Traitor's Codex

by Jeri Westerson

  ‘I … don’t know that you can help me beyond spiriting me away as you have done. I was outnumbered.’

  ‘I don’t remember that being a hindrance before,’ said Lancaster, sitting back. He still clutched Lady Katherine’s hand.

  ‘I am somewhat older than I was in those days that you knew me, Your Grace. And considerably more winded.’

  Lancaster smiled. ‘So are we all.’

  ‘But how can we aid you?’ said Lady Katherine.

  ‘Truly, you have done enough already, my lady.’ He grabbed the torn canvas that covered the window and doorway, drew it back, and peeked outside. The men were long gone. They would not follow such a carriage. Not if they valued their lives.

  Lancaster smoothed his beard. ‘Then where can we drop you off?’

  ‘In such a hurry to rid yourself of me, my lord? We’ve scarce laid eyes on one another for some months.’

  ‘And you very well know why.’

  ‘Where do you go?’ Crispin asked.

  ‘We are heading out of London for Sheen. The queen is ill. Richard is moving the court to get out of London and escape the plague months.’

  ‘Of course. I am sorry to hear of the queen’s ill health. She was kind to Jack.’

  ‘And do you still harbor that miscreant?’ said Lancaster.

  ‘That and more. Jack has a wife with two children and one coming soon.’

  ‘Good God! You don’t say.’

  Katherine beamed. ‘That is blessed news. Give him my regards and tell him I shall pray for him and his.’

  ‘I shall. He will be pleased to hear it. He often remembers you in his prayers.’ He turned to Lancaster. ‘And your prayers too, my lord?’

  ‘You’re still a knave, Crispin.’

  How he longed to tell Lancaster of his own son. He’d understand, having bastards of his own. But he feared for the news to get out, to hurt Philippa and her standing. He clamped down on his words and kept them close.

  Lancaster grumbled and finally leaned forward on his elbows. ‘So what trouble this time, Crispin? Why do you have need to flee?’ He squinted at the sword that his son Henry had given to Crispin.

  ‘I don’t know how much to say. An object has fallen into my hands. To what purpose, I am uncertain. But I have discovered it is dangerous to … certain philosophies and that powerful men would wish its destruction.’

  ‘Then destroy it.’

  ‘I am not certain that this is the best course. All persons ought to endeavor to follow what is right, and not what is established.’

  ‘You have the nerve to quote Aristotle to me?’ He sat back. ‘You will do as you always do, Crispin; ignoring the good advice of others.’

  ‘The simplest way is not always the best, my lord.’

  ‘It is when caught up in a maze … as you seem to be. Again.’

  Crispin nodded. Hadn’t Lancaster benefited all these years with taking the sane course, the logical way? He was the wealthiest man in England, through careful plotting and planning. The best strategist, the best warrior. He married well. And he had kept his head during the worst of the treason against King Richard, a treason that Lancaster himself had engineered to ferret out the disloyal, a plot that Crispin had been caught up in.

  ‘I know, my lord. But … I am a man who thinks too much.’

  Lancaster’s smile was bittersweet. ‘So you are.’ He studied Crispin a long while. Lancaster was ten years his senior and Crispin was nearing his fortieth year. It had been a while since they had been in one another’s company. He gazed at Lancaster just as long as Lancaster gazed at him.

  After a time, Lancaster said quietly. ‘Have a care, Crispin. If you find yourself cornered by the Minotaur, get word to me. I will send you a Theseus.’

  Crispin bowed. ‘Thank you, my lord. And now, I must take my leave before I end up in Sheen. I doubt His Majesty will be glad to see me.’

  ‘Indeed he would not.’ Lancaster pushed aside the curtains. ‘Here is good enough. We are about to meet the Strand. Good luck, Crispin, and God’s blessings on you.’

  Crispin smiled. ‘And to you, and you, my lady.’ He bowed to her, cast the canvas aside, and leapt to the road, the driver never aware of his coming or going. He watched the cart amble away. The knights leading the carriage never turned their heads.

  Pivoting back toward London, he set out.

