‘Good,’ said Crispin, polishing one fist in the palm of another. ‘I think I’ve needed to punch someone in the face.’
The driver stalked toward him. Crispin gathered himself, waiting, and when the man got close enough, Crispin threw the first punch.
The driver ducked, knee to the ground, and came up with his fist in Crispin’s gut. Crispin doubled. Out of breath and wincing, he managed to block another double-handed blow from above. He rolled away and staggered to his feet, fists before him again.
‘By the mass, Master Guest,’ came the voice from within the carriage. ‘Must we endure this savage display of vulgarity?’
Gasping, Crispin finally got his breath back and managed to croak, ‘Sometimes a “savage display of vulgarity” is what’s needed, Your Excellency.’
‘Get in the carriage, Master Guest.’
‘I still refuse.’
‘Then my man will have to force you.’
‘I’m not your puppet. Nor am I at your beck and call.’
‘Is that a pun? A very poor one. Get in. I shan’t ask politely again.’
Crispin measured the driver, a burly man who seemed ready for anything. And then measured himself, already winded and sore … before he straightened and lowered his fists. With a frown, he slowly sauntered to the carriage, keeping the driver within his gaze at all times. The driver’s eyes were the only thing to move, watching his every step. It wasn’t until Crispin threw back the leather-curtained door that the driver turned and climbed back up to his seat.
Crispin shoved the curtain aside and sat hard on the seat opposite. ‘I have just talked to the sheriff,’ he growled, ‘and they shall apprehend your henchmen forthwith.’
‘Oh? And why is that?’
‘Because you sent them to kill those men.’
‘What men?’
‘You know damn well what men: the bookseller, the goldsmith, and the barber.’
The bishop adjusted his gauntlets, never glancing at Crispin. ‘Master Guest, that is an extraordinary accusation. What evidence have you to back it up?’
‘Their following me, their threatening me …’
‘Master Guest, I tell you in all honesty that I ordered no such thing. And that my … my “henchmen”, as you call them, did no such deed. Yes, I have sent them to watch you and only watch you. To compel you to come to me when I desired, but that is all.’
‘And I’m supposed to believe you.’
‘Believe what you like, Master Guest, but you well know I shall tell the sheriffs what I have told you, and I daresay that they will believe me over you.’ He smiled at Crispin then. ‘But into the bargain, Master Tracker, it is the truth.’ He raised his hand and looked heavenward. ‘I swear on my soul to our heavenly Father.’
Crispin frowned. If this were true – and he was still not certain that it was – then those men did not kill the three victims. And if they didn’t, who did?
He fell back on rudeness as his only weapon. ‘What do you want?’
‘Ah, Master Guest. What does any man want? What does a man of the cloth want? Peace, faithfulness, God’s rule of the earth. What else could there be?’
‘Love, charity, humility.’
The spark in Becke’s eyes dimmed. ‘Is not all that under the jurisdiction of our Lord?’
‘Not the way you say it. Tell me, Your Excellency, what is the ambition of a traveling bishop? Can he aspire to a higher calling? Cardinal, perhaps? Pope? If his accomplishments reach so far and wide, what heights can he not achieve?’
‘I have no ambitions but to be a humble servant of God.’
‘Of course. Any cleric would tell me thus. But somehow …’ He leaned back against the seat and folded his arms. ‘I think there is more afoot with you … Your Excellency.’
The bishop stopped fussing with his gauntlets and raised his gaze to Crispin’s face. ‘You are an extraordinary man, Guest. You rose to the heights of court and tumbled down as far as can be, like Lucifer who stood against God.’
‘You are likening me to the Devil? That might be apt.’
‘And you revel in the comparison. If you must cast stones of humility, cast them first at yourself.’
‘I know who I am, my lord. I know my faults and my sins. My question to you is, do you?’
‘The profundity of this conversation eludes me,’ he dodged. ‘I have only one simple question. Will you hand over the book?’
Crispin remained stubbornly silent.
Becke whistled for the driver. The cart lurched to a halt. But even as Crispin made to rise, the canvas was thrown back, and the bearded henchmen thrust his head in. Crispin had little time to react before the cudgel in the man’s hand struck.
