Jeri Westerson - The Demon’s Parchment

Crispin lurched back. “You kissed me!”

“I’m sorry,” he said behind his fingers. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

“You. . you are a sodomite!”

“Please, you don’t understand-”

Crispin drew back his balled fist and swung. The smacking sound of knuckle hitting flesh should have been more satisfying. Julian went down, hitting the floor on his backside. He quickly scrambled backward until he was almost under the table. Blood oozed from his lip and a bruise was slowly forming on his jaw.

Crispin charged toward him, bent on more violence, but those widened, frightened eyes made him hesitate. His face felt suddenly hot. He looked around the room in a daze and pushed his way toward the door. He had to get out. He couldn’t breathe. Yanking open the door, he stumbled into the corridor, leaving the Jew’s door far behind. He did not stop until he was out in the cold air of the courtyard, where he inhaled great mouthfuls while leaning hard against a plinth.

“God’s blood!” Julian had kissed him. Kissed him!

And God help him. But for a fleeting moment, the tiniest of flickers that lasted only the blink of an eye. . Crispin had liked it.

Crispin breathed, did nothing but breathe. His back felt the chilled stone permeate through the layers of his tabard, coat, and chemise. Staring at nothing, he tried to feel the same nothingness, but couldn’t. He had felt something. Something. . wrong. So wrong.

He stayed as he was for a long interval before he bent slowly at the waist, scooped up a handful of dirty snow, and smeared its gravelly ice into his face, rejoicing in the hard pain of it like a penance. Once he’d ground it into his numbed cheeks, he tossed the slush aside and straightened. He had to rid himself of Westminster, leave the shameful emotions of it far behind.

The gate was open to him and he trotted forward. Hurried steps took him back toward London. He tried not to think, tried to concentrate on that astrologer who had bought the clay from the potters, on this strange scheme that now seemed to surround Giles de Risley and the mysterious stranger. He could not think how warm Julian’s lips were. Would not!

It was this case. It was all too much. These Jews and child killings and strange Golems. It was a wonder he wasn’t driven mad!

And he had been too long without the warm arms of a woman. He hefted his coin purse and felt enough coins. Yes. He would go to the stews today. Now!

He fled to the river’s edge and searched along the wharves for the nearest ferry and ran toward it, tossing his farthing to the man in hopes of hurrying him.

Instead, the ferryman waited until his craft was full before he pushed it away from the wharf. A man with a horse on a lead stood off to the side, but the horse’s flank kept pushing into Crispin. Crispin didn’t mind. Its tangy warmth kept him from shivering as the beast blocked most of the wind.

He barely waited for the ferry to dock before he leapt away and hit the dock running, heading for the darker streets where the brothels huddled together like old whores.

He slowed as he wended his way down a narrow close. The light was dim, but Crispin could make out the shape of a woman facing a wall, leaning her hands on it, her gown hiked up to her thighs. A man stood behind her, rutting, and she cried out in little sighs and rocked with each thrust. Crispin did not turn to leave. Instead, he watched for a few moments, not in the least embarrassed. It took a few moments more for recognition to set in and his eyes rounded in horror. “John Rykener!”

The man jerked up his head. Hastily, he pulled up his braies and before he was fully covered, he fled into the dimness, his feet slapping harshly until he disappeared completely into the mist beyond.

The woman slumped against the wall and let her skirts fall back into place. “Dammit, Crispin!” She turned. Her face was round with a small chin and a petite mouth, a mouth that was twisted with ire. “You frightened him off before he could pay.”

“John,” breathed Crispin. The very last person he wanted to see. Today of all days.

“It’s Eleanor,” he said in his soft voice, “when I am garbed so. How many times have I told you?”

“For God’s sake, John. Must you continue to do”-Crispin waved an arm at him-“this?”

“You do what you do and I do what I do. It is simple finance.” John turned around and leaned with his back against the daub wall. He pulled his cloak about him. “That cost me my supper, I’ll have you know. Now you owe me.”

Crispin said nothing. He never liked the familiar manner Rykener insisted with him.

He felt the man’s eyes on him but refused to look. He couldn’t stand the notion of a man in women’s clothing. It was indecent. Ridiculous.

And it annoyed him still further that he didn’t know why he suddenly felt guilty that he had cost the man his supper money.

John fiddled with the looped braids hanging over his ears. “And what are you doing here, Crispin? As if I didn’t know. It’s been ages since I’ve seen you in Southwark. I know you hate it here.”

“Nothing,” muttered Crispin. “I’m doing nothing.” And it was true. This whole adventure was becoming God’s little jest. He had wanted the first whore he could find to prove his manhood. To prove to himself that a desperate kiss from some feminine youth could not unman him. As it had.

Naturally, the first whore he encountered would be that madman John Rykener, yet another sodomite. God’s jest indeed!

Hugging himself, he joined his companion by leaning against the damp wall beside him. The gray light angled down the alley against the opposing wall, smudging the already vague line between shadow and light. It smelled like a pissing alley and probably was. How often had he spent a halpen in such a place with a whore?

Crispin slanted a glance at the man in women’s clothing and shook his head. “They’ll arrest you again.”

He shrugged. “I know.”

“There are better ways to make a living,” said Crispin. “Believe me. I should know.”

“And yet none could be quite as satisfying.”

Crispin snorted.

“Do not snort at me, Crispin Guest,” he said, cocking his head in the very likeness of a woman. “We all have our roles to play. We all get by as best we can.”

“John. .” He didn’t know what to say. He was in a strange enough mood as it was. To encounter John Rykener just now seemed to be more than Fate. He dropped his face in his hands and breathed through his fingers. Suddenly a hand was on his shoulder. He did not look up.

“Crispin,” cooed the man. He pushed away from the wall and drew closer. “What troubles you? I have never seen you like this.”

“I have never been like this,” he muttered between his fingers. Finally, he raised his head and leaned back until his head rested against the clammy plaster. John was wearing some sort of flowery scent that clashed with the alley’s acrid smells. “What makes a man. .” He stared upward into the slice of gray sky caught between the buildings. “What makes a man. . want another man, John?”

John studied Crispin silently for a time before he turned his gaze. He stared at the wall facing him a scant few feet away. “Would that I knew the answer to that.” He sighed and dragged himself forward, giving Crispin’s shoulder a friendly cuff. “Come along. I’m cold. And I have wine at home.” John beckoned but Crispin hesitated. “Come along. I don’t bite. That costs extra.”

“You are a pig,” spat Crispin.

“Very likely,” he agreed.

Reluctantly, Crispin followed him down the muddy lane, trying to keep his distance, afraid someone might think he had hired the man.