17
Crispin trudged back the long way to the palace courtyard, but as he suspected, all was barred due to the late hour. There was no point in going in. Except that Julianne was there and he suddenly ached for the feel of her, to wash away the fear and uncertainty that had grasped his heart for the last several days. The world was not as it seemed. Tonight, he had seen something darker, from the pits of Hell. Unnatural. And it made him long for the comfort of a woman’s arms.
But a Jewess? As much as she teased he could not oblige, either her or himself. A quick tumble would yield him some relief but afterward, for her . . . No, he could not do that to Jacob, who seemed an honorable man. He rubbed the back of his neck before he jostled his hood up over his head. Was it the fact that she was forbidden that so enticed? Or that she was clever? “Leave it alone, Crispin,” he told himself. Jews were scorned by society, not even allowed legal residence in England. Yet there were Jews hiding in secret but living openly as Christians, and still others who had converted and lived silent lives like monks in the Domus. Who were these Jews? Where did they come from? Why did they not leave the confines of the Domus? Was it they who had created that hulking creature, bent on the destruction of London’s Christian inhabitants? There were answers to be had and one man might very well know them. In fact, that man had to answer for much.
Instead of turning toward London, he turned again toward Westminster Abbey.
Crispin pulled on the bell rope at the abbey gate. Likely, the monks were in Vespers, but there had to be a porter still roaming nearby.
Just as Crispin was about to pull the bell rope a third time, a monk with a hurried step emerged from the shadows. The disgruntled look on his face was illuminated by the lamp he held aloft.
“Peace!” he grumbled. He was an old man and his thick, white brows furred over the tight band of his eyes. He looked Crispin up and down with a watery gaze. His toothless mouth was wrinkled like a dried fig. “Young man, do you know the hour?”
“I do,” he said with an apologetic bow. “But I have need to speak with Abbot Nicholas. Tell him—”
“I will tell him nought. Young men should know better than to tramp about when Vespers have struck. Begone. Get you to your own home. It is late.”
He turned to go when Crispin grabbed the bell rope and gave it another hard pull, pealing the bell in a harsh jangle of metal on metal.
The old man cringed and swiveled back, waggling a finger at Crispin’s raised brow. “Miscreant! Do I set the hounds on you?”
“Nicholas would scarce appreciate his hounds used in such a manner. Besides, they know me.”
The old monk cocked his head in a gesture of disbelief. “Eh? Who are you then?”
“As I was about to say, I am Crispin Guest. If you tell him so, he will see me and you can spare yourself much grief.”
“Crispin Guest? Why didn’t you say so?” he grumbled into his cowl and trudged back the way he came.
Crispin sighed and waited for an escort to open the gate. He did not wait long. Brother Eric arrived and with a quizzical tilt to his cowled head, unlocked and opened the entry. He did not scold Crispin but it was there in his manner. Crispin followed him silently to the abbot’s quarters and waited alone until Vespers were done. The fire was the only light and he warmed himself before it, sighing in contentment at the amount of heat radiating from the generous flames.
The door swung opened and Nicholas entered. He seemed glad to see Crispin though he wasn’t smiling. “Master Guest, so late?”
“Forgive me, Nicholas. But this could not wait.”
Nicholas took his chair by the fire and Crispin took the other. He studied the face of the man, his old friend, and wondered how to begin. Nicholas took the task from him.
“Has the book been useful to you?”
“It has been . . . instructive. But mostly because I now question its veracity.”
“What?” The monk leaned forward. He pushed his cowl back. The fire painted his features gold, cutting deep shadows into the ridges of his lined face. “Thomas of Monmouth has always been regarded highly for his scholarship.”
“But I wonder how his scholarship was schooled. Who told him the details of these tales?”
“The Jews themselves, I imagine.”
“Under torture? Yes,” he said, recalling his own. “A man will say much under those circumstances.”
“Crispin,” said Nicholas, “I am surprised. You have always taken my word before.”
“Not this time.”
The monk shot to his feet. “Indeed! And what have I done to deserve such treatment at your hands? We have been friends!”
“And I have no wish to jeopardize that friendship. But this is more important than friendship.”
The monk’s face was stricken and Crispin was awash with guilt. For a moment, Nicholas hovered uncertainly. Would the monk demand he leave? He would reluctantly acquiesce, of course, but feared tearing a rift between them that could not be crossed.
Instead, the monk slowly lowered to his chair again, sitting back against it with a frown. “Very well,” he said sourly. “My curiosity has gotten the better of me. What is it that is more important than friendship?”
“The truth. Thomas of Monmouth made his accusations against the Jews, citing their mission to kill a Christian child at the Passover . . . with a communication system so vast it staggers the mind. But the Scriptures themselves, the Old Testament, prohibits this shedding of blood, especially of drinking it. Why, if they demark themselves so much from our society because of these strict laws, would they break them for this? And why have there not been more stories of such boys throughout the ages? One a year?” He shook his head slowly. “Tell me you recall a record of it.” He watched the old monk’s face carefully, saw the eyes search fathoms deep, his lips twitch. “And yet more strange,” Crispin went on, “why are there still Jews on English soil?”
Those old eyes flicked toward him. “There are those who live in the Domus Conversorum, but they are now Christian.”
“I am not speaking of them.”
The monk fell silent. His steady gaze finally turned toward the hearth. “So you know.”
Crispin gritted his teeth. “And so did you, though you did not deign to tell me.”
“And why should I? Does it have a bearing on this situation?”
“It might! How long have you known?”
“Some of us have known a long time. But little has been said. There has been an inquisitor on the matter looking into it.”
“An inquisitor? Who?”
“I do not know his name.”
“Have you met him?”
“Yes.”
“Is he young, blond, from the north?”
Nicholas stared. “How did you know?”
“I have met him, too. What is his purpose? Surely Canterbury can take care of its own issues.”
“It was the Archbishop who requested he come. Apparently, he is an expert on these cases.”
“What is his purpose?”
“I beg you to remember to whom you speak, Master Guest,” he said with quiet dignity.
Crispin took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The old man’s hands twitched on the chair arm. “My apologies, my Lord Abbot. It is just that I have been entertained by this inquisitor to my peril and I would simply like to know—”