Traitor's Codex

by Jeri Westerson

  ‘For now, Jack, let us keep it safe. But for God’s sake, if it comes down to you or the book, choose yourself, man. I can’t do without you.’

  Jack perked. ‘Aye, sir.’

  Crispin walked out the door and headed down the Shambles, trying to organize his thoughts. He’d tell the sheriffs everything. He’d tell them about Bishop Becke’s quest, about his murderous henchmen, about the man who gave him the damned book to begin with. He prayed that Sheriff Whittington was there. Crispin was certain he would understand all.

  Vaguely, he was aware of London’s citizens who had gone back to their normal lives; the women carrying water in bougets over their shoulders, boys playing with sticks and skittles along the lane, girls sweeping the front steps of their shops, and men calling loudly about their wares. After all, even though the queen still lay in a chapel in Westminster, life for the rest had to go on.

  Smells of cooking fires mingled with horse droppings – and he deftly stepped over a fresh pile of warm oxen’s dung, ringed by flies. Nimble cats trotted along the edges of houses, and birds twittered or called from the rooftops. It was London as it always was. And, as always, none of them had a clue as to what secret thing was transpiring all around them.

  He thought about the queen, of Richard’s surprising confession, of Lancaster and Lady Katherine. There was always more below the surface than he would ever fully understand. And though he had enjoyed his brief time with Lancaster, he found himself surprised that he had been anxious to get home. And ‘home’ had come to mean the Shambles.

  ‘Curious,’ he chided himself. When had it happened? Perhaps some years ago when a red-headed boy had shoved his way into his life. He smiled thinking of it. But lost that smile when he thought again of the queen and now his dread duty ahead.

  The great gate of Newgate loomed ahead. The crenellations along the top speared the sunshine, as if there was no misery within, as if the very nature of what it represented had anything to do with sunshine and fresh air. Crispin had been a prisoner there, not once, but twice. And walked away. Twice.

  The bailiffs were not there under the dark arch, but the blond-haired page Rafe was, and he took one look at Crispin, turned, and led the way up the stairs.

  The boy said no words to him as he bowed to Crispin and left him at the entrance to the sheriffs’ chamber. Hamo Eckington, the clerk, was absent, and so Crispin cautiously moved forward, straining his neck to see around the corner. Sheriff Whittington was standing at the grilled window, looking out to the street. Crispin stayed in the doorway, loath to make himself known, until Whittington said, ‘Come forward, Master Guest. No need to stay within the shadows.’

  ‘I beg your mercy, my Lord Sheriff.’

  ‘You need no mercy from me, Master Guest.’ Whittington never turned away from the glass. ‘I saw you coming down the lane. Isn’t it a beautiful day?’

  ‘Er … yes, my lord.’

  ‘But I suppose … you have unpleasant tidings to impart.’

  ‘It is my burden to bear.’

  Whittington chuckled, cocking his head to get a better view out the window. ‘I have served nearly a year as one of the sheriffs of London, Guest. And do you know what that year has taught me? It has taught me that there are men who will commit crimes, and men who will not. Some very heinous crimes indeed. Drink has much to do with the everyday criminal, the man who stabs the one he drinks with, or the man who kills his wife or his wife’s lover … or both. But then there are other men, like you or me. We would never commit the crime, would we? Oh, we would defend ourselves or others, and that is right and proper. But we would never conspire to kill our neighbor or even a fleeting acquaintance, or any other soul. Why is that, do you suppose?’

  Crispin shook his head. ‘Character. Character does not only belong to those with breeding, my lord. Good character is conferred on the lowliest of peasants. God grants certain men and women this character and no trial of Job will see them change their minds on it.’

  Whittington turned then. ‘But treason, Guest?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Crispin, pressing his hands together before him. His thoughts suddenly fell on Richard and the private words he had spoken to Crispin. ‘A man swears an oath and finds he must break it for the greater good. Those men are given their just reward.’

  ‘But not you.’

