Traitor's Codex

by Jeri Westerson

  ‘There are those who would kill to suppress this,’ said Pardeu quietly, glancing once more at his shuttered window.

  Crispin had come to the same conclusion. ‘Then who was it that gave it to me? And why?’

  ‘This person knew you would do the right thing?’

  ‘And what is that right thing, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Only you will know that, Master Guest.’

  You must forget what you think you know … Beware of what you find … The dying words of Abbot Nicholas de Litlyngton of Westminster Abbey. It was damnable. This was worse than any relic. Far, far worse.

  His head ached. ‘Where … where should I take it now, Master Pardeu?’

  ‘Ah, well. If it were me, Master Guest – and you must be aware that a Jew prizes Scripture above all other books, but prizes all books greatly – I think that, given the words in this codex, even I should burn it.’

  ‘If that were true, then why did not the man who gave it to me burn it himself?’

  ‘I do not know, Master Guest.’ Pardeu rubbed his hands together and anxiously eyed Crispin. ‘Master … I must reopen my shop. I fear that barring my door has sent clients away. A man must make a living.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Yes. Yes, of course.’

  ‘And Master Guest,’ he said, watching Crispin retrieve the book and stuff it once more into his scrip, ‘I hope you tell no one that you brought that codex here.’

  ‘I see. No. I would not bring danger to your threshold.’ He nodded to Jack, who threw back the bar and opened the door. Crispin had almost forgotten that it was daytime and nearly summer, full of birdsong and the sound of humanity going about their business.

  He dug into his money pouch before he turned to go and left two small silver coins on the table. ‘For your trouble, sir, and your time.’

  Jack went ahead of him out the door and they both stood in the sunshine. The sun warmed their shoulders and he raised his face to it, smelling the wet grass of the meadows beyond, and even the dank scent of the Thames as it wended its way just beyond the streets and fields.

  Was it possible, all the things that were in this book, this Judas codex? Could they be true? Was his faith far more complicated than the words of Scripture he had learned all his life? Were there nuances? Was there more?

  Or … was it wrong?

  He sniffed the June air again – less full of smoke and stench away from London’s walls – and rubbed his chin in thought, hiding his face under the fall of his hair.

  ‘Master, maybe it’s best that we go to Abbot William.’

  When he raised his head, Jack was looking at his scrip as if it held a demon. And that wasn’t that far from the truth. What would the abbot say? He might burn it on the spot. He might—

  A commotion behind him on the next street over. He could hear the shouting over the rooftops from where he stood. He flicked a glance at Jack before he took off in a trot, curious at what he might find.

  FOUR

  They hurried up to Holburn Street and there Crispin spied the commotion of milling people, their voices raised into a chatter. Crispin didn’t burst through as he was wont to do when he was a lord. Instead, he stood at the back, observing, listening to the snippets of what people were saying. But it wasn’t enough. He tapped a man on the shoulder.

  The man turned a face of unkempt scruff and eyed Crispin under thick brows.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘A man was struck and robbed, but the Tracker saved him and recovered the man’s goods.’

  Crispin looked at Jack.

  ‘The Tracker, you say?’

  ‘Aye. Crispin Guest. Haven’t you ever heard of him?’

  ‘I have,’ Crispin admitted. He turned to his apprentice and asked quietly, ‘What curiosity is here? Jack, wriggle your way into this crowd to see what the devil is going on.’

  ‘Right, sir!’ In he went, as slick as an eel. All was forgotten in that moment, and anything about mysterious books that could bring down the very soul of the Church languished behind this new mystery.

  He watched Jack move through the throng and then lost him. Crispin walked slowly around the circle of people, watching as they excitedly talked. Strange to watch people talk about him in this way, almost as if he were a ghost.

  It wasn’t long till Jack made his way toward Crispin, dragging a man behind him.

  Jack let the man go and nodded toward him. ‘Go on. Tell my master what you told me.’