  What Lancaster said made sense, of course. He had no doubt that those men after him had something to do with the Judas Codex. But what, and who was their master? Crispin had a niggling sense in the back of his neck just who it might be, yet the notion seemed outlandish. But, of course, it was no more outlandish than it had been twelve years ago.

  He stopped and turned again. He didn’t have the book on him, so what would be the harm in consulting with Abbot William now? He set his jaw and headed toward Westminster.

  It took no time at all to reach the abbey. He rang the bell to the cloister and stood as he had done for many years now, awaiting a monk to take him to see the abbot. What did the monks think of his trespass? he wondered. Did they view him as a distraction for their abbot?

  Brother John Sandon arrived and said nothing as he unlocked the gate. ‘Do you need an escort, Master Guest?’

  ‘No, Brother. I know the way.’

  The monk bowed and watched as Crispin headed down the arcade toward the abbot’s lodgings.

  He knocked at the abbot’s door, and heard the abbot call out, ‘Come!’

  Pushing open the heavy oak door, Crispin looked around. Abbot William sat beside a harper. The abbot held a goblet of wine, and with eyes closed, seemed to contemplate the music.

  Crispin coughed into his hand.

  ‘Yes, Brother?’ said the abbot without opening his eyes.

  ‘It is me, Abbot William. Crispin Guest.’

  The abbot jerked in his seat and snapped his eyes open. ‘Bless me, so it is. Come in, Master Guest. My friend,’ he said to the harper. ‘We will continue this later. Please excuse us.’

  The harper stopped plucking and rose. He bowed to the abbot and then to Crispin before he made a quick exit.

  Abbot William smiled. ‘It is good to see you, Crispin. How goes it?’

  ‘Fair, as always, my lord. But there is a question I have been pondering and I thought it best to come to you, since you are openminded on an extraordinary number of topics.’

  The abbot narrowed his eyes and looked Crispin up and down. ‘Am I? I’m surprised you didn’t mention how unmoved I am by flattery.’

  ‘That was certainly my next comment, my lord.’

  Abbot William chuckled and rose. He walked to the sideboard and poured them both wine. ‘You’re a knave, Crispin Guest. Has anyone ever told you that?’

  ‘Remarkably, I was told that very thing not more than a quarter of the hour ago.’

  ‘I shouldn’t be surprised.’ He handed Crispin a goblet and they both sat before the hearth that had been allowed to go cold in these warmer months. The windows were open, letting in a breeze.

  ‘I am surprised to find you here,’ said Crispin. ‘Is not the court moving to Sheen for the summer to escape the plague?’

  ‘I have not been called. His Majesty prefers Dominican confessors beside him.’

  ‘The queen is ill.’

  ‘Oh?’ The abbot ran a hand over his lower lip. ‘I shall pray for her. She is a kind and generous lady. She tames the heart of the king.’

  ‘Indeed she does.’

  ‘But certainly you did not come all this way to discuss the queen?’

  ‘No.’ Crispin toyed with the goblet before setting it down without drinking. ‘A book has come into my temporary possession.’

  ‘A book? I would be anxious to see it. Do you have it with you?’

  ‘No. I thought it best to keep it … elsewhere. It is a … troubling book. Very old. I would beg your opinion on it.’

  ‘I suppose I can offer what I can, not having seen it.’

  ‘Well …’ Crispin rose an
d paced before the hearth. ‘I fear it may be a blasphemous book. But it also might be of grave importance. I have thought of destroying it—’

  ‘And perhaps you should. If it is a blasphemous book and turns souls away from Christ, then it has no place among God-fearing people.’

  ‘And yet it is not mine to destroy.’

  ‘That matters not at all. You are doing a service to the one who owns it.’

  Crispin brooded, staring into the cold ash of the fireplace. Hastily he turned, regaining his seat, and leaned in toward the abbot. ‘Is it true that our early Church fathers argued about which gospels would be included in our New Testament? And that there were many more than the four we know well today?’

  The abbot’s plain and solid features sobered and he placed his goblet on the table between the two chairs. ‘Who has told you this?’

  ‘A scholar. He explained how the gospels were discussed and decided upon, just as our creed was argued and decided upon at the Council of Nicaea.’

