Traitor's Codex

by Jeri Westerson

  Crispin hesitated. He didn’t want to lie to the child, but he didn’t see how he could be seen at the house. It wouldn’t be long till a servant speculated as to why the child looked more like him than his own father.

  Philippa rescued them both. ‘You mustn’t delay Master Guest. Can’t you see he’s on his way somewhere? Now run along ahead with John, Christopher.’ She nodded to their servant. ‘I will talk to Master Guest.’

  ‘Very well,’ he said reluctantly. ‘You promise? I will see you again?’

  ‘Go on now,’ said Philippa, shooing him on.

  Their retainer followed the boy. Christopher skipped onward, turning to wave. ‘God keep you, Master Crispin!’

  Once he and his servant disappeared around the bend in the road, Crispin hastily turned to her. ‘I apologize for presenting myself. I never meant for you to see me.’

  She smiled. A dimple in her cheek had always meant mischief. ‘And yet we did. In fact …’ Her heavy-lidded eyes looked away, surreptitiously scanning the street. ‘I’ve seen you many a time outside our house, hiding in the shadows. Not so stealthy, are you, Master Tracker.’

  His face burned with embarrassment. ‘Perhaps I wasn’t trying as hard as I could have done.’ He winced at his blatant foolishness and dared raise his eyes to her face. How he wanted to kiss her! But out in the street as they were, it was impossible. And anyway, he wouldn’t – couldn’t – cuckold Clarence Walcote, who had been kind to him.

  ‘How are you?’ he asked softly.

  ‘I am well.’

  ‘And … Christopher?’

  Surprised and suddenly stiff that she should slip her arm in his, he did his best to comport himself with dignity as they walked slowly down the lane. ‘He was in a state after … after what happened. His best friend, after all. He was devastated that you left and never returned, never fully explaining to him what had transpired. He thought it was his fault that he had somehow lost your friendship.’

  ‘Damn. I never meant for that to happen. Did you tell him? Explain to him why I couldn’t—’

  ‘I did my best to explain that you were still his friend, even though he had lost the other who was dear to him. That … you might return to him some day.’

  ‘But you must surely see why I can’t.’

  ‘Oh yes. He is the very image of you. And even Clarence might come to notice …’

  ‘Yes. I mustn’t return.’

  ‘But perhaps … he can come to you.’

  A flame of hope burned in his chest. He had wanted to get to know his son. To simply know that he was out there in London kept his heart lighter than it had ever been. But he hadn’t dared dream it possible to know the boy and the boy to know him.

  ‘That might work …’

  ‘There are things he should learn. Things that only you can teach him.’

  He reined in his excitement. ‘He already asked once why we looked so much alike.’

  ‘Hmm. He is a clever boy.’ She squinted into the sunshine before gazing at Crispin with those sultry eyes he could not make himself forget. ‘Perhaps some day when he’s old enough to understand …’

  ‘We’ll see.’ But secretly, Crispin hoped.

  ‘And how is Master Tucker? He was quite the young man when last I saw him.’

  ‘Well and truly married, with two children and another on the way. The oldest … they named him after me.’

  She stopped. ‘Oh Crispin! What a fine testament to you.’

  His cheeks burned again. He couldn’t deny he was proud that they’d done it. ‘Yes. Well …’

  ‘That must be a full household. Are you pleased?’

  He shook his head in disbelief. ‘I am unaccountably pleased at it. I’ve … changed, Philippa.’

  ‘Indeed, you must have. Is this the same man who refused to wed a scullion?’

  ‘You don’t know for how many years I have regretted that decision.’

  ‘Well! You have changed.’

  ‘Too late, I’m afraid. Too late for us.’

  She laid a hand to his arm. He felt it burn him. ‘But not too late for another. Crispin, you need not be alone.’

  ‘I am not alone. I have a herd of Tuckers under my feet.’ The truth of it eased the hurt a little.

  ‘So you do.’ She appraised him boldly before dropping her eyes and her hand from his arm. ‘Much time has passed. We are all different these days.’

  ‘Nothing is amiss at home, is there? Clarence is good to you, isn’t he?’

  ‘Oh, aye. He is ever kind. A good husband and father.’