  The man – in his thirties, a tradesman of some kind, decent clothes, trimmed beard – looked Crispin over suspiciously. ‘As I was telling this young man here, I was robbed. I’m a cordwainer, and I was delivering my goods to my client. Two pairs of fine shoes I had just completed. A finer set of shoes you’ve never seen, good master.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Crispin impatiently. ‘And what happened?’

  ‘A man ran up behind me, slammed me at the back of my head, snatched my parcel, and started running. I yelled at the top of my lungs and gave chase. So did others on the street. He was bold as brass, was this thief. Then, out of nowhere, a man emerged from an alley. Drew his sword on the knave. The man dropped the parcel and ran off. The man with the sword sheathed it, picked up the parcel, and returned it to me. Oh, he had nice manners, like a lord. I thanked him, offered to pay him. He wouldn’t hear of it. Then he told me his name was Crispin Guest. You must know of that fellow. They call him the Tracker. He solves crimes.’

  ‘He does indeed,’ said Crispin with a scowl. ‘What did this man look like?’

  ‘Well, he was a man in middle years, black hair, gray eyes. Wearing a red cote-hardie and blue … stockings … say. He looks a lot like you, sir.’

  ‘Does he now?’

  ‘Funny that. You could be his brother. Well, I finally convinced him to take some coins for his deed. He saluted me and strode off. He finds things, doesn’t he? Lost things, so they say. He also confounds the sheriffs, beats them at their own game, finding murderers and such. Oh, I’ve heard all the tales but I never expected to meet him myself. I feel quite honored. They say he lives on Bread Street.’

  ‘That’s very interesting. Thank you.’

  ‘I don’t mind saying, I feel better on the streets of London knowing Crispin Guest is there.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Crispin with a sneer.

  Jack stood beside him and watched the man depart. ‘What by God’s blood was all that?’ asked Jack. ‘You were with me the whole time.’

  Crispin felt an uncomfortable war of feelings. Pride that the citizens of London were aware of his deeds, but strangely insulted that there was another taking credit for his work. Or were they? ‘It seems I have a double.’

  ‘Pardon my saying, sir, but … why? It isn’t as if … well …’

  ‘It isn’t worth impersonating me, as poor as I am, is what you meant. I well know it, Jack. But I am curious. Who is this miscreant who uses my name, and what could he be after?’

  Jack screwed up his mouth and stood straighter. It seemed his indignity for his master was coming to the fore. ‘To Bread Street, sir?’

  ‘Most assuredly.’

  Bread Street was full of bakers and the aromas were as sweet as the Shambles’ were sour. But since they didn’t know where this man’s lodgings were, they’d have to ask. Crispin pulled his hood up over his head. Even though it was warm, he thought it best to hide his face. ‘Jack, you should probably do the asking.’

  Jack nodded. ‘Aye. That’s best.’ They approached a woman putting out round loaves of bread on her shop stall table. ‘I beg your mercy,’ said Jack with a fluid bow, ‘but I’ve heard that the Tracker Crispin Guest resides on this street.’

  Her face burst into a smile. ‘You are correct, sir. I’d always heard he lived on the Shambles, but we are fortunate indeed to consider the Tracker in our own parish.’

  ‘We are in need of him, madam. Can you point out the house to me?’

  ‘Dear me,’ she said, a hand to her chest. ‘It is jus
t past an alehouse, the Fox Tail. See the stake just down the lane?’

  ‘I do. Thank you, fair mistress.’ He bowed again, and she giggled at his courtly manner.

  ‘You do that very well,’ Crispin commented as they walked together up the street.

  Jack blushed. ‘Oh, that. I’ve learned a thing or two as the Tracker’s apprentice.’

  ‘I wonder if you will meet your double as well?’

  ‘Eh?’ Jack’s cheer suddenly fell flat. ‘There had better not be!’

  Crispin chuckled and proceeded up the street. They passed the ale stake and found a modest structure beside it, sharing a wall on one side, and an alley on the other. Crispin nodded for Jack to proceed and his apprentice knocked smartly on the door.

  No one answered.

  ‘Must not be home yet,’ said Jack, gazing up and down the building. ‘What do you suppose he’s up to, master?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea. I am the last person anyone would wish to impersonate.’

