“And sodomy.”
A brow arched. Slowly, he sat up, easing his hands apart. “A grave charge, indeed.”
“Convince me. Why were you trying to steal that boy?”
“That is none of your concern. Yes, I see how that can be misinterpreted. But it is of no concern to you. Or your case.”
“That judgment I reserve for myself. Test it. Tell me.”
He chuckled again, that lifeless sound. “A most unusual man. You are a man who has been touched by the hand of God and yet you do not see what lies before you.”
“This again,” he grumbled. “I little believe in such things, Excellency.”
“Tut! My dear Crispin, you do not believe in the holy objects that grace your path?”
“I’ve had little reason to.”
He shook his head and his blond hair fell behind him. “But you should. You should be grateful for God’s protection from the devil, for he strides amongst us into every facet of our lives.” The accent that Crispin now recognized as Yorkshire, deepened as his voice intensified. “We must use every tool at our disposal to conquer the devil, Crispin. To shun God’s gifts is unforgivable.”
“I do not shun God’s gifts, for He has given me the gift of insight and discernment. What has he given you?”
“Authority.”
“Are you a cleric, then? You do not garb yourself so. And you are young.”
“A cleric? Perhaps. And my youth . . . is beside the point. I am accomplished with what I do.”
“And just what is that?”
The man smiled. “Rooting out the devil, of course.” He chuckled at Crispin’s expression. “Are you surprised?”
“Few things surprise me these days.”
“Then let us talk of your investigation.”
“Certainly. My Lord Odo,” Crispin tested.
The man smiled but said nothing. “Your investigation. You must know it has little to do with murder and more to do with the devil.”
“Does it? Is this what you, too, are investigating? Shall I guess further?”
“It will do you little good.”
“Indulge me. Perhaps you are seeking to discover the number of Jews living in secret in England.”
The man shot to his feet and stormed toward him. A hit, thought Crispin.
“What do you know of it, Master Guest? Come, come.”
“Me? You want me to be forthcoming when you have been less so? I think not.”
A sigh. “I thought not to have to resort to this. Stephen!”
A door opened and with it a sharp lance of light that temporarily blinded Crispin. Footsteps hurried forward, and then a fist sank into his gut. He dropped to his knees, hitting the dirt floor hard.
He let out a gasp, ringing his belly with his arms. But the man, Stephen, did not move to strike him again. Crispin squinted up at the two shadowy figures now hovering over him.
“Well?” said Odo as calmly as before. “Have you nothing to tell me?”
“You haven’t asked me anything of worth.”
He squatted to face him, and Crispin edged back slightly, not knowing what to expect. “What do you know of the Jews living in London, Crispin?”
“There are two at Westminster Palace. Do you mean them?”
“No. What do you know of the Domus Conversorum?”
“Nothing. Converts live there. They are protected by the king. That’s all anybody cares to know.”
“But not you. Not the Great Tracker. You know more than that, do you not? Tell me. It will go easier.”
“Easier.” He laughed, recalling the torture inflicted upon him seven years ago. They had asked questions, too. Questions they also already knew the answers to. And like those long ago days best forgotten, Crispin remained silent.
Odo drew circles in the dust on the floor. Or was it in Crispin’s blood? He stopped and hung his hands limply from his bent knees before he straightened and rubbed his thigh again. “A pity. You could have helped me. And then likewise, I could have helped you.”
“What do you mean? Do you know something of these deaths?” He leaned forward even at the risk of another onslaught. “This is no game. It’s murder. These boys—these children—suffered abominably. Can’t you see that there will be more deaths? Whether a man or the devil, I do not care who is the cause only that it must stop!”
The man limped to the stool and sat. His driver stood stoically behind him. “There may very well be more deaths.”
“It’s not the Jews. It can’t be. They have a biblical prohibition against drinking blood. It can’t be them.”
“Curious indeed. Who has schooled you in this, I wonder? It couldn’t be Abbot Nicholas.”
The idea that Crispin had been spied upon slammed his gut harder than the driver’s fist. “How do you know about—”
“So many things I have been watching. So many people in so many places. You say that little surprises you, Master Guest. But I’ll wager you’ll be surprised by what I have seen.”
Crispin got one foot under him. “If you know something about these murders you are morally obligated—”
“Morally? A strange term coming from you.”
“Never mind me! Children are dying. Innocent children!”
“Innocence. Such a vague term, is it not? A man might plead his innocence in one respect and be quite guilty in another. Where lies the guilt then? Where the innocence? But you are right. For the most part, children are innocent. Even these that you would protect. They are in the hands of God, no matter their sins.”
It was Crispin’s turn to sneer. “Surely you are not suggesting that they had any part in the sins against them?”
“I suggest nothing,” he said in such a way as to suggest much.
“That is a foul supposition. And you claim to be doing God’s work.”
The man frowned. “As I said. You have not seen what I have seen. You have not imagined the things I have encountered. It even stretches the bounds of my beliefs. Who could have expected such utter sin and blasphemy?” He turned his face away. Through his outwardly cool exterior, Crispin saw his body tremble with taut emotion he refused to show. “The Jews, for one. They live where they do not belong and take the charity of good Christians. Better that they were wiped off the face of the earth—”
A booming noise stopped him and he jerked around. The door crashed open and a man stumbled in. Blinded again by the light, Crispin fell back, covering his eyes. What now?
“Who are you?” the lord demanded.
“Get away from that man!” cried the voice in the doorway.
Crispin squinted. All he could see were silhouettes of three men. One had a club of some kind. Behind them he saw the vague shadows of others, heard their murmuring. But that voice had sounded terribly familiar.
“Rykener?” Crispin said, shielding his eyes with a hand.
Stephen, the driver, drew his sword with a metallic hiss and everyone froze.
John Rykener was the first to move and pointed at Crispin. “Release that man!” he said, in a voice slightly higher than before.
“You said there was to be a fight,” said a gruff voice behind Rykener.
“Well . . .” John turned to the men flanking him. They had uncertain looks on their thin faces.
“Fight!” said the gruff voice. “Fight, fight!”
The chant was taken up by the rest of the crowd, which Crispin could now see was considerable.
What the hell was John doing? Was this a rescue? Crispin rolled his eyes. Well, at least he was armed. He drew his dagger.
Odo moved behind his driver, who directed his sword toward Crispin.
“You do not know what trouble you are in, friend,” said Odo to Rykener and his companions.
“Nor you,” said John. He nodded to the men on either side of him. They were slight men with features as delicate as John’s. A sick feeling began roiling in Crispin’s gut. Were these more of John’s “friends”?