. The door would be barred. He would wait. He had no doubt the youth, or another monk, would be back.

It didn’t take long for a familiar face to unlock the door and approach. Brother Eric smiled from under his cowl. “Master Crispin,” he said. “
Benedicte
.”

“Thanks be to God,” Crispin replied and took his hand in welcome, hiding a wince when his wounded arm flexed. “May I speak a few words with the abbot?”

Brother Eric nodded and gestured for Crispin to follow. They entered the cloister and ambled down the colonnade, walking side by side. Their steps echoed back to them and bounced from carrel to empty carrel. The cloister garden was a tangle of dead sticks and twisted, brown vines. All lay dormant now that winter was upon them, though the stillness faltered under the flitting of bramblings that rustled the branches and pecked at the wattle fences, their orange breasts lending a bit of color to the lifeless undergrowth.

The way was familiar to Crispin and, shoulder to shoulder, they trotted up the chilled steps to the abbot’s quarters.

Brother Eric drew ahead of Crispin and knocked lightly on the abbot’s door. A soft reply later, and the monk opened the heavy oak, allowing Crispin in before he shut it after him, leaving them alone.

“Crispin!” The old abbot’s face lit and he made a move to skirt his worktable, but Crispin motioned for him to remain. Instead, he met the man with the table between them and extended his hand. “My Lord Abbot.”

“It is good to see you, friend Crispin. Shall we have wine?”

Eagerly, he retreated to the sideboard where he knew Abbot Nicholas kept French wine in a flagon. He poured two goblets of the golden liquid and returned, offering one to the abbot before they both sat. Putting the metal goblet to his lips, Crispin closed his eyes and inhaled the sweet fruit before his mouth tasted. When he opened his eyes again, the abbot was smiling at him. “Good, eh? I just received
this shipment from Spain. I favor the sweetness of this variety.”

“Quite good,” said Crispin, savoring the flavors exploding on his tongue.

They sipped at their goblets for a few moments before Abbot Nicholas sat back in his chair and sighed. “I have not seen you in some time, Crispin. Our chess game awaits.”

The tall windows showered a rainbow of light onto the chessboard, illuminating chess pieces that they had left a month before. Slowly, Crispin sat in his chair on the black side and Nicholas seated himself opposite. The abbot took a short quaff of his wine, set it aside on a table, and rubbed his hands. “I believe it is your turn.”

Crispin smiled. “This game will be over in nine moves.”

Nicholas chortled. “Indeed? Pride, Master Guest, is one of the Seven Deadly Sins.”

“It is not pride, my Lord Abbot, but the truth. ‘Plato is dear to me, but dearer still is Truth.’ ”

The abbot’s eyes sparkled. “Your Aristotle seems more dear to you. It is not wise to put your faith in one voice, and a pagan one at that, Crispin. ‘Beware the man of one book.’ So says Saint Thomas Aquinas.”

Crispin gave him a sidelong look before reaching over the pieces to move his knight.

“Always you move the knight,” muttered Nicholas, his watery eyes scanning the players.

“The knight is an enterprising fellow.”

Nicholas quirked an eyebrow before returning his gaze to the board. “No doubt.” He dithered his hand over several pieces before deciding on his bishop. “But I fear you did not come here to simply play a game of chess with me, much as it would cheer me to think it.”

Crispin could not help the frown that shifted his mouth. “No,
Nicholas. Would that I had the leisure.” He moved his knight again, keeping his eyes downcast. He felt the man staring at him.

“What then, I wonder?” Both hands clutched at the board’s edge until he started to tap each finger randomly. “I wonder what you are up to?” The idle conversation seemed to be more about the board game than Crispin’s presence. He smiled when the old abbot finally moved a piece.

Crispin took his knight and slid it into place. “Grave matters, Nicholas.” He leaned forward and said quietly, “Have you heard of the murdered boy found in the Thames a few days ago?”

Nicholas crossed himself. “It grieves me to hear of it. But it does my heart good to know that you are investigating. You are, are you not?”

“I am. But there are . . . other considerations. I came for information about matters I know little of.”

“God grant that I can give you the right and proper information you need,” he said before moving a pawn.

Crispin stared at it and gauged the board again. “Just so. What can you tell me about Jews and Jewish religious customs?”

Nicholas drew back as if burned. “
Jews?
What tidings are these? Do you think Jews are to blame? But there are none left on these shores.”

“That may be true, but I have reason to believe the murder might involve these people nonetheless.”

Nicholas took a deep breath, but his otherwise pale skin blushed in agitation. “All of the Jews did not leave with King Edward’s exile, you know. Many took up Christ in the waters of baptism and were allowed to remain. They live in the House of Converts. At least, the newer converts do.”

“And where do they come from?”