  ‘Oh, Lord Sheriff, I was given what was my due. Though I was not executed as was the right of the king and of justice, but instead exiled into London to make my way as a disgraced man with only the coat on my back. It was designed to set me low and it did. How it did. Do you think I was lucky? Do you think I was blessed?’

  ‘I … don’t know. I don’t know you. But I think I know your character.’

  They looked at each other for a moment longer before Whittington sighed. ‘You’ve come to tell me about those murders, haven’t you, Guest?’ He moved away from the window at last and seated himself behind the table on a large chair. He did not entreat Crispin to sit.

  ‘Yes, my lord. I feel … I feel I should tell you the entire tale.’

  ‘Oh? There is more to dead men in London and Westminster?’

  ‘Much more. It began yesterday. A man came to me in the tavern I favor and gave me a parcel. I did not know the man nor the nature of the parcel.’

  Whittington sat back, blinking, with a curious expression on his face. He looked as if he might interrupt with a question, but instead fell silent, listening.

  ‘I naturally took the parcel home and discovered that it was a book. A book I could not translate.’

  The sheriff sat forward, hands on his table. ‘What did you do then?’

  ‘I took it to a bookseller for help.’

  ‘Ah, a wise move … Wait. The bookseller. The one—’

  ‘Yes, my lord. He could not translate the text, so I took it to a … a man I knew in Westminster, a goldsmith …’

  ‘The next one to be murdered? Oh, Master Guest.’

  ‘Yes. And he recommended I take it to a certain scholar he knew, who was a barber by trade.’

  ‘A scholarly barber? You do know the most intriguing people.’

  ‘So I have been told. This scholar understood the writing. And told me that the book itself, that likely began as scrolls that were put into book form, was very old. And then he told me what the text said. It was written in a language called Coptic, something the early Christians in Palestine used to speak and write.’

  ‘The devil you say. Fascinating.’ Whittington put his clasped hands to his mouth, leaning on his elbows.

  ‘Yes, and this text was in fact a hidden gospel. The Gospel of Judas, as it turns out.’

  Whittington fell back in his seat, mouth open. ‘Blessed Lord.’

  ‘A most unusual text with an unusual philosophy. Not as we were taught in our catechisms.’

  ‘Bless me,’ whispered the sheriff.

  ‘I could see instantly that this was a dangerous book and those in the Church would certainly move to suppress it.’

  ‘I should think so! Did you burn this heinous book?’

  ‘Lord Sheriff, in my prudence, I did not think it was my book to dispose of. After all, I was told to keep it safe. And so I did. But then … I met up with a man I had known from years ago. A certain bishop from Yorkshire, a Bishop Edmund Becke.’

  Sheriff Whittington slowly rose. ‘Becke?’

  ‘You … know of him, my lord?’

  ‘Good God.’ He rubbed his bearded chin and returned to the window. ‘He is a dangerous fellow, Guest. You don’t wish to tangle with him.’

  ‘How well I know it. But his henchmen have been busy, both in London and in Westminster.’

  The sheriff pivoted to face him. ‘You mean—’

  ‘I am very much afraid so.’

  ‘Damn the man. What wretched folly is here? Master Guest, I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘I only wished to apprise you of these facts, Lord Sheriff. To make you aware of what has been transpiring.’

&nbs
p; ‘And what of the book? What have you done with it?’

  ‘I feared for the safety of my household. I sent my apprentice’s wife and children away. Bishop Becke wants me to surrender the book to him.’

  ‘And what will you do?’

  ‘I … suppose I must. I have no alternative. And now, Lord Sheriff, what will you do?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘I have told you my lengthy tale to attest to the murderers of those three men, to tell you who they were and what were the circumstances. Are you going to arrest the bishop’s henchmen and this bishop?’

  ‘Well, these men I shall certainly apprehend. But as to the bishop, I’m afraid we cannot possibly touch him. He is a cleric, and under the auspices of Rome.’

  Crispin slammed his hands to the table. ‘He has ordered the deaths of three innocent men! Does that count for nothing?’

  ‘In the eyes of the law, Master Guest, he is under ecclesiastical rule. Not the king’s justice.’

