“This is foolish,” she said. “You are a Gentile. That would seem to be the end of it.”
Crispin nodded. She was right, of course. He shouldn’t be touching her. But it had been so long without the touch of a woman, even a woman in men’s clothing. Even a Jew. He should stop. “We are both fools.” His hands traveled up her arms. “You must eventually go back to France. I . . . must remain here. Nothing can come of this.”
“But why? The king exiled you from court. You have no ties here.” He stiffened and pulled away, but like some irresistible pull, he swung back and looked at her. Yes, she had a face that could not be entirely characterized as feminine, but the look she returned was as coy as any maiden. “I asked around court about you,” she said quietly. “I learned many . . . interesting . . . things.”
He raised a finger to toy with the collar of her man’s gown. “While it is true that I no longer have ties to court, I feel obligated to remain in London. Call it penance, if you will.”
It was her turn to frown. “You owe no further allegiance to his Majesty. You are no longer his knight.”
The words were like a slap. “I owe my allegiance to the crown. And to the people of London.”
“Bah!” This time she pulled away from him and strode across the room in her distinct, manly gait. Her every mannerism was male. He wondered how long she had been masquerading as a boy. Since childhood?
“Allegiance to people who scorn you?” she said. “It is a foolish enterprise.”
“I could say much the same to you. You serve Christian monarchs who do not even allow you at the same table—”
“We would not sit with a Gentile at table! To do so is against the Almighty’s law.”
“And yet,” he said gently, striding toward her. He slipped his hand around her waist again, feeling now the gentle swell of the hip below. His other hand curved under her jaw. “You would kiss me. You would . . . lay with me.” He kissed her trembling mouth. A promise. He pulled her against him and she laid her head upon his chest. He stared down at the part in her hair, at the dark tresses scored by the whiteness of her scalp, smelled the fragrance of her, a combination of herbs and balsam. He wanted to kiss her again. Wanted to do much more. He reached for the nape of her neck when the door flung open.
There had not been time to break apart. They merely gaped at the figure in the doorway.
Jacob stared at them for a moment, that moment stretching longer and with it the realization on his face. He shut the door and threw the bolt.
“Julian! Get away from him!”
“Mon père!”
“And you!” His finger jabbed. Crispin backed up until he jolted against a table with nowhere else to go. “What have you done?”
“I . . . I . . .”
“It wasn’t his fault, Father,” she said. “I kissed him.”
“You what?” But instead of a further explosion, his voice deflated and he sagged against a chair, sliding into it.
“And then . . . he reckoned that I was a woman.”
“We are lost,” he said, shaking his head. “They will seize you and throw you into prison.”
Crispin straightened. “Sir, I would never divulge what I have learned. Your secrets are safe. I would see no harm comes to Julianne.”
“You must not use that name,” rasped Jacob, as if he had said it a thousand times before. “She is in danger every moment she is in England.”
“Then dammit, man! Why did you bring her? Why this charade? Are you mad?”
He couldn’t help but notice the smug half-smile on the woman’s face even as he rounded on the physician.
“You do not tell me what to do!” It was the first time Crispin had seen Jacob act in this manner. Always, the subservience was foremost, but now he was the very portrait of a father. Crispin gulped and took a step back. “You will not touch her, do you understand? It is forbidden.”
His glance slid toward Julianne, who did not look contrite in the least. In fact, she was openly leering at Crispin. He swallowed again.
“Master Jacob—” But he did not know what he wanted to say. He could promise the man he would not touch her, but he knew that to be a lie.
Before he could open his mouth, a scream broke the twilight.
Outside.
Crispin lunged toward the window and cast open the casement. A woman huddled with a cluster of other ladies in the garden near Lancaster’s window. She was sobbing and pointing toward the garden wall. Without thinking of his own well-being, Crispin leapt out the window and landed on the dead grass below. He gathered himself and rushed to the gate toward the women.
“What’s amiss?” he asked.
The woman merely pointed toward the wall.
A long smear of gray clay swathed a portion of the wall from top to bottom. His heart gave a jolt, but he did not hesitate to leap forward and grab the top of the wall with his hands, hauling himself up.
The narrow path along the Thames was deserted but there were large indentations in the muddy snow leading down the bank. Crispin scrambled after it.
In the dim light, a large figure loped away, swaying with each long step. Crispin ran, skidding on the loose stones of the embankment at the low tide. He followed the hulking frame, even as it hurried with remarkable speed up the steep slope. Chasing after it, Crispin fell forward, catching himself with his hands on the sharp-edged rocks. Stumbling to his feet, he crested the slope and searched. A shadow ducked into an alley and he followed.
The alley drew narrower as the buildings on either side leaned in, their eaves sharing secrets mere mortals were not privy to. The damp smell overpowered as Crispin took cautious steps, unable to see much as the shadows converged and swept through, obliterating details. A chill shot down Crispin’s back when one particularly deep shadow . . . moved.
He froze. It moved again. A sliver of waning light dimly outlined a head and broad shoulders before the shadow tilted back and disappeared again.
But it did not run.
“You there!” said Crispin. The waver in his voice was from being out of breath, surely.
A grunted reply.
Crispin felt a shivering wind sweep up from the Thames, pebbling his skin. “What . . . who are you?”
And then a voice. The frostiest midnight could not have chilled his heart more than this slice of voice, both gravel and mud slurred together. “Must . . . protect,” it said.
Crispin was tempted to cross himself. “Holy Mother of God,” he muttered. He slid his knife from its scabbard and felt the comfort of the hilt in his flexing hand. “Protect? Protect what? Who?”
“Pro-tect,” said the unearthly voice again. And then a shoulder caught the light as the figure turned. Crispin felt the heavy tread of footsteps lumbering away. He girded himself and pursued.
The creature ran. For his size, he could run well and knew the alleys even better. He quickly outstripped Crispin, seeming to have no end of energy. Crispin ran solely on the hot blood in his veins, but he was a man and a man tires. His muscles screamed at him and his lungs burned. The creature was relentless and clever and though he pushed and pushed himself, Crispin could not catch up.
His steps slowed and he finally had to stop. Bent over his thighs, he wheezed in the cold air by the lungful. He listened with a heavy heart as the steps drew farther away and finally dimmed altogether.
Raising his head, he blinked into the cold and licked his dry lips. “I don’t believe it,” he told himself. “I don’t believe it.” But even as he tried to convince himself, he could not swear that he had been in conversation with a human man. Surely this was what Odo had been speaking about. If he had tried to abduct that boy, perhaps it was for information about this creature, for Crispin, as implausible as it seemed, was now convinced that he had encountered a Golem.