“I do not know his name. But he is one of three men who make themselves a nuisance at court. There are more whispers about them than there are about my father and me. I surmised that they are not well liked.”
A stirring in his chest was almost like a tickle, warring with a darker sensation. “Who?”
“As I said, I do not know his name. But the man he is always with; his name sounds something like . . . ‘rizzy’?”
It sprang off Crispin’s tongue without a second thought. “De Risley?”
Julian nodded slowly. “Yes. I think that is the name, but I cannot be certain. I try not to listen too much to those around me at royal courts. It is never wise to mix too much with court politics. We do our task and hide in our chamber.”
But how could that be? Was Radulfus a murderer and sodomite? God’s blood! Right under Giles’s nose! But wait. Giles had mentioned “our lord.” Perhaps he was speaking of a nobleman, one above him in rank who would secure him wealth in exchange for pandering. Someone like a lord in a mysterious carriage. A lord who wanted those stolen parchments.
How could Giles be involved except as a dupe? Crispin felt a miserable sense of guilt that one of his acquaintances could be used so, even though he couldn’t possibly have known or done anything about it.
Well, that was before. This was now. He could certainly help Giles now. After all, the man was living on Crispin’s old estates. Under his jealousy, he was grateful it was Giles.
But this Radulfus was another matter. Crispin would see him hanged or worse for what he was doing. If it was him. For as cruel as Radulfus was to him, was he capable of such acts as stealing boys for profit? The astrologer certainly fit the description that Berthildus the Potter offered. But even if they were stealing boys by treachery, what did that have to do with clay and a Golem?
Julian spoke again and Crispin started, not realizing how close the boy had maneuvered. He was right at his elbow, looking up at him. “Did you truly see the Golem, Maître?”
Suddenly the boy used a respectful title. Well, the entire tone of their exchange had taken a turn, to be sure.
“I don’t truly know what I saw. But there was clay. . . .” It could not be denied. He had seen the clay on Jack’s fingers but the clay could have . . . could have . . . No. It couldn’t have. He lowered his head. “I do not know.”
“An intelligent answer from a man who does not believe. Tell me, Maître. Do you believe in such things at all?”
It was his turn to lean back against the table and slump. He ran his fingers through his thick hair, letting his hand fall back to his thigh. “I have seen . . . many curious things. But I do not know whether I believe in them or not. Mostly, there is an explanation that is plain and simple. But this situation. There does not appear to be anything simple about it.”
Julian fell silent for a long time. The silence grew uncomfortable, in fact, and Crispin was deciding whether or not to simply depart when Julian raised his face. “Why don’t you like me?”
Crispin gazed at him sidelong, surprised by the sudden question. “I wasn’t aware by your manner that you aspired to be liked—by me or anyone else.”
That seemed to throw the lad and he looked thoughtfully into the corner. Crispin studied his profile with its angular nose and sharp chin.
“I don’t aspire to be disliked,” he said softly. He turned. “I . . . have had to fight for everything in my life. Because I am a Jew, even in Avignon, my opinions are less than that of other men. Am I not clever? You seem the sort to appreciate cleverness.”
“An open mind can fascinate,” Crispin found himself answering, “but I do not know if I find you open or not.”
“Because I am a Jew.”
“I don’t—” Care? But he did. He knew he did. And he knew it mattered to Julian. “You care that I am a Gentile.”
“True. But these truths can be overlooked in the throes of intelligent discourse.”
Crispin couldn’t help but laugh. It bloomed a wounded expression on the young man’s face and he was surprised he regretted causing it. “You would seem to prefer to argue with me.”
“And you would seem to prefer to manhandle me and accuse me of murder.”
Well played. “Then tell me, what do you make of these murders?”
Julian tapped his lip. “It would be difficult to comment knowing little of the facts,” he began. But that one statement impressed Crispin like none other. God’s blood! Was he in danger of liking this youth?
“Do you believe I am innocent?” Julian suddenly blurted.
Crispin stared. The young man gazed up at him with intense eyes. How Crispin had wanted him to be guilty! But it was not as simple as that. William of Ocham be damned.
Julian drew closer. His face seemed to know the answer before Crispin spoke it.
“I . . . suppose . . . so.”
Green eyes sparkled with sudden delight. “A man of honor!” he breathed. “I knew it!”
Crispin was going to comment, planned on saying something noncommittal and vague, perhaps even scathing to put the youth back in his place. But he never got the chance. Julian grabbed him suddenly, pulled him forward, and kissed him hard on the lips.
Crispin pushed him off as if he were on fire. Julian staggered back and lifted a hand to his mouth, horrified.
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.
14
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!