  ‘What are we to do now?’

  Crispin looked one way down the lane, and up the other. ‘Why … see inside.’ He rattled the door but it did not open. ‘Jack, do me the kindness of blocking me from the street.’

  Jack moved to stand in front of Crispin, his hands at his hips so that his mantle was spread wide. Crispin knelt, got out his lock picks from his pouch, and worked on the lock. It was easily done and he stood, tapping Jack’s shoulder. In they both went into the darkened interior.

  It was a simple one-room lodgings, much like his old place over the tinker shop, only a bit wider. One bed, a coffer, a table with four chairs, a stool by the hearth, and a few items on a pantry shelf.

  Crispin looked over the razor and strop, picking them up. There was a comb and there were, indeed, black hairs still clinging to it.

  He went over to the modest bed and sat on it. The crunch of straw under him made him feel somewhat better, since his mattress was stuffed with horsehair. He went to the coffer and lifted the lid. Extra chemise and braies, stockings. Nothing else of any consequence, but he took the items out and carefully laid them aside, first holding up the patched chemise to his own frame. He showed Jack who nodded in approval. The man was obviously Crispin’s match in height.

  He next ran his hands on the inside walls of the emptied coffer, knocking on them, when something made a soft click and a secret door opened.

  ‘Oh ho,’ he murmured and looked in it. Coin and other gold baubles, brooches, necklaces. He wondered if this ‘Tracker’ came by them from fees or by some other means.

  Jack whistled. ‘Look at that, master. You never got no fees like that.’

  ‘I’m beginning to think I’m underpaid.’ He shoved it all back in and clicked closed the door. He replaced the clothing items inside and shut the coffer’s lid. When he stood, he looked around the room, scratching his head.

  ‘I don’t know what’s going on here, Jack, but I will find out.’

  ‘Are we going to stay to wait for him?’

  ‘No. We have other business at Westminster.’

  Jack looked around one more time. ‘At least there appears to be no other Jack Tucker.’

  ‘No, Jack. You are one of a kind indeed.’

  Even so, Crispin hovered in the area, standing under the shadow of an eave and watching the place. No one came near it.

  ‘I can’t help wondering,’ said Jack, after they had started walking, ‘why a man would impersonate you. They say he solved crimes.’

  ‘I can’t begrudge him if he is doing good. But I cannot have a man steal my name. It’s all I’ve got left.’

  ‘You’ve got me, sir. And Isabel. And the children.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that. Of course I consider myself fortunate to have you and your family in my household. But … a man is only as good as his name. I haven’t anything else of value. Oh, I have my family ring and my sword, but nothing else. If a man goes about and uses my name, there’s no end of mischief that can be done. And, believe me, I’ve done enough harm to that name.’

  ‘The people love you now, sir. They’ve forgotten the … other.’

  ‘They’ve laid it aside, perhaps, but they have never forgotten that I committed treason all those years ago. And they never will.’

  Jack was silent for a moment. Until … ‘It don’t matter to me.’

  Crispin turned to watch the profile of his apprentice but said nothing. Something heavy, something deep inside his heart lifted. It was revelatory that each time Jack expressed such an opinion it should carry so much weight.

  But well before they reached Charing Cross or the towers of Westminster Abbey came into view, Crispin stopped. Jack stumbled as he looked behind him at his master. ‘What’s amiss, sir?’

  ‘Jack, the more I think on it, the more I believe it not a good idea to talk with Abbot William about this.’

  ‘Eh? Why not?’

  ‘Because the abbot would be obliged to destroy such a book.’

  ‘He wouldn’t be far wrong, if you ask me.’

  ‘But you see, Jack. Someone has gone to the trouble to deliver this to me. To me. He could have very well destroyed the book himself. But he didn’t. He came to me and told me I’d know what to do.’

  Jack set his fists to his hips. ‘And do you?’

  Crispin huffed a bitter laugh. ‘No, by God. But I cannot hand it over to be destroyed. Not yet. Not until I find out why this has been given to me. I’ll tell you what you should do.’ He pulled the scrip’s strap over his head and proffered the bundle. ‘You take this back home and secure it. I have some thinking to do.’

