Jeri Westerson - The Demon’s Parchment

A man, bald except for a fall of ginger hair streaked with gray hanging down his back, sat at a wheel, urging its turning with his toes. He stared at the clay that climbed as he pulled it until it was shaped into a tall drinking jug. It was only then that he looked up and frowned.

“Eh? Wat? Who is here?”

Pained by the fearful look on Wat’s face, Crispin stepped forward with a slight bow. “I am Crispin Guest, good Master. And I have come to examine your wares.”

“My wares?” The man slowly rose and glared from Crispin to Jack. “ My wares? They are just like everyone else’s.”

“Indeed.” Crispin looked idly at the tilting shelves of pipkins, bowls, and small jugs. They might not even be as good as some of the other wares he had seen, but he certainly did not voice this opinion. “Well, truthfully, there are a few things I am most interested in knowing. For one, if a man should want a large quantity of clay, how should he acquire it?”

Jack, who had been trying to chat with Wat, suddenly fell silent. His face was turned anxiously toward the potter.

The man rose to his feet and dipped his hands in a basin of clear water, washing away the layers of dried clay up his forearms. The water instantly turned brown. His sagging stockings seemed to have a perpetual splatter of wet clay. His back was to Crispin when he spoke. “I am only a poor potter, sir. I do my job, make my wares. That is all.”

“Yet if a man should want such a thing. . ” urged Crispin, stepping closer.

The man turned. His wide-spaced teeth bit into his lower lip. “It is a strange request. I remarked upon it the first time I heard it.”

Crispin felt a surge of excitement burn his chest. “The first time?”

“Aye.” The man reached up slowly and scratched his bald pate. “A man-oh, it was a good long time ago now-asked for bucketfuls of clay. Not from me, you understand, but from some of us. I remember hearing it. ‘Bucketfuls of clay?’ I asked. What would a body be doing with that? And him a gentlemen, so they said.”

“A gentleman? Who?”

He stuck a finger in his ear and reamed it good before pulling it out again. Crispin ignored the finger the man stared at before wiping it down his tunic. “He didn’t say. Now I ain’t the suspicious kind, mind you. But I did wonder, as did my fellows here. And there was only one scheme we could reason out.”

Crispin leaned in, curious. “And that is?”

“That whoreson wants to take our business!” He stood up properly and squared with Crispin. “And if you have the same intention, sir, you can be on your way. We potters aren’t getting wealthy here, but we’ll take no more money for our own clay.”

“He paid, did he?”

“Aye. But don’t be getting notions. I’ll not take a farthing.”

“You mistake me, Master. I do not wish to buy your clay. I have no use for it.”

The man looked Crispin up and down suddenly, as if registering him for the first time. “Truly?”

“Indeed. Did the man indicate that he was going into business?”

“I don’t rightly know. It wasn’t me talking to him, was it.”

“I suppose not. When did you say this was?”

The hand returned to the head again and rubbed slowly, back and forth. “I reckon it was before Michaelmas. I remember because I sprained me ankle and Wat here had to turn the wheel for me. You recall that, Wat?”

Wat nodded and offered nothing more.

Michaelmas. That was when the murders began, when the Jewish physician arrived from France. “I must know who talked to this man. Will you tell me which of your fellows it was?”

The man suddenly became reticent. He glanced at Wat before he turned distractedly toward his wares drying on a shelf. “I mind me own business, good sir. I don’t wish to cause trouble for any of my fellows.”

“No one is in trouble. I am not the law. I am merely here to see to these matters to make certain. . to make certain. . er. . ” He had no wish to go into specifics. He blurted the next thing that came to him. “That the guild is not being impinged upon.” It seemed like a poor excuse but it made the man ponder.

He brought up his head. “Aye. The guild, did you say?” He looked at Crispin anew. Yes, Crispin supposed he might look more like someone who might speak on behalf of the guilds. “We did not know this man who wanted the clay,” said the potter thoughtfully. “And we know many of our competitors. The Oxford men and the Kingston men. These Londoners,” he growled, “that they would buy the wares from far away over the good pottery we make right here in the city! It’s a shame, it is. There’s no loyalty at all anymore, is there?”

“Very little,” Crispin agreed. “But can you direct me to someone who spoke to this man?”

He nodded. “Oh aye. Come with me, then.” He ambled toward the door in a stooped posture that spoke of his years over the wheel and motioned for Crispin to follow.

Many eyes followed Crispin and his little company. The potter took the lead, hailing his fellows through their doorways as he passed. Crispin strode behind him with Jack in the rear, trying to urge a contrary Wat to follow.

After the man greeted what seemed like every potter in London, they finally arrived at their destination. Just another potter’s hovel, in Crispin’s estimation. The white daub had long ago turned gray. The thick mist could not hide the unnatural slope of the roof whose clay tiles were mostly broken or missing.

“A cobbler’s children,” Crispin muttered.

“Eh? What’s that, good sir?” asked his guide.

“Nothing,” said Crispin. “Is this the place?”

“Aye. But Bert does not look to be within. We will have to wait.” And then the man proceeded to push open the door.

Crispin stood on the lane as the man disappeared into the shadowed doorway and didn’t reappear again. He had time to share a look with Jack before the man poked his head out again. “Coming?”

Jack gave a shrug and gestured for Crispin to go first. Manners appeared to be a little less formal on the potter’s row. Crispin girded himself and stepped over the threshold, ducking his head under the lintel.

It was little bigger than Crispin’s own lodgings and as sparsely furnished. A cot, a potter’s wheel, and some makeshift shelves were all there was to it. The room itself was smoky from a neglected fire situated in a ring of stones in the middle of the floor. This particular potter did not appear to have an apprentice to keep the fires stoked and the rest clean.

“Should be nigh at any moment, I reckon,” the man said, pouring what looked like ale from a decorative jug into an equally decorative ceramic beaker. He drank up without hesitation as Crispin eyed the doorway. At length, a woman stepped through and Crispin straightened.

“Bert!” The potter wiped his mouth and set the beaker aside. The woman entered and stared suspiciously at Crispin.

“Dickon. What mischief is here?” She was carrying a heavy bundle and set it down by the smoky fire ring. When she rose she brushed back a lock of brown hair. Her face was plain, drawn. A small nose perched above chapped lips. Her squinting eyes, what Crispin could see of them, were light in color.

“This man is from the guild, Berthildus, and he would like to talk about that knave who bought your clay.”

Her head snapped up but her face did not lose its suspicious glint. When she crossed her arms over her chest and clutched her elbows, Crispin could see the dark clay imbedded under her nails. So this woman must be “Bert” the Potter.

“Damosel,” said Crispin, dipping his head in a slight bow, “I am investigating whether certain men are bypassing the guild to make and sell their own wares. Can you tell me what this man looked like?”