Jeri Westerson - The Demon’s Parchment

“I believe we’ve already had this discussion, Jack.”

“But Master, of all Christmases, don’t you think you deserve a little cheer? Some reward?”

“My reward is that, apparently, I won’t hang for Giles’s or Cornelius’s murders.”

“But Master Crispin-”

He laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Jack, I appreciate your concern. But I cannot go with you. Give them my greetings.”

Jack scowled and grumbled to himself, but he pulled open the door and stumped noisily down the stairs.

The smells of good cooking soon wafted up the stairwell. His landlady, Alice Kemp, was doing her best for the tinker and their daughter, Matilda. All around him, in fact, people were gathering for their Christmas feast, whether it be humble or not.

After a time, the brooding silence began to aggravate. Crispin threw on his cloak and hit the stairs. He made it to the street and tucked his hood over his head. Snow was falling in feathery flakes and mist made midday seem much later. He felt the cold nip his face and was grateful for it, grateful to be alive, though he couldn’t put the image of the burned-out shell of his ancestral home out of his mind. Well, there was nothing to be done about it. Gilbert was right. They had been lost to him for years, and now they were gone for good.

He watched as people tramping in the street dragged greenery behind them, some even carrying large Yule logs. For a moment, Crispin wished he hadn’t been unreasonable and turned down the kind offer of his friends at the Boar’s Tusk. Why didn’t he just go? They had certainly asked him often enough. With a sigh that turned to a puff of gray, Crispin had no real answer. Only that, for the last seven years, he did not feel fit to join in with the celebration of others. Call it part of his personal penance.

The people on the street were thinning to just a few here and there. The trampled snow told him that the processions had ceased and all had been blessed by their parish priests. Shops were closed and it began to feel lonelier. As it should, he reminded himself. A traitor such as himself had no right to feasts and joviality, but wallowing too much was also uncalled for, at least that’s what Gilbert had told him. God loveth a cheerful giver . He snorted at that before he nearly ran into a woman idly walking near the closed shops.

“Pardon me,” he said with a bow, and when he looked up, a familiar face looked back out of the hood. “God’s blood! John Rykener!”

“Crispin! Oh this is my lucky day! My Christmas blessing.” He scooped up Crispin’s arm before he could protest and began to walk with him.

“Let go of me,” he hissed, trying to wrench his arm away.

“I worried over you, Crispin. There were rumors of all sorts.”

“What are you doing on this side of the Thames?” he asked, still struggling.

“I fancied a change of scenery. I do like it better here. I imagine I will find myself living on this side from now on.”

“Too many arrests?”

“Alas. I am known there.”

They walked on in silence for a time, the snow crunching under their feet. Crispin did not try to push the man away after a few more unsuccessful attempts. He may like to dress like a woman, but Rykener had a strong arm.

“You shouldn’t worry over me,” said Crispin, hating the silence. “I always seem to survive.”

“Like a cat. You land on your feet every time.”

“Not every time.”

They passed a house where the smoke from the chimney slithered down the stone wall. John sniffed the air. “Mmm. Smells like Christmas. Where are you bound, Crispin? Some fine feast with your companions?”

“No. I make it a habit of spending Christmas alone.”

John stopped, bringing Crispin up short. “Crispin Guest! How abominably morose of you. Do you also wear a hair shirt?”

Crispin frowned. “No. This is none of your business, John.”

“Of course it isn’t. That is why it so intrigues me.”

“Then what of you? Do a bit of whoring before you gather around the Yule log, do you?”

He jabbed Crispin hard with his elbow. It took the wind out of him for a few moments. “Don’t be crass. But as a matter of fact, yes. I find myself woefully without funds.” John jerked to a halt and turned his head, squinting down a gloomy alley. “What was that?”

“What was what?”

“I thought I saw something. Something. . large.”

Crispin looked with that familiar tingle scraping across the back of his neck. “Like a man?”

“Couldn’t have been a man. It was too big.”

It was quite possible it was the potter Odo skulking about in London. And yet. It was also quite possible. . No. No, he refused to entertain the notion.

John had a stark look on his face, even under the curls of hair just at his temple.

Crispin glanced in the other direction down the gray street. They weren’t far from an alehouse. And a warm fire and wine did sound pleasing. “John, would I embarrass myself too much by buying you some Christmas cheer?”

John’s face brightened. The hulking figure was forgotten, though the tingle at Crispin’s neck remained. “I thought you spent Christmas alone?”

“Perhaps. . that is a tradition I can do without this year.”

John smiled. “They don’t know me here. They will think I am a woman.”

“Then. . Eleanor . . shall we?” Crispin always suspected he was a bit mad but he didn’t know how much until he held the alehouse door open for his unusual companion.