  ‘You aren’t coming home?’

  ‘In a while. I must think first.’

  Jack pulled the strap reluctantly over his shoulder, letting it land diagonally across his chest. ‘Well, I’ll be waiting, master.’ He strode back the way they had come, glancing back over his shoulder with a frown.

  Crispin threw back his hood and ran his hand through his hair. Think, yes, but what to think? He’d never find that man again, the man who gave him the parcel. How could he ever discover his purpose?

  With careful strides, he, too, started back toward London, staring down at the stony road ahead of him.

  So deep was he in contemplation – of this hand and that hand and choices back and forth – that, when he looked up, he was surprised to find he had walked past the Shambles and on to Mercery Lane. And with a ‘God’s blood’ on his lips, he further realized he was standing in front of the Walcote residence.

  ‘Damn,’ he muttered. And the front door to it was opening. Like any thief – or fool, he chided himself – he ran for the nearest corner and hid in the shadows. But instead of going onward as he should have done, he clung to that corner and watched, hoping – dreading – for a glimpse of her.

  And there she was. Philippa Walcote, married to surely the richest cloth merchant in London. She had been a scullion in that household and had risen far above her station when she married Nicholas Walcote. But he had turned out not to be who he had said he was. And murdered, to boot. Murdered because he masqueraded as Nicholas but was an imposter. In the end, she had married the real Nicholas’s brother, Clarence, and had kept her place after all.

  Yet during that time when Crispin himself investigated the murder and theft of a relic, he had fallen in love with the brash Philippa, and she with him. But in those long-ago days, he had been too proud to bring a scullion to wife.

  She was still beautiful, still rosy-cheeked, her hair bright like brass, caught up in a fashionable horned headdress and covered with a gold netting veil. She was holding the hand of her young son, now ten years old. Crispin’s breath caught. He had not seen the boy for some years, and now, more than ever before, he was struck at how much the boy looked like him … for it was his son. Christopher.

  He thanked God Clarence Walcote didn’t have a clue.

  Watching them avidly, he memorized their features, hungry to talk to them but knowing well he was best out of
their lives.

  And then the boy spotted him.

  Crispin jerked and tried to vanish around the corner.

  ‘Master Crispin! Is that you, sir?’ the boy called out. A male servant with them tried to hush the boy.

  Caught. It was useless to run, to ignore the summons. But worse. He didn’t want to.

  Slowly, he revealed himself and stood firmly on the lane. He bowed stiffly. ‘Master Walcote. It has been many a day.’ He flicked a glance at Philippa, who was gazing at Crispin with a tender expression.

  The boy’s face screwed up with anger. ‘Master Guest, you told me a fib. You said you would return to teach me arms.’ The boy was all seriousness and carried himself much like a lord. Crispin swore at himself for allowing this. He hadn’t been careful and he well knew he’d done it on purpose.

  ‘It made me sad, sir, that you would abandon me so. And we’d become such friends. Or so I thought.’ His face drooped to melancholy and the sight of it made Crispin’s heart lurch.

  The boy had grown since last he’d seen him two years ago. He was taller, more graceful. His black hair shone blue in the sunshine, and his gray eyes scrutinized Crispin judiciously.

  Crispin bowed again. ‘My heartfelt apologies, Master Christopher. But I had much work to attend to. And I feared to interrupt your studies. You should know, however,’ he said, taking a step closer, ‘that you could never lose me as a friend.’

  The child’s face cheered. ‘I’m heartily glad to hear it. And as far as interrupting my studies, bah! I could always have found time. Couldn’t I, Mother?’

  She patted his hand and released him. ‘You well know Master Guest is a busy and important man.’ Her accent was still that of the scullery, though she worked hard to pronounce each word and lessen the harshness of it.

  ‘I know, Mother. I listen to tales of Master Guest all the time,’ he said eagerly. ‘Mother and I are shopping today, but you must come back and do as you promised, Master Crispin.’