FIFTEEN
Crispin hadn’t been knocked out completely. He vaguely remembered falling back in his seat with a bone-jarring headache. The carriage had moved on again and he was aware of a presence beside him. Probably the henchman. But he had little recollection of how far they drove. He seemed to have fluctuated in and out of a bleary awareness.
He understood when the carriage stopped and felt hands on him none-too-gently dragging him out. He was thrust into a chair and bound, but never came fully awake until a bucketful of cold water was thrown into his face.
He sputtered and spit out the foul water and squinted at the bishop sitting sedately in front of him. He wondered blearily if they were still in the carriage, sitting as they had been. But when his eyes were able to focus he flicked his gaze into dark, cobwebbed rafters with the smell of horse dung strong in the air.
To his left, the bearded man who had hit him. He frowned down at Crispin. Elsewhere in the shadows was the clean-shaven henchman. Crispin had little doubt the bulky driver stood guard outside.
Adjusting himself higher in his seat – as much as he could do, tied to it – Crispin settled his gaze on the bishop. ‘Was this truly necessary?’
‘I tell you, Master Guest,’ said Becke, ‘that my considerable patience does tire. I want that book.’
‘My, my, Your Excellency. I expected better of you. A certain formality and congenial deportment, at least. This “savage display of vulgarity” goes too far.’
The bishop twitched an eyebrow, but it was enough to signal Bearded Man to Crispin’s left to draw forward and jab his fist hard to Crispin’s gut.
He heaved forward, nearly retching, and gasped for air. The bishop allowed him to recover and sit up again. Glaring at the henchman, Crispin slowly fixed his eyes on the bishop once more.
‘Master Guest, I am a reasonable man. But when doing God’s work, I cannot, in all good conscience, let anything that may damage the Church slip through my fingers. This book is a danger. I know it, you know it. There is no use hiding behind your pagan philosophers. Why not save yourself more pain and suffering – which you know I have the patience to mete out – and give me the book?’
Why wasn’t he? Wasn’t he going to hand it over to him anyway? Why take a beating on a principle? Was it worth it?
He ached. His belly ached, his neck ached, his head ached. It was all so damned foolish and unnecessary.
‘You know, Your Excellency, you are right. As much as it pains me to say so.’ Crispin even chuckled. ‘I’ll tell you what I will do.’
The bishop guffawed. Crispin giving him orders tied to a chair?
‘You will meet me at Charing Cross,’ Crispin continued, ‘tomorrow at the stroke of noon. And I will give it to you then.’
‘Master Guest, must we play these games?’
‘My lord, allow me a small portion of my dignity. I am my very word. When I give my oath to protect something, that is no mean thing. My reputation is at stake. If I can seem to decide to give it to you at my chosen time and place, can you not allow me that?’
Becke considered, tapping his gloved finger to the side of his face. ‘Master Guest, were it any other man, I would not allow it. But seeing that it is you … yes, I will concede you this. You must have your way, eh? Ah, the folly of a man
’s pride.’
‘I am who I am, my lord. And now …’ He pulled at his bindings. ‘If your man will release me …’
The henchman took another subtle signal from the bishop, pulled his dagger, and sliced off the ropes. Crispin rose unsteadily and shook out his hands. When he felt stable enough, he hauled his arm back and swung, catching the henchman in his bearded jaw, knocking back his head. He sank to his knees.
The clean-shaven henchman jerked forward and Crispin pulled his fists up to guard his face.
‘Now, now,’ said the bishop in a bored tone. Clean-shaven halted. ‘Master Guest simply took his due. Let him go freely. Tomorrow at noon, Master Guest. I shall take it very unkindly if you are late … or don’t show at all. Very unkindly.’
Crispin rubbed his sore knuckles and gave an abbreviated bow. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be there.’
Clean-shaven blocked the door for only a moment before he stepped slowly and deliberately aside.
Crispin kept him in the corner of his eye as he passed through the doorway, and then gave a wide berth to the driver who was standing in the stable yard, oblivious to the dung-crusted hay under his boots.