  Crispin tried to keep his face neutral.

  ‘You’re thinking very loudly, Master Guest,’ she said with a laugh.

  He scowled. ‘Madam, do you presume to know what I am thinking?’

  ‘I know exactly what you’re thinking.’ She reached up and kissed his cheek lightly. It flushed his face with heat. ‘And I love you all the more for it.’

  ‘Philippa!’ he rasped, looking up and down the lane.

  ‘It is true. I will not deny it.’

  He pressed his arms to his sides, fisting his hands. It was the only way he could keep from embracing her. ‘And I love you still,’ he said quietly. ‘I prayed for relief, but God will not grant it to me. Perhaps I am too much of a sinner.’

  ‘Nonsense. You are a kind and honorable man. The Almighty knows it, surely.’

  They gazed at each other. He sopped up her features like bread in a bowl, trying to hold them dear, when he realized she was doing the same thing.

  Reluctantly, he bowed. ‘It was a pleasure seeing you again, madam.’

  She clasped her hands together, perhaps for the same reason Crispin clenched his fists. ‘For me as well. Be looking for a message from me. I’m sure Christopher will be pleased to meet with you.’

  ‘Philippa … do you truly think that this is a good idea?’

  ‘Having a child has taught me much, Crispin. It has taught me that there is a great deal I would sacrifice for his sake. And I would even risk losing him if in knowing himself better – knowing you and who you are – he would come to hate me for it.’

  ‘Never that. He’d be a fool.’

  ‘When he knows the truth some day, he might.’

  He expected tears in her eyes, and perhaps if she were any other woman there might have been. But in her eyes, he saw only determination.

  He bowed again. ‘As you wish. I fear I cannot deny you anything you ask of me.’

  ‘Anything?’ There was a sparkle in her eye. ‘We shall have to see about that.’ Before he could admonish her, she turned away, leaving him a view of sparkling netting and a long trailing skirt.

  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Damn the woman. But it was good to see her, to talk with her. The smile on his face didn’t surprise him.

  He turned and made his way between the houses and abruptly stopped short. That beggar was there again, eyeing him warily. He didn’t want to draw his sword, but he kept it in mind.

  ‘Are you following me, knave?’

  The beggar sat with his knees drawn up. His stockings were more holes than material. His cote-hardie was in tatters, but his leather hood – which had seen better days – was still useful to cover his head. His unfocused eyes turned toward Crispin. ‘Ah, it’s the man who listens to the dead. The other man, that is.’

  ‘I don’t listen to the dead. Why would you say such a thing?’

  ‘Oh, but you do, master. Just as I do. They speak to me, especially the newly dead. Or the soon to be. It’s the murdered that talk to you and you listen, don’t you? You hear them as clear as I am speaking to you.’ He rose unsteadily, using the wall to brace himself. Stalking toward Crispin, he got in close. ‘I hear them too!’ he whispered.

  ‘Away with you. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You do. I know you do. You’re hearing them even now. It’s a tinny sound because they’re not dead yet but they will be.’

  That shiver crossed his sh
oulders again. Crispin leaned in. ‘Stay away from me.’

  ‘I’m not lying.’

  ‘You’re mad.’

  ‘Am I?’ He scratched his chin through his unkempt beard. ‘Aye, maybe so, maybe so. But you know I’m not lying. Listen to the voices of the dead. Listen and hear.’ He pointed a dirty finger at Crispin’s face and stumbled away.

  Unnerved, Crispin watched him go. It was a madman’s ravings but, even so, he couldn’t help but feel something in his prophesying voice. Something he did not want to hear.

  He shook it loose. He didn’t need the distraction. Between Philippa and this book, he had enough distractions to last a lifetime.

  He hurried on and, taking a shortcut back to the Shambles at the mouth of another alley, he found his way barred again, this time by two men.

  He tried to skirt past them with a polite, ‘I beg your mercy.’ But when they stepped back into his path, he squared his shoulders. ‘Is there a reason you are preventing me from proceeding, gentlemen?’

  And they were gentlemen, from the sheen of their velvet cote-hardies to the fit of their stockings. The dark-bearded one huffed a breath. ‘We want a word with you … Crispin Guest.’

