“What!” He launched from his chair again and pressed a hand to Crispin’s with concern. “Are you well? Did he . . . did he . . . ?” He seemed to notice Crispin’s swollen face for the first time, and reached forward.
Crispin leaned away. “Very nearly. And I am well, though a little hungry, truth be told.”
“How neglectful of me.” He hurried to his door and spoke in low tones to his chaplain, Brother Michael, returning to his place by the fire. He fidgeted now, snatching guilty looks. “Why did he wish to do you harm?”
Crispin stretched out his feet, feeling warm for the first time today. “I stopped him from performing an unseemly act. He was about to steal a boy. A Jewish boy.”
“Why would he do that?” asked the monk.
“At the time, I thought it was for some nefarious purpose. But now . . . I think it was to question him. Which, come to think of it, might have been just as nefarious. Why did you not tell me about this man?”
“I did not think it important for you to know. Crispin, there are some things you may not be privy to. I know your curiosity is insatiable, but there are times when you need to curb it.”
“This man is dangerous, Nicholas. He means these people harm.”
“Why does this concern you? Jews are, by law, prohibited on English soil. They must convert or leave.”
What was it to him? Green eyes and a boy’s barbered hair. That was far more than it should have been.
Brother Michael brought a tray and set it on a small table between them. The abbot silently prepared the bread and soft cheese with much ceremony, then served Crispin a generous helping.
They both ate in silence, occasionally sipping from their goblets. It would have been a pleasant repast, with the fire crackling and the ordinarily good cheer they shared. But words had been said, feelings exposed. Crispin had needed to utter them, much to his regret.
An apology poised on his lips. But no. He could not allow these ideas about Jews to poison his investigation. He was a man who loved the truth, and if these words had been lies, then they could not help his case or his disposition.
Bells suddenly tolled and Nicholas rose wearily, wiping the crumbs from his cassock. “Compline. I must go. And so must you.”
“Nicholas.” He reached out and touched the man’s sleeve. “If my tone was harsh, I did not mean . . . I would not put our fellowship at risk.”
Those old eyes searched his, flicking back and forth. “I know,” he said, patting his hand. “You do involve yourself so.”
His thoughts fell to Julianne once more. “That I do.”
He felt the weariness in his bones. Trudging back to London was a chore he had not desired, especially as the icy night swept over him. He hunched in his cloak and hood, breathing hard clouds into the air. The Shambles seemed a world away, and he could not help but glance over his shoulder from time to time, thinking that nightmare of a creature might appear again and seize him with those large, clay hands.
Once he passed through Newgate and plodded down Newgate Market, he looked over his shoulder again, only a bit more secure that the walls of London would not be breached. Newgate looked back at him, implacable and rigid, its portcullis grimacing with ice-slicked teeth. Crispin had to solve this. And soon. Exton and Froshe could not be patient forever. That vile Odo had given Crispin some clues, even as he had battered him. He said that the devil was at the heart of it, and that may be so, for the devil surely whispered his vile lies to the bastard who had committed these crimes. But if this Golem were real, and Crispin had to grant the nature of his own eyes, then this monster was certainly not innocent. It was up to no good that he could see. But when it spoke to him, and he shivered again at the thought, it had told Crispin that it was trying to protect something. The Jews, he supposed. But why go to the palace? Did it need to protect Julianne and her father?
The thought made him stop in his snowy tracks. Might someone be after them? That mysterious man, that Odo. But he was the abbot’s inquisitor, wasn’t he? Yes, he meant the Jews harm, but surely he would not dare touch the queen’s physician! Except . . . The man wanted those parchments and might do anything to get them.
Suddenly, he found himself at the foot of his stairs. He dug into the icy steps and forced himself upward. Inside, he noticed the hearth was cold and Jack was nowhere to be seen. Damn that boy! He would be the death of Crispin yet. He grumbled as he tossed some peat into the hearth and bent toward it with his flint and steel. It was too cold a night for Jack’s mischief. If the boy didn’t get himself killed, Crispin would do the job for him.
He blew on the smoldering tinder and a few bits of lint helped it catch and soon the peat was burning with a small flame, enough to begin to thaw his toes and cast some light into the room.
So, Jacob and this Odo wanted the Jewish parchments. Jacob to protect London, and Odo to . . . what? His motives were to rid London of Jews. A strange request, then, to possess parchments that could create a Jewish protector with Jewish magic. Perhaps, but it would be diabolical, create a Golem to wreak havoc, blame the Jews, and roust them out. Crispin shook his head. No, there was little need to stir the populace against Jews. Only an excuse, a rumor. Odo would not truly need to do anything.
Crispin lifted the tabard and untied the red thread. He held it up to the firelight, turning it. Someone entirely heartless had killed the servant and those boys. Someone with some ungodly motive. Someone vile and twisted, John Rykener called it.
Red thread. Some red cloth had been used. He divorced Julianne’s sash from consideration, though it was difficult once thought of. But something else had snagged in his mind. He knew this color. He had seen it recently. His thoughts fell to a rondelle hat with a long liripipe tail, certainly long enough to use as a garrote. And it did belong to a man who was, indeed, heartless and perhaps even bloodthirsty enough to commit these atrocities. Once the idea was in his head it stuck fast like a nail in a shoe. But he needed iron-clad proof.
He tossed the thread into the fire. It curled quickly and became ash.
Yes, he had gotten to know this man in the last few days. That cousin of Giles de Risley.
Radulfus.
The morning could not come soon enough. He had sat up in his chair all night, staring into the small fire, demons dancing before his eyes and in his head, telling him awful tales of broken boys and greedy, lascivious men.
Radulfus. Yes, he was capable. But as a lord, Radulfus was nearly untouchable. When Crispin accused him and brought his name before the sheriff, he would have to be very certain of his guilt. Crispin might even suffer the backlash and be slain in the streets as Radulfus had intended. A lord versus someone like Crispin? There was no contest. Crispin would lose and there would be nothing he could do. The sheriffs would suffer, too, and they wouldn’t likely stick their necks into a noose for him or anyone.
He hardly blamed them.
No, he had to find hard proof, something the sheriff would accept without question, something that could be taken to the king. Perhaps even Giles could be persuaded to help Crispin. Surely he had no knowledge of these doings. Yes, it seemed plain from their conversation that Giles might be up to no good, but he could be forgiven by helping Crispin now. He knew if he could talk to Giles he would have an ally. After all, the man owed him.
He had to get into their rooms and find that evidence. The last crime had been committed at Westminster. He was sure of that. There might still be something he could find, something that would tie Radulfus to this.
He glanced again to the weak rays of light spilling from the cracks in his shutters. It had to be Prime, or thereabouts. Time to head toward Westminster.