Crispin stood at the gate, assessed where he was, took his time straightening his cote-hardie, his belt and scabbard, before he sauntered away up the road toward London proper, wondering if he couldn’t find a handy round stone to heave at the driver’s head.
SIXTEEN
He walked back toward the Shambles, rubbing his sore stomach. If Becke’s henchmen did not kill those men – and even now he wasn’t certain he was ready to completely exonerate them – then who else would have cause to do the deed? Of course, Becke could be lying. But his oath seemed sincere.
‘Clerics. Who can trust them?’ he grumbled, walking up to his door.
The door opened before he could reach the latch. An anxious Jack stood in the doorway. ‘Well, master?’
‘Let me in the door at least.’ He pushed past his apprentice and sat in his chair before the smoking hearth.
Jack suddenly seized his wrist, looking over the bruises on his knuckles. ‘What’s this?’
Crispin gently pulled his wrist free. ‘A run-in with our friend the bishop … and his men.’
Jack ticked his head from side to side and crossed his arms, looking at Crispin like a fishwife.
‘There’s no need to look at me like that, Tucker. I was his prisoner.’
‘Sir!’
‘And was let go. Do you want to hear this or not?’
Jack gestured for him to continue.
‘Well then … I told Sheriff Whittington the whole tale. He said he could arrest the bishop’s men but not the bishop. And it was all for naught in any case, for the bishop himself assured me that his men had no instructions to murder our victims.’
Indignant, Jack threw back his head. ‘And you believe him?’
‘I don’t know what to believe. No, that is not entirely true. I think … I think I believe Bishop Becke in this. Even after he was a bastard and abducted me.’
‘Why in blessed Jesus’ blood would you believe him, sir?’
‘Because he swore an oath. And … as horrendous a man as he is, I don’t think he is capable of lying in a protestation to God.’
‘Blessed Virgin. Of all the things to believe.’
‘I’m to surrender the book to him tomorrow at noon.’
‘I don’t like anything about that book, sir, but I don’t like giving in to that bishop.’
‘Nor do I, but I don’t see the point in holding on to it.’
‘Then why wait till noon tomorrow?’
Crispin smiled. ‘Because now it’s on my terms.’
Jack grinned. ‘I like your terms, master.’
Jack dropped on to a chair opposite Crispin. His tall body sagged, and he draped his arms loosely over his thighs. ‘If not the henchmen of the bishop, then who killed them men?’
‘I don’t know. Any ideas?’
‘I can’t imagine. Except …’ Jack raised his head. ‘The man what gave you that book in the first place. He’s sore suspicious to me, sir. What was his game, eh? Give you the book so that Becke will go after you and not him? What’s all that about? If he had kept it to himself, no one would have known about it.’
‘Yes, he isn’t entirely innocent in all this. Well, one thing is done at least,’ he said. ‘I have torn a strip from the knave impersonating me.’
Jack sat up. ‘Eh? You met him, then? What happened?’
‘Caught him in the act. It seemed that he hired men to steal purses and goods just so the Tracker could perform his very public and heroic deed. And the victim would be so grateful that they’d pay him on the spot, and then he’d share the spoils with his compatriots.’
‘God blind me. That’s gall, that is.’
‘Yes.’
‘And profitable, if his goods were anything to go by.’
‘Don’t get any ideas, Master Tucker.’
‘I wasn’t getting any ideas,’ he muttered vaguely, eyes alight, no doubt, from memories of Spillewood’s hoard.
‘I have to give him credit for ingenuity,’ said Crispin. ‘It was a clever scheme.’
‘But no false Jack Tucker, then?’
Crispin chuckled and kicked Jack’s booted foot. ‘No, Tucker. Your reputation remains intact.’
‘That’s good.’
They both sat, contemplating their belt buckles, until Jack broke the silence. ‘So what do we do now?’
‘I suppose we do what we always do. We investigate and ask questions.’
‘To the bookseller first?’
‘A good idea.’
They both rose and, after locking the door, made their way up the Shambles, first stopping at a seller of meat pies where they each wolfed down their own.