  Crispin eyed them both, noted that they both had swords. ‘State your purpose then.’

  ‘You must come with us.’

  ‘Indeed. Where?’

  ‘Don’t ask questions. Just comply.’

  ‘I’m rarely in the habit of complying when two churls greet me in an alley—’

  The punch to his jaw was unexpected. He landed on his arse. Raising a hand to rub at his chin, he felt blood. Sticking his tongue out, he licked it away from the side of his mouth. ‘You shouldn’t have done that.’

  ‘You’ll get more of the same if you don’t do as we say.’

  Crispin took his time getting to his feet and wiping the dirt from his cote-hardie. ‘You should apologize to me.’

  The men looked at one another and laughed. It was true that they were both taller than Crispin, and wider across the chest and shoulders. A wiser man might have been intimidated. But at the moment, Crispin was more angry than wise.

  ‘I said …’ Crispin slowly drew his sword with the whisper of steel on leather. Even in the shadows, the sun caught an edge and sent a shard of light over the men’s faces. ‘Apologize!’

  In answer they drew their own weapons.

  ‘If that’s the way you want it.’

  Crispin didn’t wait. He charged them, arcing his blade toward their shins. They blocked his sword with their own in a clash of metal and sparks. Stepping back, Crispin assessed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw people fleeing near the alley entrance. No one wanted to get in the way of a sword fight.

  Crispin wiped his other hand over his mouth, swiping the blood away. ‘What is your game?’ he asked the men. ‘Who are you and what do you want?’

  ‘Our master wishes to speak with you.’

  ‘And he would do so from the edge of a blade?’

  ‘If necessary. We were told to bring you to him … upright or limp.’

  ‘And who is your master?’

  The clean-shaven man only grinned. He lunged and Crispin parried the sword out of the way. A sword came at him from the other direction. Crispin slid around the man and spun, slicing outward with his own blade toward the bearded man.

  Steel caught sleeve and flesh. The man’s cry was almost anticlimactic. Crispin turned and caught the sword from the other with his own and struck hard, slapping it away.

  Crispin was already winded. He hadn’t done such swordplay in a while and he was older than these two. If he had been practicing every day as he used to do, as Lancaster had, he would be in fine shape. As it was … What he couldn’t do with strength he’d have to do with cunning.

  He went on the offensive and slashed again at the bearded man’s shins. Tactical and expeditious in battle, any knight feared to be laid low by a cut to their legs. The man backed away, parrying the blows away with his steel.

  Clean-shaven tried to approach Crispin from another angle but Crispin used the same tactic against him, and he, too, defended his legs, backing away.

  There was only one way out of this. Crispin kept Bearded Man back with wild swoops of his blade, while he kicked dirt up into Clean-shaven’s face. The man took but a moment to wipe at his eyes, but that was all Crispin needed to spin and force his blade up to the man’s neck. Clean-shaven froze.

  ‘That was a wise decision,’ said Crispin, close to his face and trying not to pant. Bearded Man stopped his approach. ‘I won’t have any compunction about killing your companion,’ he told the other. Crispin pressed the edge of the steel that much more into the man’s fleshy neck. Clean-shaven cringed but forced himself not to move a muscle.

  ‘Drop the sword.’

  Clean-shaven did so with an echoing clang.

  ‘Now you,’ said Crispin to the other. But Bearded Man did not seem as anxious to comply. ‘Do you care nothing for your compatriot?’

  Bearded Man scowled. He hoisted his sword, changing his grip on the hilt. Suddenly, he heaved it forward toward Crispin.

  ‘God’s blood!’ Crispin ducked, using his sword to bat it away from his head. The flying sword rang against the stone wall behind him.

  When he looked up again, Clean-shaven had managed to slip away and was gripping his sword in his hand again. And his angry grimace showed no quarter. Without looking away from Crispin, Clean-shaven kicked Bearded Man’s blade toward his companion, who picked it up.

  Crispin blew his fringe away from his eyes and crouched, his sword at the ready. ‘That didn’t turn out as I expected.’

  They both swung. Crispin ducked and darted toward the opening of the alley. Footsteps behind told him all he needed to know.