  The abbot shot to his feet. His hands moved in agitation as he took his turn to pace. ‘What manner of “scholar” has put these notions in your head?’

  ‘Are you saying that the Council of Nicaea did not discuss—’

  ‘Yes, yes! Of course they decided. There were heresies everywhere. They had to come up with a universal creed.’ He faced Crispin. ‘But the gospels are the gospels. There are no others.’

  He had seldom seen the abbot in so intractable a mood. A man who spent his time awaiting popes and cardinals certainly must know this from that. But, in this, Crispin wasn’t so sure that the abbot knew his history. Or would admit to it.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Crispin.

  ‘What is this book you have?’ said the abbot, in an accusatory tone. Crispin had never heard such or had it directed toward him. At least, not for some years.

  ‘It is another gospel.’

  The abbot threw his hand in a careless gesture. ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘I’m afraid it is true. It is written on something called papyrus and in a language called Coptic.’

  The abbot’s eyes enlarged. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I had a translator read it to me. It isn’t very long. But I have it on good authority that it is quite old.’

  ‘What gospel?’

  Crispin faced him. ‘The gospel of Judas.’

  The abbot seldom showed varying expressions. He could show joy, irritation, even a bit of anger, but always it was tempered by his weighted eyes, his unmalleable mouth, and stoicism. But now his eyes bulged, his mouth was set open, his face flushed red. There was something in this exchange Crispin had never seen before. The man could patiently argue any fact brought to the fore without showing undue emotion. Was it Scripture on which he drew his line in the sand?

  ‘And how, pray, could Judas write a gospel when he was dead?’

  ‘And dead in two ways, wasn’t he?’ said Crispin. ‘By hanging and then by his belly breaking open in a field? Which one is correct, do you imagine? Neither, perhaps?’

  The abbot nodded. ‘Blasphemy is insidious. It crawls into the dark spaces of our minds and hearts, makes us question.’

  ‘There are inconsistencies in the gospels, my lord. Surely you have noted them too.’

  The abbot drew himself up. ‘You must bring this … this book at once to me.’

  ‘And why is that, my lord?’

  ‘So that I may dispose of it and its heresy forthwith.’

  Crispin took a breath. ‘I do not think that wise.’

  ‘See how the blasphemy infects!’

  ‘On the contrary. It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it.’

  ‘Do you have the temerity to quote a pagan to me now?’

  Crispin slowly rose. ‘The temerity? Indeed, my lord. For I have always found value in the philosopher’s point of view, be they pagan or Christian father.’

  The abbot shook his head. ‘Crispin, you go too far. One day you will find yourself on a heretic’s stake if you are not careful.’

  ‘God forbid. I see this subject is one that is not available for your usual judicious debate.’ Bowing, Crispin headed for the door.

  ‘Now … one moment.’ The abbot straightened his robes, took a deep breath, and in moments comported his face as it usually was, with unambiguous languor. His hands folded together in front of him. The pace of his speech was careful and considered. He was again the abbot Crispin had known for some years. ‘You are right. I was too hot-tempered on the subject. I have always been a man steadfast in the Church. I have sparred with some of the greatest minds of Europe, with popes and their cardinals. My speech has always been measured with poise and deep deliberation. I don’t know why I attacked you and your … your opinions on the matter.’

  ‘It is a deeply disturbing notion,’ said Crispin. ‘I don’t mind saying that the gospel – or whatever it would be called – burdened me with a wild array of thoughts on the subject, on the history that we know … or thought we did. But to also discover that only four gospels were chosen out of many … One has to wonder as to the deciding factors. You and I both know that a single pious man can be a saint. But two can be a synod. And in that, agendas and factions can be formed. You can’t tell me your many journeys to Rome were merely for questions on running this abbey. They must have skimmed along the razor’s edge of politics. The popes of Rome seethe with it.’

  Abbot William lowered his head as he strode across the room. A breviary sat open on a stand and he lifted a hand to briefly touch it. ‘There is much truth to what you speak,’ he said softly. ‘Then what would you have me say, Crispin? Do you want me to evaluate this … this gospel of yours?’

