Free The Demon's Parchment by Jeri Westerson

afar.
    “Qui sont ces mendiants?”
Julian asked derisively.
    Exasperated, Jacob hissed at him, “English!”
    Crispin stiffened.
“Nous ne sommes pas des mendiants,”
he answered. His lips curled into a lopsided grin when Julian drew back sharply, spilling his wine.
    Jacob smiled. “Many Englishmen speak French. That will teach you to better guard your tongue.”
    Julian recovered and sipped his bowl, eyes wandering toward the dark window. His cheek was still pink.
    “I apologize for my son,” said Jacob with a sigh. He gestured Crispin to a chair. “He is often quick to judge and slow to change. It is the fault of youth, I am afraid.”
    “I would rather honest hate than useless flattery,” said Crispin over his wine. “ ‘People generally despise where they flatter.’ ”
    Jacob chuckled, noting Julian’s discomfiture at their speaking about him. “You quote Aristotle. How interesting.”
    Crispin lowered the wine from his lips. “I am surprised you would recognize the words of a pagan philosopher, Master Jacob. I was not aware that your . . . people . . . would read such men.”
    Jacob waved a hand vaguely. “It was Jewish scholars who rescued the words of pagan philosophers from obscurity.” Crispin narrowed his eyes at that, but Jacob went on, despite Crispin’s obvious skepticism. “I have learned many things from many sources,
Maître
Guest. Though the Scriptures and the words of the ancient rabbis resonate in my craft, I realized quite early in my schooling that not all the wisdom of the ages belongs to the Jews . . . merely most of it.”
    Julian snorted a laugh but hid his expression in his bowl.
    Jack hovered behind Crispin’s chair, gulping his wine before Crispin twisted around and took the bowl from him. “Master Jacob,” said Crispin tightly. “Perhaps if we can get to the business at hand . . .”
    Julian grumbled. “I do not know why you had to bring this Gentile into our suite, Father,” he muttered. “Who cares if somethingis stolen from a Jew, after all?” Julian fixed his glare on Crispin. The boy had an evil glint in his eye. “A man who does such work for money. Is that not why there is a sheriff?”
    Crispin stood. “Then call in the sheriff. Here.” He reached for the coin pouch and dropped the offending bag onto a table. “Take back your coin, Master Jacob.”
    Jacob looked beside himself. He touched his forehead and groaned. “You see what you have done?” he hissed at his son.
    “I do not care! We do not belong in England. Their laws are a disgrace. We defile ourselves by being here! We belong in Avignon where a Jew is treated with dignity.”
    “You know nothing!” he hissed at the boy. He turned entreating eyes to Crispin. “
Maître
Guest, I implore you. I need your help.
London
needs your help.”
    He gave Julian a stern look. “I would counsel your son to keep his arguments to himself from now on.”
    Julian pressed forward, opening his mouth as if to speak, when Jacob wheeled on him. “You will be still!” Surprised, the boy blinked rapidly and clamped his lips shut. The fist at his side trembled.
    Jacob nodded. “
Maître
Guest. I apologize for such an unruly household. My wife died when he was only an infant. I fear that he did not receive the benefit of Patience from a mother’s touch as perhaps he should have done. Please, sit. Have more wine. Julian, bring a stool for the servant boy.”
    “You are enigmatic, sir,” Crispin offered as Julian did as bid. “At first, you tell me that something dangerous has been stolen from you. And then you tell me your theft involved mere parchments. And just now, you intimate that London is in danger. I think it might be best to get to the point.”
    The firelight painted Jacob’s white face with deeply etched lines of age and worry. Julian had eased into a folding seat and watched his father with pursed lips and glittering eyes.
    “I am certain,
Maître
Guest, that you have been schooled in the