The Demon's Parchment (35 page)

But something on the table caught his eye. A small scrap of parchment. He recognized Jack’s weak scrawl. The boy was learning
his letters, and his writing was no smooth scribe’s hand, to be sure. Yet as he read, his heart stopped.

Goode Master Cryspyn,

Synce you wyre out of sorts last night, I got it in me head to set a trap. I haff made m’self known to Lord de Risley and lyke the curr he ys, he has agreed to take me to Sheen and we will be leeving early the morn of the Feest of Nickolas. But do not fret. I know what he is about. Just make certain to bring the sheriffs so we can cotch hym!

I am your devout servant,

Jack Tucker

Crispin stared at the letter. For how long, he did not know. His hand shook as he let the parchment slip through his fingers. The first word from his mouth was a whispered, “No.”

Jack. That fool, Jack. God in heaven. What had Crispin done?

He flung open his door and raced down the steps. Blindly, with snow smacking his face and eyes, he ran up the street toward the frosty edifice of Newgate. He didn’t quite remember crossing the threshold, or pounding on the door, or just why that great oaf William was pushing him back and why the man suddenly had a black eye.

But Crispin seemed to come to his senses when he was standing in the sheriff’s chambers, breathing hard and raggedly, heard but did not feel the fat logs crackle in the hearth, and the scowl on Exton’s fish face and the nervous finger drumming of Froshe’s stubby little digits on his bejeweled belt.

“You come here, thrashing your way through our men,” Exton was saying, but Crispin cut him off by slamming his hands on the table.

“I need a horse!”

“What, by the blessed Virgin, do you mean barging in here?” Froshe suddenly grew some backbone, only it was entirely the
wrong time. Crispin glared at him, which made Froshe take a step back.

The Fishmonger narrowed his eyes. “You had better have information on that child killer, Master Guest. Or this tirade of yours might be better served in a cell.”

Exton, too, seemed to have learned a thing or two, except now there was no time! “Will you listen to me! I need a horse. I must rescue my servant Jack. He has been abducted by that very child murderer.”

Exton came swiftly around the table. “And who is the murderer?”

“Giles de Risley. Now will you give me a horse?”

“Giles de Risley? You mean Lord de Risley? Of Sheen? Are you mad?”

“He confessed it. His man confessed it. It is he. Only there is no proof. But he will kill my servant if you don’t give me a goddamned horse!”

Froshe rustled his considerable jowls. “There is no need for blasphemous language, Master Guest.”

“Help me. Come with me to Sheen and see this despicable dog for yourselves.”

Exton took his seat and Froshe followed suit. They were more concerned with studying the contents of their table with its many parchments and seals. “I am certain this all seems quite urgent to you. But you must understand. We have only been in our office for two months and to accuse one of the king’s courtiers in his own house? No, no. That would be intolerable.”

“It occurs to me, Master Nicholas,” said Froshe, his small eyes darting to his companion, “that we have yet to pay Master Guest for his services. Perhaps some gold might appease this sudden bout of urgency.”

“No, you fools! I need your help, not your gold!”

Exton rose and raised his small, pointy chin. “Sir! May I remind
you of your rank? Must I bring in one of my sergeants to tutor you?”

Crispin blinked at them. They weren’t going to help him. They were going to sit there like a couple of toadstools and let a good lad die. The horror of it struck him like a blow to the face and he stepped back. Pivoting on his heel, he pushed his way out the door and stumbled down the chamber stair.

Out into the cold of the bustling street, Crispin felt lost and helpless. The king’s retinue was no doubt halfway to Sheen by now if not there already. The king himself must have taken his barge. The others would be on the road following the twisting Thames southwest.

Crispin needed a horse and damn the consequences. He did not have enough coins to hire one. He’d steal one, then! But perhaps . . . The thought came to him like a thief in the night, creeping slowly upon him.

He had to try.

He ran, dodging carts and people. He found the street of well-kept shops and houses, and pursued the sloping lane to the large shop at the corner with its own wide courtyard. He hustled to the entrance and wondered if he shouldn’t have gone to the servant’s entrance instead. But it was too late. He stood knocking, praying he would not be turned away.

When the door opened and the servant eyed him he thought of pushing him aside and searching for the master himself, but instead, he took a deep breath and bowed. “Is Master Wynchecombe here?”

The servant said, “You are Crispin Guest, are you not?”

“Yes. Please, I must see him.”

The servant, bless him, was more understanding than most, and motioned Crispin into the warm entry. The man led him to the parlor and told him to wait. Wynchecombe would either have him thrown out or come to investigate out of curiosity.

It wasn’t long until he heard a clatter and the heavy footfalls of his former rival, and then the man was standing at the threshold.

“Crispin Guest. What the devil are you doing in my place of business? Haven’t I seen the backside of you for the last time?”

Crispin was almost grateful for that familiar and grating tone. He bowed and when he rose again, Wynchecombe looked surprised. “Master Wynchecombe, I am in urgent need of your help. The sheriffs of London will do nothing.”

“Ha!” Wynchecombe stepped into the room and made himself comfortable in his chair. “How I have longed to hear you say that. You are now someone else’s problem. I do not see why you come sniveling to me—”

“Simon, for the love of God! Please listen to me.”

Wynchecombe seemed to take in Crispin’s desperation for the first time. It made him squirm a bit on his chair. “Have your say, Guest, and then get out.”

Crispin paced, drawing his fingers through his snow damp hair. “My servant, Jack, is in trouble. Desperate trouble. He got it in his head to trap a child murderer by being the bait. I need a horse and your help to arrest the murderer.”

“And why is it the sheriffs will not assist you?”

“Because the man I accuse is a courtier.”