  He ran harder, glanced back. Yes, they were hot on his heels. Damn! There would be no point in stopping and turning to fight. Perhaps in another day when he was at his peak, but that day had long passed.

  ‘Get out of the way!’ he cried to the people on the street in front of him. He waved his sword and they screamed, falling to the sides. If he could get enough in front of his pursuers, get to a roof somehow, he could drop down on them. But for now, running was his only course … and he was already tired.

  He wove in and out of backstreets and closes, but always he heard their footsteps ringing out and echoing off the shopfronts and houses hard behind him.

  Someone dumped their rubbish out the window, barely missing him, but it landed on his foes. He heard their curses and their slowing steps. He sent up a prayer of thanks to that unknown woman.

  He turned a corner and made a dash for the main road. And it would have gone well for him if that barrel-shaped carriage hadn’t suddenly pulled into his way.

  He tucked his sword to his side, cast his arm over his face, and hit the canvas side hard enough to tear it.

  He landed with a thump on the carriage floor, somewhat amazed that he had survived intact. When he looked up, he wasn’t so sure his survival was worth it.

  The Duke of Lancaster crouched beside his mistress Katherine Swynford, and they were both staring at Crispin with widened eyes.

  FIVE

  ‘Crispin!’ cried Lancaster. ‘What in hell—?’

  ‘My lady, my lord, I beg your mercy—’

  ‘John,’ said Lady Katherine soothingly. Her jeweled hand rested on his arm.

  The driver must not have noticed Crispin’s untimely arrival, for the carriage continued on, rocking roughly over the parts of the road laid with cobbled stone. Neither did the retainers on horseback leading the carriage notice the unwanted visitor.

  Crispin got up off the floor, struggled to sheath his sword in the tight quarters usually preserved for wealthy ladies, and sat on the cushioned seat opposite.

  ‘Well?’ said Lancaster testily.

  ‘I … I didn’t know this was your carriage. It was merely … opportune.’

  ‘There is blood on your face,’ said Lady Katherin
e. Her eyes, as always, were kind and concerned.

  He wiped at his mouth again. ‘Yes. Well, that’s what comes from someone striking me.’

  Lancaster huffed. ‘And well deserved, I imagine.’

  ‘No, Your Grace. Not in this instance. I was surprised by two men who meant to do me harm.’

  ‘So it’s just another day of the week, eh, Crispin?’

  He managed a crooked smile. ‘Just so, my lord.’

  ‘Hush, John. Can’t you see that your Crispin is hurt and in danger?’ She leaned toward him. ‘It is fortuitous that you should have … well, dropped in unexpectedly. What can we do to help you?’

  ‘My dear!’ Lancaster objected.

  But Lady Katherine brushed him aside. ‘Do you need our help, Crispin?’

  He looked from her pale countenance with her expressive hazel eyes to that of Lancaster, dark brows furrowed, dark beard emphasizing his scowl. ‘If I might impose …’

  She sat back. ‘But of course you can.’

  ‘My lady,’ said Lancaster carefully.

  ‘John.’ She rested a hand on his. It was a simple gesture, one that Crispin had not seen before. Always in the Lancaster household, Katherine was near, for she had been the governess to his daughters, who had now been married for some time to Spanish and English lords. But she had been discreet in Lancaster’s presence at court and at his estates. She had kept to herself, as far as Crispin could remember. Lancaster had spent time with his wives, and Crispin had only seen those gentle family scenes, all the while knowing Lancaster would escape to see his mistress. Obviously, she had not kept entirely to herself, for she had several children by him, long after her own husband was dead. Bastards, but welcomed into the family. Even Henry was friends with the oldest half-brother.

  Crispin had always been a sputtering fool in front of Lady Katherine, even as recently as a few years ago. And it was only now (was it maturity or the fact that he loved another?) that he realized that his enmity toward her had always been jealousy. Jealousy of Lancaster that such a beauteous and courteous woman should relegate herself to the background of his life, and yet be at his beck and call. At last, Crispin could admit with some embarrassment that he had been besotted of the lady himself since he was a young man. He felt a surge of pride that he had finally shed it from his person, like an old ram relieved of its fleece. He glanced up at her anew.