The room was dark with only the faint, red glow from the ashes in the hearth. He slipped inside, closed and locked the door, and waited for his eyes to adjust, then lit a candle. A modest room, larger than the Jews’ quarters but much smaller than Lancaster’s. There were several chests still in the room. Crispin remembered that Giles and Radulfus were not invited to court for Christmas, but he would still be traveling to Sheen for the feast. Traveling to Crispin’s manor.
He tried the lid of the first chest and found it open. Setting the candle above on the nearby table, he rummaged inside, but found nothing of worth.
He went to the next, opened it, and looked inside. The third chest was locked. He used both aiglets this time. It took longer than the door, but the lock finally clicked and he lifted the lid.
He could smell the blood immediately. Dried, but the coppery scent lifted up to his nostrils, nonetheless. He pushed past the gowns and plate when his fingers lighted on the rough weave of a small tunic. He pulled it forth and shook it out. It was a boy’s tunic. With blotches of dried blood. Crispin stared at it, trying to detach himself from what it meant.
His fists curled into the small garment that had once belonged to a young boy. Which one had it belonged to?
He cast the tunic aside and dug deeper, pulling out more; a ripped stocking, a shirt, another tunic. Far more than could have belonged to four boys.
He ploughed further and came away with parchments rolled together. He set the clothing down and unfurled the skins. It was Hebrew with the strange drawings accompanying them.
Evidence at last! But was it enough? A few torn shirts, some with dried blood, and an indecipherable parchment? The sheriffs would laugh in his face.
A key turned in the lock.
He looked toward the door and froze for a heartbeat before pinching off the candle flame and retreating to a curtained alcove.
A figure entered and stood in the doorway for a moment, a brazen silhouette against the dancing fire of the rushlight without. The door shut and darkness swelled around them. Footsteps crossed to the hearth and a log or two were tumbled in. A spark and then flames tickled the tinder. The candle was relit and the man stopped, staring at the clothing tossed about, the formerly locked chest lying open. When he gasped, Crispin moved. His hand clamped hard over the man’s mouth and his blade pressed against his throat.
“Don’t move,” Crispin hissed in his ear.
The blond man wriggled uncomfortably and squeaked but stilled himself.
“You are the astrologer. Nod your head.”
Shakily, the head nodded.
Crispin was breathing hard. His knife was at the man’s throat and he’d like nothing better than to shove it in deep, choking the man with his own blood. Instead, he kept the blade steady and spit the man’s hair from his lips.
“I will remove my hand and you will not cry out. Do you understand? Nod again if you do.”
Slowly, he nodded.
“Good. You will tell me things. Things about these parchments and about these pieces of clothing. Now, I am removing my hand.”
Crispin steadily pulled his palm away from the man’s mouth. With the blade still pressed to his neck, he closed his hand tightly around the man’s upper arm and manhandled him into a chair. He came around to the front of him, his knife still in his face. “Your name?”
“C-cornelius van der Brooghes. Please, what is it you want?”
“Answers. You are de Risley’s astrologer. For what purpose does he need an astrologer?”
Sweat speckled the man’s face. He licked his lips, eyes wide. “His f-fortune. He follows the stars to f-find his fortune.”
“Indeed.” He scooped up the parchments and held them under the man’s sharp nose. “And what of these?”
“They are . . . important to his star charts—”
Crispin backhanded him with the stiff skins and held them before his dazed eyes again. “What are they for?”
“Important star charts. To help find the best days for—”
Crispin used his knuckles this time and the man fell back, nearly toppling from the chair. He whimpered.
“Tell me what these parchments are for. Did you steal them from the Jews?”
“They are only Jews. They do not know the power these parchments wield.”
“Are they for creating a Golem?”
Cornelius’s pale eyes lifted and searched Crispin’s. “A G-golem? What is that?” he whispered.
Crispin drew back his arm to strike again and the man cringed, holding his hand protectively over his face. “I do not know what you are talking about? Please! I don’t know!”
Lowering his hand, Crispin glowered. He leaned forward. “Then tell me this.” He bent to retrieve the bloodied tunic and fisted them into the man’s face. “What can you tell me of these?”
The eyes widened before he crushed his lids closed, shaking his head from side to side. “No. He’ll kill me.”
“I’ll kill you if you don’t. Tell me!”
“Oh God! Oh blessed Jesu! What have we done?”
He backhanded the man anyway. He felt the blood and spittle on his knuckles. The man began to shake and hug himself. “Holy Mother,” he whispered hoarsely. “He made me do it.”
“Damn you! DO WHAT?”
Crossing himself, he muttered in a foreign tongue that Crispin did not understand, rattled on and on before Crispin grimaced at him and knocked him in the side of the head.
“English, you cur!”
The astrologer barely acknowledged the cuffing. But his mutterings switched to heavily accented English. “I lured those boys. I brought them to him. Holy Mother grant me mercy, but I promised their parents that they would learn to read and write, that they would be gentlemen. Instead I brought them to him. Oh God! The blood!” He dropped his face in his hands and wept, snorting loudly through his bloodied nose.
Crispin grabbed his hair and jerked his face upright. A crimson smear painted the man’s cheek. “What did he do?”
“Oh God forgive me!”
“He sodomized them. He murdered them.”
Cornelius’s eyes were almost all whites now. “How did you know?” he gasped.
Crispin barely believed it. But if he allowed his emotions to come into play, he could not deal with the astrologer as coldly as he needed to. With some measure of satisfaction, he realized that this was his evidence. “You must testify that Radulfus forced you to bring him these boys.”
Cornelius looked up with bewildered eyes. “Radulfus?”
But in the next moment, the door burst open, and Crispin realized how fragile his predicament was.
18
Radulfus and Giles pushed their way in and stopped when they spied the situation.
Crispin leapt back and held his dagger uncertainly.
Eyes flicking back and forth between the weeping astrologer and Crispin, de Risley motioned for his cousin to close and bar the door. “What goes on here?” His gaze encountered the clothes and parchments now strewn across the floor.
“Much,” said Crispin.
Giles reached for Cornelius, hauling him to his feet. “What have you done, you whoreson!”
Cornelius blubbered, trying to speak through his sobs.
“Your cousin, Giles,” said Crispin. “Vile things he has done right under your nose.”
Giles looked back at Radulfus. “Has he now?”
“The testimony of this astrologer will most certainly condemn your kinsman. I am sorry, Giles. But you must learn the truth.”