His neck hairs bristled.
When Crispin had been exiled from court, he had at least been allowed to stay in London among the familiar. But to be exiled to a foreign kingdom . . .
His head hurt. That was it. That was why these revelations were turning his stomach.
Either that or the Jewish wine.
He said nothing, waiting for Middleton to continue. The man looked as if he could use some wine himself. “And so . . . you see us here.” His gesture included the assembled. “One hundred years later. We make no trouble. We respect where we live. Though we have no rabbi, no spiritual leader, our parish leaders read the Torah in Hebrew to the assembly. At least as much of it as we were able to acquire. We keep the traditions but we keep out of the way. It is always all we ever wanted.”
Crispin glanced at the boy again. The young face was serene, fresh in the knowledge that his savior, Crispin, would also be his champion. He wetted his lips. “Have . . . have you been missing any boys, Master Middleton?”
He shook his head. “No, Master. And we are grateful that John was spared today.”
Crispin considered. Boys snatched from the streets. Was the man who wanted the parchment responsible for the other four deaths? Was John to be the fifth?
Or are there two men abducting boys?
And where did this Golem fit in?
Exhausted, Crispin sighed. “Then this man who tried to abduct the boy. I ask again. Do you know him?”
“We do not,” said Middleton.
“Did any of you know the missing boys?”
They all shook their heads. This was getting him nowhere. He rose—a little more steadily this time, though his head did not hurt any less. What was he to do? How could he keep something so grave a secret? Was he not in enough trouble with the crown? Yet he had given his word, and if he had not his word, then he had nothing at all.
He glared at these faces. These Jewish faces. And the thought, dark and sticky, finally occurred to him. Oh they were benign, weren’t they? They with their humble spokesman and innocent-looking boy with a face like Jack Tucker. But this Golem, this demon, came from the minds of people such as these. A Golem would do the bidding of its maker, so said Jacob of Provençal. The missing boys had not been Jewish. So then this Golem was snatching good Christian boys for its mischief—
Wait.
What was he thinking? He rubbed the back of his aching head. He did not believe in this Golem. No, he did not! Despite what he thought he saw, he could not believe in such an outlandish thing.
And yet, if they believed it . . .
“I have one more question.” He took in each solemn face, each studied expression. “Have any of you ever heard of a . . . Golem?”
There was a gasp and the faces around him broke into wide-eyed fear.
“We do not speak of such things,” said a man with a rondelle hat.
“Indeed,” said Crispin with a sneer. “Well, I am speaking of it. Who amongst you knows how to make a Golem? You already admitted to knowledge of Hebrew.”
The gathering fell to silence. No one so much as breathed. Even young John was hauled against a hip and hugged into silence.
“No one, eh?” Crispin walked a slow circle, staring into each face. Eyes fell away from him with something like guilt. “These things can be discovered. Who amongst you has access to court?”
Again, silence.
Crispin scowled. “If none of you will talk, it will go badly for all of you. Speak. I will not hold responsible the entire community if you give up the one.”
But Crispin slowly realized that this was the wrong thing to say. Middleton raised his chin and stared defiantly. Others lifted their faces and soon Crispin found himself surrounded by a wall of rebellious people.
On the one hand, he was furious with them for their defiance. But on the other, he admired their fortitude.
“I have seen it,” said Crispin.
A woman holding and jiggling a baby over her shoulder shushed her companion who tried to hold her back. “What is your meaning? You saw . . . the Golem?”
There were sounds of protest, and a grouse or two about women holding their tongues.
“Yes,” said Crispin in a strong voice. “I have seen the Golem. He was large, broad-shouldered, with a small head. There was clay. . . .”
Whispers rumbled through the crowd and more than one gaze fell from Crispin’s.
They know something. A quick glance toward Middleton revealed his startlement. And something more. Recognition?
“I tell you now,” warned Crispin. “If you are harboring this thing or concealing its whereabouts, I cannot be held responsible as to what happens to you. Speak!”
But the whisperings ceased and Crispin was right back where he started. Stubborn, these Jews.
He settled one hand on the hilt of his dagger. “For the time being, I see no reason to inform the sheriff of your . . . little community. But I cannot promise complete anonymity. Should it prove relevant to this case, I do not see how it can remain a secret.”
Middleton licked his chapped lips. “But if it is not—”
“I cannot speculate. Everything is relevant.” He pushed forward and the people stumbled out of his way. “I thank you for your assistance,” he tossed out. He felt unaccountably stifled and needed air. The crowd allowed him through the door into a smaller parlor where a servant was lighting a candle on a sideboard. The room was plain but clean, with a tapestry of a leaf and vine pattern hanging above the sideboard. Blank walls, walls devoid of crucifixes or saintly portraits. The image chased him out the door to a courtyard of pruned rosebushes and brown, tangled vines. It was a perfectly normal courtyard. But the absence of shrines or of statues suddenly stood out like a green leaf on the white snow.
He walked backward, looking at its darkening shadows from behind as he drew further away. What to make of this! The London he thought he knew was becoming more foreign by the moment.
Crispin trotted across the lane and propped himself against a post. A nearby brazier warmed his left flank. Night had fallen during the time of his convalescence and he was glad for the wrong-side-out tabard that helped to keep him warm.
He surveyed the street from where he had come. Chancery Lane. It had been known as the Jews’ Street long ago and was even vaguely referred to as such in disparaging tones. No one was on the street now. The fog had thickened and shrouded the avenue in gray mist. The dark shapes of houses rose above the street like sharp-steepled gargoyles, looming near one another in some iniquitous coven. Yellow light limned shuttered windows and the occasional spark let loose and flew from a crooked chimney. But all else was dark and cold and lonely.
On the one hand were these Jews, who seemed aware of a Golem. But it was no fabled Golem whom Crispin had witnessed snatching a boy from the street. He had seen that nameless man with his own eyes, fought with him and saved the boy from some horrible fate. It would explain an anonymous carriage when a horse would do. Unspeakable acts could be accomplished in a closed wagon drawn through deserted alleys. But why then had the man entertained Crispin within it? To taunt him? He thought of Giles’s cousin and knew the answer to that. Such men needed to taunt, to prove themselves in ways that could not be achieved on the lists or among men of character.
If this so-called bishop devoured these boys then what was his purpose?
And what, by the mass, did it have to do with Hebrew parchments? Did this bishop want a Golem to serve his disgusting habits or . . .
Crispin stopped, his thoughts overwhelming him. Perhaps the old Jew was lying. Perhaps he had made this Golem but lost the means to control it when his parchments were stolen. Then who has the parchments now?