  Crispin huffed a dissatisfied breath and stalked away from the table. ‘Something must be done. We cannot have two laws for our citizens.’

  ‘This has been practiced for a very long time, Master Guest. And I doubt that now, in the state the king is presently in, that any of this will change any time soon.’

  ‘I would see these victims receive their justice.’

  ‘And they will. We will send men to find these henchmen.’

  ‘And if they, too, are clerics?’

  ‘Well … you know the answer to that as much as any man, Guest.’

  Crispin clenched his hands into fists and stared into the far corner.

  ‘Master Guest … I know that this is now your vocation, and a fair one it is, but you must realize, there are limitations …’

  ‘I know them well.’

  ‘Then I must ask you to understand.’

  ‘I … I do. You have been most generous with me, Sheriff Whittington. Both in my purse and with my person. I am grateful for your time. I would most likely have been less than forthcoming with Sheriff Barentyne.’

  Whittington chewed on that thought a moment. ‘I appreciate your candor, Guest.’

  ‘What will you do now?’

  ‘Search for Becke’s men … and bring them in.’

  Crispin nodded. It was the most he could hope for. ‘And … the book. Am I obliged to hand it over to the bishop?’

  ‘Well, in all truth, Master Guest, what else would you do with it?’

  The man had a point.

  Crispin bowed. ‘I am at your service, my lord.’

  ‘Have a care, Guest. God be with you.’

  Crispin left Newgate feeling soiled. He hadn’t wanted to bare his story to the sheriff but saw no other way to explain it all. He thought he’d feel relieved, but he was far from that.

  Grumbling to himself, he heard the murmuring of a crowd. Was it Lollards preaching again? Some other amusement? Lord, let it be an amusement, for I am in sore need of it.

  When he turned the corner, he saw the gathered people. Two maids were huddled together directly before him. They exchanged hurried words with one another and kept peering this way and that through the spaces between the crowd.

  ‘What’s amiss?’ Crispin asked.

  ‘Oh, sir!’ said one of the maids. Once she got a good look at Crispin her posture changed to something leonine, and she offered a dimpled smile. ‘Good, sir. It’s that Tracker. He’s done it again.’

  Crispin seethed but tried to keep it out of his voice. ‘Done what?’

  The other maid nearly pushed the first aside to get closer to Crispin, batting her lashes. ‘He saved yon woman from losing her purse. Here now. Do you know it’s funny. You have the same look of him. Handsome.’ She giggled.

  Crispin scowled. His double was at it again. ‘Which way did he go?’

  Both maids pointed over the crowd. ‘That way,’ said the first.

  Crispin pushed them aside, ignoring their squeaks of protest, and threw himself forward.

  FOURTEEN

  He struggled through the people, their carts, peddlers selling food and trinkets, horses … but still he kept the man in sight. He seemed to be moving fast, ducking into the shadows and hurrying to some purpose. Once the lane had eased its traffic, Crispin easily spotted him turning down an alley.

  Trotting forward, Crispin came to the alley’s dark entrance in time to spy the other ‘Crispin’ handing coins to a swarthy man with a dirty face and patting his arm companionably. The swarthy man turned and made his way up the alley and around the corner. Crispin’s double turned … and suddenly faced Crispin head on.

  For a moment, the man only smiled and tried to move past him. But Crispin put a hand to his shoulder and shoved him back. Perplexed, the man looked at Crispin a moment more … before his eyes widened. He turned to flee, but Crispin had grabbed a good wad of the man’s cote-hardie at the shoulder and shoved him back into the alley and against the wall.

  Crispin looked him up and down. Yes, his face had a similar appearance with a sharpened nose and rounded jaw. His eyes were gray like Crispin’s, his hair black. And though his cote-hardie was nearly the same color as Crispin’s, it wasn’t nearly as well made and showed signs of grievous wear. His stockings, likewise, were blue as Crispin’s but patched.

  He wore a sword on his belt, but it was obviously a very poorly made one. Something a mummer might use.