“The occasional traveler and merchant. Those who stay must convert.” Nicholas frowned. “There have been rumors,” said Nicholas
almost to himself. “Well, what does it matter? It was so long ago. Even so, there are those within the Church who—” His brows rose and he appeared to remember Crispin’s presence. He resettled himself and offered a brief smile. “There are even things I am not at liberty to discuss with you, no matter how you use your wiles on me.”

“Wiles, Nicholas? Have I used my wiles on you?”

“Many a time, you fox.”

But Crispin now pondered what Nicholas had not said, trying to ferret out what it might mean. He kept his features neutral.

“You wish to know of their customs,” said the abbot. “But to understand that, you must understand why they were banished from these shores in the first place. I can assure you, it was wholly justified. Have you never heard the tales of Saint William of Norwich or Saint Hugh of Lincoln?”

“These saints are familiar to me,” said Crispin vaguely. He pushed one of his pawns forward. “But I confess, I do not recall the details.”

“I shall enlighten you, then. William of Norwich was a very devout boy, singing the praises of our Lady both night and day. He was a tanner’s apprentice and was forced to frequent the Jews’ Street in Norwich. His holy praises angered the Jews and they rose up as one and slew him, tossing his body upon a dungheap. But even in death, he continued to sing the
Alma Redemptoris Mater
. This was his first miracle. The Jews were accused of his torture and murder and many were slain that day in just retribution.” He toyed with his castle and, finally realizing it was in his hand, set it back on its square.

Crispin frowned at the board. He could well see how the townsfolk would be angered by such an act, but it was not well to rise up as a mob. Best to let the authorities handle the situation. The crown was, no doubt, unsettled by the affair. “And what of this other, this Saint Hugh?”

“Little Saint Hugh. Another child, an innocent. Slain by a
Jewish child who confessed that it was the custom to crucify a Christian boy once a year at the Passover.”

“I thought Little Saint Hugh was found in a well.”

“Perhaps he was crucified and then tossed into the well.”

“If this was so, then why were there not more stories of Christian boys crucified?”

Crispin watched Nicholas move his castle. “What makes you think there were not?”

“Because I have never heard of such.”

“I am certain the stories are somewhere.” Nicholas shook his head. “Those were difficult times, Crispin. I am not sorry they are over. It is best that Jews remain exiled from England so the taint of usury and godlessness can no longer thrive here.”

No, indeed,
thought Crispin with a scowl.
Godless murder and thievery certainly do not thrive in London
. But Abbot Nicholas had gone on, heedless of his guest’s discomfiture.

“The edict gave them ample time to prepare, to sell their lands and gather their goods.” Crispin could well imagine. Selling their land to Englishmen who could demand any price, knowing the Jew
had
to sell and
had
to leave. What bargains there must have been that summer of 1290.

Not that he was sympathizing. He, too, found the matter distasteful. The image in his mind of the greedy Jew and now the blood-lusting Jew ran deep, even though, he admitted grudgingly, it did not complement the portrait of the benign physician who had hired him.

“In Avignon, the Jews thrive,” Crispin heard himself saying.

Nicholas shrugged. “Yes. But ways are different in France.”

“Would you send them packing again to some other place or simply slay them all?”

“I do not like to speak of death. And our venerable Saint Bernard of Clairvaux once said, ‘Whosoever touches a Jew to take his life, is like one who harms Jesus himself.’ ”

“Hmpf,” said Crispin. “Do you believe that?” Nicholas shrugged again. “A bitter potion, then. One cannot slay them and one cannot live beside them. What, then, should one do?”

“Allow the crown to deal with it, as it has.”

“Let it be someone else’s problem?”

“Precisely.”

Grunting his reply, Crispin moved his knight, grasped the goblet into his hand, and took a sip before he declared, “Check and mate.”

“What?” Nicholas’s head swung back and forth as he studied each piece scattered upon the board. His frown wrinkled his forehead up to the feathery gray hair and down again to his thick brows. “Bless me!” he breathed at last. With a finger, he tipped his king and it fell to the board, rolling into the bishop and nearly toppling him. “Bless me. That was well played.” He snatched up his goblet and comforted himself in the wine.

“Facts, my Lord Abbot,” said Crispin and set his goblet aside. “Not pride.”

Nicholas shook his head and began to replace his pieces into their proper starting points. “The oddities of their Jewish customs,” he continued. “We cannot reconcile it. Do they not see that they condemn themselves for their demon ways? That they crucified our Lord was enough to tie the millstone about their necks. But to continue this atrocious sin of killing innocent boys—”

And more,
thought Crispin, but he was unwilling to discuss it. “My Lord Abbot, have you ever heard of a Golem?”

“A goblin?”

“No, a
Golem
. Part of their Jewish magic.”

The old man shook his head. “No, no. Best stay clear of that, Master Guest. It is unwise to mix yourself in their monstrous ways. We can little understand the mind of the Jew let alone his magic.”

Frowning, Crispin agreed. Ultimately, he was not interested in
their rituals. Only if such things were possible. And then he chided himself. He had never believed in its like before. Why should he toy with the notion now?