Read Online The Demon's Parchment by Jeri Westerson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jeri Westerson
Ads: Link
brazier toyed with the shadows, sending them running in long, dancing shapes along the walls of shuttered houses. Crispin listened with all his might, stilling his own straining breath in order to hear.
Ahead. Something like footfalls.
He ran, snow flying from his heels. The quiet, narrow streets seemed to close in on him, their crowded structures twisting toward the middle, towering above Crispin’s head in their need to consume the sky.
Before he turned a corner he scoured the ground under the fitful moonlight. Large indentations in the snow could have been footprints, but they were quickly filling with new flakes.
He ran to the rhythm of his own beating heart for several more paces before he slowed to a stop. He listened again.
Nothing.
Jack came up behind him, beating the ground, skidding in the snow to grab hold of Crispin’s cloak. “Master!” He panted, eyes wide disks. “What
was
that?”
Crispin rolled the dagger’s handle in his sweaty hand once before sheathing it. Baleful apprehension would not allow his heart to slacken. “Jack, by the Holy Rood, I . . . do not know.”
4
Disturbed more than he could say, it was after some minutes of searching—for what he knew not—before Crispin allowed them to return to the Great Gate. He took careful measure of the sounds and sights on the street, and when they backtracked, he tried Jack’s patience by keeping his eyes to the ground and even returning to the street where the pursuit had ended.
Jack thumbed his dagger and kept licking his chapped lips. Crispin continued to look over his shoulder.
When the gate was in sight again, Jack crossed himself for the hundredth time. “Let us hurry and meet this Jew, Master. I would be home in me own bed.”
“Yes,” he answered distractedly before shaking it off. What was the matter with him? This business of dead boys was touching his mind. That was only some man going home to his warm lodgings. Some large man. Perhaps a blacksmith or a mason. How the shadows can make the ordinary sinister! He almost laughed at himself, but the lingering sense of disquiet would not allow it. He merely led Jack to the Great Gate and when they walked silently across the vast outer ward, they stepped up to an arched portico at the front steps. Under the arch, a porter warmed his hands over a brazier with several pages standing beside him.
Crispin approached, breaching the light cast by the brazier. The porter spied him and turned, grabbing his pike. “Hold there!” he warned.
Crispin bowed. “I have a message for Jacob of Provençal. I was to meet him here.”
The porter glanced at the pages, who looked reluctant to move.
“I can send my servant if you do not wish to fulfill your obligations,” said Crispin, gesturing toward a scowling Jack.
A page, with hair as black as Crispin’s, straightened and pulled at his tabard. “I shall go to the Jew. Whom shall I say is at the gate?”
Crispin smiled. “He will know.”
The pages shared a look with the porter, but the dark-haired one soon trotted to do his business.
Unfortunately, the brazier was within the stone portico. Crispin and Jack were obliged to stand in the snowy courtyard without benefit of a fire. Jack trotted in place to keep the cold away. Crispin stood stoically under his cloak. He had long experience waiting in all manner of weather for a battle. This was no different.
In time, the page returned with the physician. The man looked none too pleased and quickly scampered into the courtyard to meet Crispin in the shadows.
“You are tardy, sir,” said the man in a severe tone.
“I am here now. How am I to get into court?”
Jacob looked back at the porter and pages and drew Crispin and Jack deeper into the shadows of the courtyard’s wall. “We will exchange cloaks.” He showed Crispin his. On it was the yellow rouelle designating him as a Jew. “Your servant and I will enter at the Queen’s Bridge, while you return this way.”
“A feeble
Ahead. Something like footfalls.
He ran, snow flying from his heels. The quiet, narrow streets seemed to close in on him, their crowded structures twisting toward the middle, towering above Crispin’s head in their need to consume the sky.
Before he turned a corner he scoured the ground under the fitful moonlight. Large indentations in the snow could have been footprints, but they were quickly filling with new flakes.
He ran to the rhythm of his own beating heart for several more paces before he slowed to a stop. He listened again.
Nothing.
Jack came up behind him, beating the ground, skidding in the snow to grab hold of Crispin’s cloak. “Master!” He panted, eyes wide disks. “What
was
that?”
Crispin rolled the dagger’s handle in his sweaty hand once before sheathing it. Baleful apprehension would not allow his heart to slacken. “Jack, by the Holy Rood, I . . . do not know.”
4
Disturbed more than he could say, it was after some minutes of searching—for what he knew not—before Crispin allowed them to return to the Great Gate. He took careful measure of the sounds and sights on the street, and when they backtracked, he tried Jack’s patience by keeping his eyes to the ground and even returning to the street where the pursuit had ended.
Jack thumbed his dagger and kept licking his chapped lips. Crispin continued to look over his shoulder.
When the gate was in sight again, Jack crossed himself for the hundredth time. “Let us hurry and meet this Jew, Master. I would be home in me own bed.”
“Yes,” he answered distractedly before shaking it off. What was the matter with him? This business of dead boys was touching his mind. That was only some man going home to his warm lodgings. Some large man. Perhaps a blacksmith or a mason. How the shadows can make the ordinary sinister! He almost laughed at himself, but the lingering sense of disquiet would not allow it. He merely led Jack to the Great Gate and when they walked silently across the vast outer ward, they stepped up to an arched portico at the front steps. Under the arch, a porter warmed his hands over a brazier with several pages standing beside him.
Crispin approached, breaching the light cast by the brazier. The porter spied him and turned, grabbing his pike. “Hold there!” he warned.
Crispin bowed. “I have a message for Jacob of Provençal. I was to meet him here.”
The porter glanced at the pages, who looked reluctant to move.
“I can send my servant if you do not wish to fulfill your obligations,” said Crispin, gesturing toward a scowling Jack.
A page, with hair as black as Crispin’s, straightened and pulled at his tabard. “I shall go to the Jew. Whom shall I say is at the gate?”
Crispin smiled. “He will know.”
The pages shared a look with the porter, but the dark-haired one soon trotted to do his business.
Unfortunately, the brazier was within the stone portico. Crispin and Jack were obliged to stand in the snowy courtyard without benefit of a fire. Jack trotted in place to keep the cold away. Crispin stood stoically under his cloak. He had long experience waiting in all manner of weather for a battle. This was no different.
In time, the page returned with the physician. The man looked none too pleased and quickly scampered into the courtyard to meet Crispin in the shadows.
“You are tardy, sir,” said the man in a severe tone.
“I am here now. How am I to get into court?”
Jacob looked back at the porter and pages and drew Crispin and Jack deeper into the shadows of the courtyard’s wall. “We will exchange cloaks.” He showed Crispin his. On it was the yellow rouelle designating him as a Jew. “Your servant and I will enter at the Queen’s Bridge, while you return this way.”
“A feeble
Similar Books
