Jeri Westerson - The Demon’s Parchment

He held the wall to steady himself, and when his belly was empty he wiped his mouth and pushed away. “Margaret.” He had not loved her, had not thought of her in years, in fact. They were paramours, exchanging favors in the others’ bed. But he could have fought harder to keep her, to save her. Had Giles truly killed her or was that more taunting? Crispin didn’t know him at all. Hadn’t ever known him. How could he have been so wrong about someone? Was nothing as it seemed?

The cold was even worse now. The chill wind slashed against the rawness of his cheek. The futility of it all. What good was being this damned Tracker if he could not protect the citizens of London? He could go to the sheriffs, he could explain it as clearly as he could, but he knew, he knew there was nothing the sheriffs would do. Not against a nobleman. There was no evidence against him for murder. True, if the sheriffs could arrest both Giles and his cousin Radulfus, torture could extract the truth, but neither sheriff would do such a thing on Crispin’s say-so.

And these victims. A beggared victim was little good to him. There would be no one to pay the bribes to the sheriffs, no one to put forth the accusations that would hold any weight.

With a frustrated cry, Crispin wrestled the tabard from his body and heaved it to the dirty snow, ignoring the strange looks from those milling outside the gate on the street. A waste! What good were the duke’s arms to him? None of it was any good to him. If he had only been a knight he could have properly faced Giles, could have accused him. But Giles was right. He was nothing. Less than nothing. If he could not bring criminals to justice then what was his purpose now?

He left the tabard in the snow, paying little attention as a half-starved urchin pounced upon it and slipped it over his shivering shoulders. Better to give it to beggars. It did more good on them than on him.

He plodded back toward London, bypassed his lodgings completely, and turned up Gutter Lane. When he pushed open the doors to the Boar’s Tusk and sat by the fire with a bowl of wine in his hands, he felt safe to surrender to his despair.

His face was pressed to the table. There was drool wetting his cheek where it rested against the rough wood. Crispin licked his numbed lips. Something had awoken him but in the haze of alcohol, he wasn’t certain what.

A voice. Two voices. They were talking to each other over his head and he heard his name. He raised a finger to his flaccid lips and sent a sloppy “shhhh” their way.

The talking ceased and he sensed eyes upon him.

“He’s been like this for hours,” said the deep male voice above him. “He would not speak when he arrived. He ordered his wine and he had a look about him like death but he would say nothing to me.”

“Bless me,” said the young voice in the harsh accent of the streets. Jack. Must be. And the older was Gilbert. But he wouldn’t open his eyes. Keep them closed and don’t move. Moving would remind him why he was here.

“And you say he’s been like that for hours?”

“Yes. I wish I knew what was troubling him.”

“It must be this case,” said Jack softly.

Crispin feared they’d let slip something. With supreme effort, he opened his mouth and uttered a slurred, “Be still!”

Jack crouched low toward him. Crispin could smell him; adolescent sweat and hay. “Master! Master Crispin! Tell me what happened. What is amiss? Is the sheriff on his way?”

“No!” he bellowed. “No! Don’t talk about it!”

“But Master! The murderer. We cannot allow him to get away. You said-”

Damn that boy! He had to insist on opening the floodgates and letting the memories flow in. Damn him, damn him, damn him !

“NO!” Crispin lurched up, spittle trailing in a long iridescent tether from his mouth back to the puddle on the table. He wiped unsteadily at his mouth with his hand. “Damn you, Jack! Can’t you let me forget?”

Gently, Jack laid a hand on his shoulder. “But Master Crispin, what happened?”

He felt the bench creak behind him and the warm presence of Gilbert blocked his other escape. There was nothing for it now. He straightened, tried to focus his eyes on the table, and reached for the wine jug. He sloshed the red liquor over his hand and into the waiting bowl and drank it greedily. “Jack,” he said, doing his best to enunciate. He swayed and turned his head. “Gilbert. My friends.” He dropped his head and sighed. “I fear the name of Justice is no more in the city of London.”

The man and the boy exchanged looks. Gilbert rested a large paw on his arm. “Crispin, what can you mean?”

“I mean,” he said, shaking off the man’s hand and climbing precariously to his feet, “that Justice is damned, along with everyone else in this stinking town!” He used Gilbert’s shoulder as leverage to step out of the bench and lurched toward the hearth. Jack launched himself to his feet to prevent Crispin from pitching headlong into the fire. But he shook Jack’s hands off of him, too.

“Le’ me be!” he growled. He leaned unsteadily over the flames, letting them roast his thighs and knees. It didn’t help. He still felt cold and numb. Dead. He was a corpse already. Should have let Radulfus kill him in the street. Then the pain of that unspeakable ache in his chest wouldn’t feel so bad now. “Let me be,” he whispered.

“What happened at court, Master?” asked Jack, positioning himself beside him.

“What happened? You wish to know what happened? Very well. I was emasculated, that’s what happened.”

Jack’s eyes made a quick glance down over Crispin before the expression on his worried face cleared.

“Degradation was nothing compared to this,” Crispin went on. “That, at least, was physical. Taking my sword, my arms. But this long, slow, stripping of my ability to do anything. . I am not a man, Jack. Not a man.”

“Of course you are, sir! You are more man than half of court! Is he not, Gilbert?”

“Aye, that you are, Crispin! A finer and more honorable man I have never known, I assure you.”

“Empty words,” he snorted. “What do you know of it? What do either of you know of it?”

They fell silent. The three of them stood, merely looking into the flames. Crispin felt his bones begin to thaw. His knees gave out and both Gilbert and Jack grunted as they grabbed an elbow to prevent him from falling on his backside. They wrestled him onto a stool.

“I went to Giles de Risley’s apartments.” He leaned toward Jack, nabbed his collar, and pulled him close. He could see every freckle on the boy’s pale face. “It’s him, Jack. My old friend. He is the murderer and vile sodomizer. That astrologer confessed it. I had him, Jack. I had him! I had a witness. He confessed it all. And then de Risley arrived. And he confessed it, too. But then. . to prove that he was untouchable, he killed the astrologer, killed our only witness.” He heard Jack’s gasp but ploughed on anyway. “Killed him in cold blood before my eyes in the company of his vile cousin. And then he told me all, Jack. Every disgusting, horrifying truth. How he killed them, how he enjoyed it, how he cut out their entrails and held them in his hands. .”

Gilbert drew back in horror, making a sound of retching.

“He told me, Jack,” he whispered. “And I couldn’t lay a finger upon him.”

Silence. Crispin nodded. What could be said to that? The evidence of his final humiliation, his uselessness was now before them. For four years he had only played at a man who honorably served justice. Four years out of the thirty miserable years of his life.

“He’s a dog. A horrible, mangy dog!” said Jack, his tone vicious. “But dogs are trapped when they are dangerous. If we could only lay a trap for him.”