Reaching Chauncelor Lane, Crispin measured the street. He walked up the road and couldn’t help but stare at the shuttered bookseller, the only closed shop on the busy lane. Of all the shops, it saddened him the most that this one should be barred.
‘A bookseller,’ said Jack. ‘It’s a shame is what it is. Did he have kin, do you suppose? Will it be shut for good?’
‘I’ve no idea, Jack. Let us find out.’ He walked next door where a clerk was carefully penning something on a piece of parchment pinned to his slanted worktable. He sat in the wide-open window, no doubt enjoying the cooling breeze.
‘I beg your mercy, master,’ said Crispin with only a slight bow.
The clerk looked up. He was a young man with spots on his reddened cheeks and nose. His brown hair lay in greasy layers to just past his ears. ‘My master is not in,’ he said curtly, looking Crispin over before studying Jack.
‘I feel I can ask you my questions.’
‘And who are you?’
‘I am Crispin Guest, Tracker of London.’
‘A tracker? What is a tracker? Something to do with gamekeeping?’ He looked Crispin over again and didn’t seem to like what he saw.
‘I am investigating the murder of Master Suthfield, the bookseller.’
‘Bless me.’ He crossed himself. ‘Such a horrid thing.’
‘Indeed. Did you see anything? Note any strangers hereabouts?’
‘Everyone’s a stranger to me. I’m new to this part of London. I was raised near the Tower. But … I remember you.’
‘You recall my coming to see him?’
‘Yes. You and your man here.’
‘And after we left, did you see anyone visit him as well?’
‘Now let me think. That was a day ago, wasn’t it? The day the queen died. Oh, it was a horrible mess on the streets. People leaving their shops. Everyone walking about in a daze. So much lamentation on the streets. What a terrible thing. First Master Suthfield and then the queen.’
‘Yes, there is much to mourn. Still, might someone who seemed to ignore all the lamentation become prominent in your mind?’
He tapped his cheek with an ink-stained finger, leaving a mark just above his
jawline. ‘A man did come to see Master Suthfield.’
‘Just one man alone?’
‘Yes, just him.’
‘What did he look like?’
The clerk rubbed the side of his nose, leaving a black smear there as well. ‘Just an ordinary man. I did not see his face.’
‘Young or old?’
‘Younger than you. Older than your lad.’
‘What was he wearing?’
The clerk shook his head and screwed up his mouth. ‘A green coat. Maybe blue. Could have been brown, come to think of it. It was a dark color, in any case. Can’t say that I noticed much.’
That is a certainty. Jesu, it’s like forcing a horse to talk. ‘Did you see him leave?’
‘Don’t know. Wasn’t paying that much attention. When I do the book and sums, I am dead to the world.’
Not as dead as Master Suthfield, Crispin thought with a scowl. ‘Well, I thank you, good sir.’ He offered only a cursory bow before returning to the middle of the lane.
‘That was about as helpful as a boil on me arse,’ said Jack. ‘“The coat was blue, no green, no brown.” Jesus wept.’
‘Less helpful, I should think. There is no way of knowing if that man in a blue-green-brown coat was client or murderer. It’s—’
Crispin paused. A woman in a stall across the way was beckoning to him. He walked over. ‘Madam? Were you calling to me?’
She was a plump woman, and her crimson cote-hardie had laces up the front instead of buttons, and a good thing it was, for it nearly burst its seams. She appeared to be a seller of baskets. Her wares were stacked about the doorway and hanging overhead. ‘You’re Crispin Guest, aren’t you? I seen you on Bread Street.’
Crispin bristled. He swallowed down his indignation and said softly, ‘I am.’
‘Are you looking into poor Master Suthfield’s murder?’
‘Do you have any information to offer?’
‘I’ll tell you what I told the deputy coroner. I seen a man go into his shop, and shortly after the shutter closed.’
‘But the shutter was open when I spied Master Suthfield’s body there.’
‘It must have been the wind. For I saw him go in and soon thereafter the shutter was closed.’
Traitor's Codex Page 15
