Crispin Guest 03 - The Demon's Parchment by Jeri Westerson

Author:Jeri Westerson [Westerson, Jeri]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Mystery & Detective, Historical
ISBN: 9781429942485
Google: vH6p_Wtr9UQC
Amazon: B003P8QSC8
Goodreads: 9509528
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 2010-10-11T22:00:00+00:00

Crispin waited. The guards at the Great Gate were relieved by new men, and while greetings were exchanged and feet crunched over the icy gravel, Crispin slipped into the shadows near the wall. Months ago, Lancaster told him of a passage into the palace. He steeled himself and moved.

The night fell silent like a corpse dropping to the snow. No one stirred. The bells had long ago fallen silent and would not stir again until dawn. The cold fog still lingered like an unpleasant stench in the courtyard and beyond its walls, and so even Crispin’s breath was not detected as he made his stealthy way in the darkness.

He wrestled his way over an icy garden wall, slid across the sharp stone pinnacle, and dropped down noiselessly to the other side. Ahead lay the large blocky shape of the palace. He touched a buttress, running his hand along its cold surface. Using it as his compass in the shrouding gloom, he found St. Stephen’s chapel. The right direction.

More garden walls, more climbing. The repetition served to warm his stiffening limbs, but not the fear of capture. He counted the gardens. He knew where each chamber lay, knew which window he needed. Of course, if it was barred, he’d have to break in. The thought made him chuckle. Breaking into the king’s palace? Richard’s expression would be priceless . . . before the guards bore down on him, of course.

There ahead. The Jews’ apartment. He reached up to the window and wedged his booted foot on a stone plinth, pushing upward. He grabbed hold of the decorative stone and peered within. The heavy drapes had not been entirely closed and so a slim strip of the room was visible. All dark. A red glow from the hearth changed the shadows in the room and he saw the outline of a four-poster bed. The bed curtains remained open. The Jews were not yet abed. Good.

Crispin inched his hand up the casement window, and found the seam. It was latched, but there was enough room to slip his blade through the thin opening. Hoisting his dagger out with a grunt, he gripped tighter to the decorative stone surrounding the window. The blade skittered off the glass. He paused, listening.

No footsteps.

Holding his breath, he wriggled the steel through, found the latch, and lifted.

The metal latch flipped with a whisper and the casement creaked open. Crispin grabbed it, pulling it wider.

Just then, a window several rooms down opened, spilling candlelight onto the snow-whitened courtyard. A man leaned out and turned.

Crispin froze, hoping against hope that the darkness and fog hid his burglary. But eyes met eyes and Crispin was shocked to see Lancaster staring back at him. And here was Crispin, with one leg already hoisted onto a window ledge that was not his own.

Lancaster’s eyes widened for a moment. When his lips parted it was not to shout, but to swear an oath that Crispin could not hear. The man shook his head slowly, his expression stunned.

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