Falconer's Crusade by Ian Morson — Read

The terrifying form occupied the hallway before Thomas, black and massive. His hair was a wild tangle in which Thomas was sure he could discern horns. Steam issued from between his hands and the boy was certain he could smell the charnel odour of hell. He cringed in the doorway and made the sign of the cross. Undeterred the figure came towards him, the steam swirling around his dark robes. Rooted to the spot, Thomas could only look up in horror, thinking of all the children who had been human sacrifices on the altar of the Jews. The eyes of the monster glowed redly in the dark corridor, transfixing him. He thought he heard the cry of someone behind his tormentor, calling in some outlandish language. It could only be the Jew's familiar - a cat or a goat, his father had once assured him. Thomas fell to his knees and prepared himself for death.

Falconer heard Hugh slam the bolts behind him and slipped down the alley, dodging from door to door. At least the rain had stopped for the moment, though the afternoon was still miserable. The cries of people and the clash of arms came mainly from the direction of the High Street. Falconer kept to the lanes near the city walls. The boy had spoken about ritual murder, the current nonsense laid at the doorstep of the Jews. Perhaps he was now exhibiting a farmboy's curiosity to see this persecuted race, and had made for Jewry. Anyway, this was Falconer's only clue to his possible whereabouts. He prayed that he was right and the boy had the sense to keep away from the main confrontation. Crossing Shidyerd Street, Falconer's feet squelched through the mud on the spot where the girl had been killed. He thought again of the truths he had collected about the death, so terribly few to date, and was frustrated that no deductive truth resulted from them. He collided with a man coming round the comer as though chased by the Devil. His ale-laden breath assaulted Falconer as the man clung to his clothes, his eyes staring wildly into the Master's.