“You’re holding captive a very important man,” John went on. “The Tracker is not a man to be trifled with.”
Odo took a step forward. “Neither am I.”
“Perhaps it’s a fairer fight now,” said Crispin, falling into a crouch.
Odo sneered. “Do you truly think so?” He turned toward the noisy crowd in the doorway and waved his hand. “Disperse! You are interrupting an important interrogation—” But he never got to finish his sentence. The crowd overwhelmed with their guffaws and taunts. Even a few crusts of bread were tossed forward. It was plain that a Southwark crowd was not intimidated by his fine clothes and courtly bearing. He cut his gaze to Crispin.
Crispin grinned. “A fair fight.”
Odo gestured to the driver. Stephen turned to face Crispin, his sword looking too long compared to Crispin’s shorter dagger. He tightened his grip. A fight with a dagger against a sword could be won. He’d done it before. Once. But his head still felt a little woozy. He gritted his teeth and began to circle.
Stephen raised his sword, ready to chop downward, when John Rykener made a howling cry and suddenly burst forward. Before the driver had time to turn, Rykener had clasped his arms about his neck and jumped onto his back, limpetlike. The man spun in place, clearly at a loss as to what to do. He clawed at the arms choking him and then tried to use his sword to dislodge his attacker, but Rykener swung his body back and forth, keeping the driver unbalanced. Stephen turned his blade flat and whacked away at John, until John leaned forward, took the man’s ear between his teeth, and bit down.
The driver howled and ran backward full tilt into a beam. John smashed against it and cried out. He slipped off and tumbled to the straw-littered floor.
Winded, his ear bleeding, Stephen whirled back toward the room, his sword poised.
“Fight, fight!” the crowd continued to chant.
“Blessed Mary,” Odo murmured, clearly flummoxed.
“They want their blood,” said Crispin cheerfully. “Shall we give it to them?” He raised his dagger.
By now, John’s timid companions strode haltingly forward. One had a club in his hand. The other had what looked like a drinking jug. He swung it back and forth threateningly.
Odo signaled Stephen—and suddenly darted into the darkness. The driver soon followed.
That was it for the crowd. They all surged forward, squeezing through the narrow doorway, pushing Crispin and Rykener aside to stumble into the dark, searching for Crispin’s captors.
A groan of disappointment arose when a back door was discovered. Odo and his driver had escaped.
Crispin could scarce believe it. He felt a waft of disappointment, too, and slammed his knife back into its scabbard.
And then the noisy crowd returned and glared at Rykener and his two companions.
“We came for a fight,” said a tall, square-shouldered man with a grizzled beard. “You promised us.” He slapped his fist into a palm. “And a fight we will have.”
“You’re right,” said Crispin. He took in the crowd and then the large man before him, looking him in the eye. Then he swung his foot up and lodged it hard into the man’s groin. Down he went without another sound. Everyone stared wide-jawed at the man as he writhed on the ground.
“Anyone else?” asked Crispin.
The crowd seemed considerably more subdued, casting glances at one another before, as one, they shuffled guardedly toward the entrance, looking back only hastily at the man helped to his feet by two of his fellows.
When they had all dispersed, Crispin breathed a sigh of relief.
“Come along, Master Crispin,” said John. He seemed surprised at his sudden victory. “Let us make our escape while the going is good.”
John’s companions looked disapprovingly at their own weapons—a club and a jug—and tossed them to the stable floor.
When they all ventured outside, Crispin saw that they were before an inn. The blood-lusting crowd had, apparently, come from the inn and was now returning to their ale.
Crispin licked his lips, thinking a short delay was needed, but John was already pushing him out of the inn yard, his two companions shouldering him.
“Crispin, these are my friends,” said John as they walked. “We all share the same vocation.”
Crispin glanced over the men warily but it seemed disingenuous to complain since they rescued him. At least they wore men’s garb. “For your help, much thanks.”
A thin man with wispy blond hair smiled a toothy grin. “Any friend of John’s is a friend of ours.”
“I am not that sort of friend,” he insisted.
“Be at ease, Crispin. They know who you are.”
“How did you find me?”
“Well!” said John. “After you told me”—his eyes took in his companions and he lowered his voice—“what you told me, I couldn’t let it lie. It took about three heartbeats for me to get dressed and rush out the door. I followed you to the potter’s row and then I saw that man hit you.” He reached tentatively for Crispin’s nose but Crispin batted his hand away. “It’s not broken, praise God. You have a perfect nose, I’ll have you know. It’s a shame you keep bruising it.”
“John! Get on with it.”
“So I fell back and followed as they dragged you off. Here, in fact.”
Crispin looked back at the ramshackle stable.
“And then I gathered my friends to assist me. I promised those whoresons in the inn a fight in the hope they would help. But we rescued you anyway!” His voice became shrill with delight.
“God be praised,” Crispin mumbled.
He allowed John to take him back to his lodgings. John’s friends bid their farewells and left Crispin and Rykener to climb the steps to his room alone. Once inside, Rykener gave Crispin a basin and a jug of icy water. He washed the blood from his face and assessed the damage.
“You’ll be bruised right well,” said John, tsking and peering far too close at Crispin’s face. “You’ll have two black eyes for a few days, but you are whole at least.”
“Thanks to you and your friends. I hope . . . I was not too rude to them.”
“They can forgive a great deal because you call yourself my friend.” He patted Crispin and brushed off his tabard, eyeing it but saying nothing. “Who were those cowardly men who captured you?”
“I am uncertain exactly who they are, but I have my suspicions.” Thoughts like fallen leaves tumbled in his mind. Odo, the Jews, the Golem, and a murderer. But foremost in his mind, though it shouldn’t have been, was Julian.
He cleared his throat. “Well, I did have some unfinished business before I was waylaid. I must get back to Westminster.”
“Is that where your interesting problem is?” he asked with a wink in his voice.
Crispin actually smiled at that. “Yes, and I must hurry to him to discuss the matter forthwith.”
“Oh!” John was so shocked he failed to follow Crispin to the door. But he awoke in time to clutch the jamb as Crispin passed through it. “Godspeed! I expect a full report.”
“You shall be the first to know,” he said over his shoulder as he trotted down the steps two at a time.
He knew he should be on the trail of the murderer and, better still, the man from the carriage, though that trail was presently ice cold. It was a confusing hash of facts. Was this Odo the one who bought the clay? It did not sound like it. If he did not create a Golem, then why did he so desire these parchments?
In fact, there was much to absorb, from the fact that Berthildus was another secret Jew to this Odo they were so afraid of. Yet if Odo was this mysterious man who was apparently welcomed at Westminster, then he did not know that Berthildus and Middleton were secret Jews. Or did he? The pieces to this puzzle were baffling and out of sorts. The devil was behind it, the stranger insisted, and it had to be so. For what could bring such opposing persons together but the Tempter himself?