  Crispin wiped at his brow. ‘I … don’t honestly know. If it is truly as it says, then I realize it is a very dangerous book. I have already been accosted by two men attempting to take me to their unknown master about it. At least, I am fairly certain that was their aim.’

  ‘Crispin.’ Now there was concern in his voice. ‘You didn’t tell me this.’ He seemed to noticed Crispin’s bruised lip for the first time. ‘Are you … are you hurt?’

  ‘No. Only a thick lip for my trouble.’ His tongue found the sore spot once more. ‘I was able to escape them. This time. But they won’t give up.’

  ‘Then wouldn’t it be the saner option to turn over this book?’

  ‘It is not mine to give. It was handed to me anonymously. For what reason? I can scarce imagine. That is the greater mystery to me now.’

  ‘I see. It is honor that keeps you from your Christian duty.’

  ‘Is it my Christian duty? We follow the teachings of the Church and we are taught that thus it has ever been. But that isn’t quite true, is it?’

  ‘You speak like a Lollard.’

  ‘And yet I am not. I do follow the teachings of the Church. Gladly. But I do not wish to be martyred in it.’

  ‘Then give up the book, Crispin. Hand it over to me. And I shall dispose of it if doing it yourself is not to your liking.’

  ‘If that is the course I decide upon, Lord Abbot, then I will do as you say. But until I am satisfied, I think I shall keep it a while longer, if but only to discover why it was put into my hands in the first place.’

  ‘To tempt you. As it has.’

  ‘The Devil has far better ways to tempt me and lead me astray. In this, he is doing a poor job.’

  ‘You jest inappropriately,’ said the abbot with a scowl.

  ‘Do I? It is only to keep fear at bay. The Devil and I have danced long ago and he is not finished with me yet. But I don’t think his hoary hands are in this. At least … not yet.’

  ‘Then you’ve already decided. Why come to me and trouble my soul over it?’

  ‘I didn’t intend that. I merely wanted sound advice. I suppose I got it.’

  ‘You received emotion and the weight of the Church, I’m afraid.’ He bowed his head and sketched a cross over Crispin. ‘May God go with you and make st
raight your path.’

  ‘Amen.’ He bowed but, before he took his leave, he glanced back. ‘Lord Abbot, might I beg a favor of you?’

  Abbot William shook his head vigorously. ‘I will not house this book of yours. Do not ask me to.’

  ‘No, my lord. I merely ask that you make no mention of what I have told you today. Lives may depend on it.’

  The abbot considered and finally nodded. ‘I would see you and yours safe. But,’ his taut cheek twitched, ‘be swift in your investigation. For I will not wait forever. I would see proof that the book was destroyed.’

  ‘Will my word be good enough?’

  The abbot deliberated more, and finally – and reluctantly, it seemed – nodded.

  Crispin made his way absently back toward the Shambles. But something made him turn up Chauncelor Lane before reaching London’s walls. He wanted to see the bookseller again. To thank him, to maybe find out how much he was asking for that book of Socrates. Perhaps he could save a few farthings or two, set them aside.

  He found the bookseller’s stall between the buildings and knocked upon the door. Waiting, he glanced along the lane. Someone always seemed to have a bundle they were carrying, or the women were burdened with yokes on their shoulders, balancing buckets full of water. It was just as busy as London proper.

  There was even another preacher – another Lollard, he noticed, when Crispin could hear the man’s words. The crowds seemed equally divided over what he had to say.

  He valued Lancaster’s opinions and counsel. But he could not bring himself to believe as the man did on these theological matters. Was Crispin merely being a prude? He’d been accused of such before. And after what he had seen of the wealth of churches and churchmen, it did seem the wiser course to not leave the temptation of greed to priests and bishops by allowing them to own property, and to keep their hands out of politics. Weren’t the popes a long line of oligarchs rather than humble saints?

  Crispin turned away from the man and his preaching and leaned toward the window to look inside the bookseller’s shop … and saw books scattered along the floor. He hurried to the door and tried it but it was barred. He didn’t hesitate to jump up on to the windowsill and climb inside.