  Crispin smacked him into the wall again just for the hell of it. ‘Why are you impersonating me?’

  ‘I … I …’

  ‘Tell me one good reason why I shouldn’t beat you bloody.’

  ‘Now … now Master Guest … I thought you would be flattered …’

  ‘Do I look flattered?’

  ‘Er … no. You don’t. I can explain!’

  Crispin released his coat and stepped back far enough to glare. ‘Well?’

  The man straightened his coat, smoothed back his hair. ‘You see, a while ago, I was told by people who knew, that I looked like you.’ He waited for comment.

  Crispin scowled, tapping his fingers on his sword hilt.

  The man licked his lips and went on. ‘So … so I thought that I could perhaps do the same as you. Stop knaves from committing crimes.’

  The man’s accent was all London, and not from the higher echelons of it. But he appeared to try to cultivate a bit of the palace in his tones. He was attempting to emulate what he thought Crispin must sound like, and that made Crispin scowl all the more.

  ‘You were paying that man in this alley.’

  He sputtered and shook his head. ‘No, Master Guest, I was not.’

  ‘I tell you what I think you are doing, Master … er … what shall I call you?’

  ‘I … my name is Spillewood. Erm … Walter Spillewood.’

  ‘Master Spillewood.’ Crispin rested his hand against the wall at Walter’s head and leaned in close. He could smell the sweat pouring off the man. ‘This is what I think you are doing. I think you and your swarthy friend are deceiving these good townsfolk.’

  ‘Oh, no, Master Guest—’

  He was cut off when Crispin grabbed his hair and slammed his head back against the wall, holding it there. ‘I suspect that the two of you are making a mummery. Your friend cuts a purse or steals a sack a merchant is carrying and runs off, and then here is Crispin Guest sweeping in to the rescue, recovering said thievery and getting a fine fee for it. Have I got it right?’

  ‘Now that’s n-not quite—’

  Crispin twisted Walter’s hair and forced his head back, exposing his neck. If Crispin had a mind to it, he could easily slit the man’s throat. ‘Have I got it right?’

  ‘Yes, yes! Have mercy!’

  Crispin leaned in close, baring his teeth. ‘You stole my name, knave. My name and my hard-won reputation. What do you think I should do about that?’

  ‘God help me. Have mercy, sir!’

  ‘And if I give you mercy?’

  ‘I won’t use your name again. I swear!’<
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  ‘And stop this deceit at once. I also suggest moving quickly and quietly out of the Bread Street ward. Do you understand me?’

  ‘Yes, Master Guest. I do apologize for using your name, sir. You’ll never hear from me again. I swear it! I’ll even grow a beard. W–would you like that?’

  ‘I tell you what I’d like. I do want to know your whereabouts. I want to know exactly where you are at all times. If you don’t get word to me where you next land, I will hunt you down. And you know I can do it. They don’t call me the Tracker for nothing. I will hunt you down and cut you from here—’ He poked a finger at his throat. ‘Down to here.’ He punched hard with his finger into the man’s cod. ‘Is that understood?’

  Coughing, Walter nodded vigorously. ‘Yes, yes. It is most definitely understood.’

  Crispin released his hair and stood back again.

  The man made long rolling swallows on his stubbled neck. He straightened his coat again. ‘Am … am I f–free to go, master?’

  Crispin delivered a lingering scowl before he swatted his hand in a vague gesture. The man wasted no time and was gone in a heartbeat.

  When his running steps could be heard no more, Crispin’s mouth curled into a smile. He laughed, listening to its echoes off the alley walls. A ginger cat looked at him curiously.

  That had felt good.

  He dusted his hands at a job well done and made his way down the lane. The creak of wagon wheels behind him made him walk to the side, allowing it room to pass. Except it didn’t pass and continued its slow amble directly behind him.

  With a long exhale, Crispin turned. Becke’s frowning driver stared down at him as he gestured for Crispin to get in.

  Standing his ground, Crispin stuck his fists in his hips. ‘And if I don’t?’

  The driver threw the reins aside, and nimbly leapt down, squaring with Crispin.