“Goddammit, Crispin! And now you would draw me into your foolish plots? And have
me
arrested? No! Get out!”

“My lord! You know I would not be here if it were not the direst of circumstances. Jack Tucker is an innocent lad. He will be used most foully and then slaughtered like a spring lamb. Help me, Simon. Help
him
!”

Wynchecombe stared. Clearly he was not used to such emotions from Crispin and Crispin was certainly not used to showing them. He would rather cut his own throat than expose himself so to Wynchecombe, but he had little choice.

Simon rubbed his hand under his bearded chin. “God’s teeth,” he muttered. “Where have they gone?”

“To my . . . my old estates in Sheen. Giles de Risley purchased them for his own. It is not far from the king’s court. I will return the horse in good order. You know I will. Simon—”

“I have given you no leave to use my name,” he muttered, thinking. “You have proof?”

“I had a witness. But Giles killed him with his naked blade before my eyes. He is a cruel man without a shred of mercy. He told me how he likes to kill them, likes to make them suffer while still alive. I cannot let that fate befall Jack Tucker!”

“All you want from me is a horse—”

Silence. How long did they face one another? Crispin’s rapid pulse beat out the time as precious moments slipped away. How long would Jack Tucker have?

Simon rose and scowled at his table. “Damn you, Guest.” His voice was low and deadly. “If you are wrong, I shall have you skinned alive and hang your worthless hide over my hearth.” He strode from the room and bellowed over his shoulder for a servant.

Wynchecombe would not come with him but at least he gave Crispin a horse, and a fine one it was. Crispin wanted to urge the beast faster, but he feared to tax it. He stopped late afternoon to water and rest it.

He paced beside the river, unable to rest himself. The day was drawing late. It wouldn’t be long until nightfall and he
had
to be in Sheen before then!

The landscape was pearly white with snow. Black, barren trees veined the white expanse, scraping a gray, overcast sky. Once or twice, Crispin thought he heard something just beyond the dense thickets lining the road and verges. Possibly a deer or even an outlaw. He had the oddest sense that someone was following him, but
each time he turned his head to the place he thought he heard a sound, there was nothing there but cold and snow.

He mounted once again and took on a harder pace. Hours later as the sun was near setting, he rounded a bend in the river and took a sharp breath. He had not seen his estates in some seven years but there they were. A handsome stone manor house surrounded by walls with a gatehouse nearest the road. In the distance and through the mist, he could just make out the shape of the mill perched at a turn in the brook. He had spent many a day as a boy at that mill, vexing the miller with his questions . . . No. As much as he might wish to, he knew he had no time for revisiting the past.

Lights in the manor’s windows meant that Giles and his retinue were there.

Jack was in there.

But how to approach it? Giles would need someplace quiet, secluded and undisturbed. The only place Crispin could think of—“The mews.” Vaults lay below the house’s foundations. Nothing was stored below, at least not in his day. It could be locked away from prying eyes. And there was access to the river. A convenient way to dispose of a body.

He tied his horse in the dense copse above the grounds and crept down from the woods to the walls. In the icy darkness he thrashed through the dried reeds and found the disused door near the riverside. Disused in his day, perhaps, but here, the threshold had been dug away to make the way smooth and the hinges had been newly oiled.

Crispin listened, putting his ear to the door. When he heard nothing he pulled the door ring. Slowly he opened it and peered around its edge. Nothing but the gray passage, though a light shone ahead around the corner.

With the knife comfortably in his hand, Crispin made his way
forward. Dusty barrels filled one arch and old beams lay stacked in another. Besides the mildew smell of the river, Crispin detected the slight scent of incense. A strange place for it, but he followed his nose and the light.

Shadows played on the columns and low vaults. Crispin slithered against a column and listened. The echoes played with him and though this place should have been familiar, he thought it had been too long since he had been here and things had changed—

“Don’t move, Guest.”

Hot blood swirled through his veins and he turned. Radulfus nodded the tip of his blade toward Crispin’s chest. He chuckled low. “I do not know why, but I had the strangest feeling you’d be here. Must be the devil whispering in my ear.”

“He’ll be doing more than that soon.” Crispin gripped his dagger until Radulfus glanced at it.

“Drop it,” he said. He poked Crispin with the sword tip. “I said drop it.”

Crispin did. It clanged on the floor and echoed the deed over and over. Crispin backed up, until he was against a column. “Does he have the boy?”

“How the hell did you know—” He shook his head and smiled. “You amaze me. I have often heard Giles speak of you. He told the most atrocious lies. Oh, I never believed him. I can tell a jealous man when I hear one. He always wanted to best you. I suppose, in a way, your degradation should have pleased him no end, but he’s the type of man to want to have done it for himself.”

“And so he bought my manor.”

“Yes. And can barely afford to run it. He’s a fool.”

“Then why do you condemn yourself with him and his doings? Why not flee?”

He smiled. It was the smile of a snake with the cunning of a scorpion. He ran his tongue over his lips. Was it forked or was it just the light? “I . . . enjoy what he does. We share in it. All of it.
That boy in there,” he said, nodding with his head to the faint glow too far away from Crispin’s reach. “We shall both partake of him before he is slain. Or perhaps . . . even after.”

Crispin grimaced but Radulfus leered. “He has not told you all, has he? It matters little now since you will be dead.” He gave a great sigh of satisfaction. “Have you ever given much thought to your religion, Guest?”

“Is this your feeble way of telling me to pray my last?”

“No, you misunderstand me. We are baptized, catechized, eat communion bread, do penance, repeat. But where does it lead? Tell me, Guest. How often are your prayers answered?”

Crispin tried to keep his mind on point. It was useless to ponder the man’s words, for in truth, Crispin prayed very little. But this was definitely not the time to consider that!