Traitor's Codex

by Jeri Westerson

  ‘Despite the actions of the bishop himself, I think he is honorable when it comes to telling the truth.’

  Jack made an exasperated sound.

  ‘You scoff, Tucker, but you know how much store I give to honor.’

  ‘Oh, indeed. I know right down to me toenails. But just because you think a thing, Master Crispin, doesn’t make it so.’

  ‘You’re right, of course. I’m tired. With a murderer still to find.’

  They spoke very little, even after Jack cobbled them a supper. They went to their beds in solemn contemplation, Jack sleeping on Crispin’s chamber floor at his master’s insistence. They arose in much the same solemn way the next morning. Still thinking at the table in the hall, Crispin leaned a cheek on his fist, his legs stretched out before him. His mind ticked from item to item until each connected like a link in a chain. He surprised himself when he jumped up and hurried up the stairs to his chamber. There he grabbed his one and only book, the book of Aristotle that he so prized. With a regretful sigh, he bore it down the stairs and placed it on the table. ‘We will need something to wrap it with.’

  Jack picked up the thought with the agility Crispin had come to appreciate in his apprentice. ‘Oh no, Master Crispin! Not your Aristotle.’

  ‘I’ve nearly got it memorized anyway. Come now. It will buy me time. Get me that rag to cover it. And some string to bind it.’

  As Jack moved to comply, Crispin got his writing things, tore off a bit of parchment with his knife, dipped his quill, and began to write:

  To the Most Excellent Bishop Edmund Becke, by the grace of God, and by that same grace, etc., I greet you.

  I heartily regret that the book you so desired went to a more deserving party whom you will not wish to move against; someone protected by the crown as well as the pope. But be at ease that it is in safe and secluded hands. It shan’t grace the world again to confuse and confound. Consider your mission done and my dealing with you equally at an end.

  With all God’s grace and mercy,

  Crispin Guest, humble Tracker

  Dusting the ink with sand, he then folded the parchment until it became a neat pocket. He wrote the bishop’s name on the outside and slid it carefully under the string that Jack had used to secure the bundle. ‘That will do nicely.’

  ‘Will you take it now to the bishop yourself? Should I accompany you?’

  ‘No, Jack. I want you to bring your family back to the house. They have been too long away. But first, buy some food to celebrate.’ He dug into his pouch and handed him some coins. ‘Let’s have something of a feast.’

  Jack smiled as he stared at the coins. ‘That it will be, sir.’ But then he frowned. ‘It’ll be dangerous, master. The bishop will not be happy. His men might make his displeasure known upon you.’

  ‘I shall be just fine, Jack. Don’t fret over me.’

  Crispin grabbed the bundle, took the scrip off the peg by the door, and slipped it over his shoulder.

  He made his way to East Cheap, asked a few people, and found Walter Spillewood’s humble lodgings up some outside stairs. As he climbed he was reminded of his old lodgings on the Shambles above the tinker shop, and then he gave a wayward thought to Martin Kemp the tinker and his harpy of a wife. He decided he did not miss them.

  He made a fist and knocked hard on the door. When his double answered he gasped and took several steps back.

  ‘I did as you said, Master Guest,’ he insisted. ‘I did! And I sent that missive to you to tell you so.’

  ‘I see that.’ Crispin pushed his way in, looked bluntly around before kicking a chair away from the small table and seating himself. He rocked it back on its legs and slammed his muddy boots up on to the man’s table.

  Spillewood’s face soured. ‘Make yourself at home.’

  ‘I don’t mind if I do. You know, I’ve been sweeping up after you, Spillewood.’ Crispin unsheathed his dagger and used the sharp tip to clean his nails. Spillewood eyed the blade and took another step back.

  ‘Whatever do you mean, Master Guest?’

  ‘The people you’ve cheated. Does the name Edward Howard jog your memory?’

  He feigned thinking about it, even tapping a finger to his chin.

  ‘Oh, come now, Spillewood. Surely you remember the man. A fat merchant with a fat purse, who hired you to steal some money back from his nephew?’

  ‘Oh. Oh, yes. Now that you mention it.’

  ‘Where’s that gold he paid you?’

  ‘It wasn’t gold and, well, you are sitting in it.’

  Crispin made a show of looking around before he sheathed his dagger. ‘I see. I hope you have striven to obtain honest work.’

  ‘I am trying, Master Guest. But it isn’t easy.’

  ‘A man with your talents? You should find something quickly.’ He made as if to think about it. ‘Oh, I know. You can do a job for me.’

  ‘How … how much does it pay?’

  ‘Pay? Pay?’ He swung his legs down from the table and rose, stalking toward him. ‘You think I should pay you after you have used my name so carelessly?’

  Backed against the small bed, he raised his hands defensively. ‘No! No, of course not. What I meant to say is, what day would you like me to start?’

  ‘That’s what I thought you said. It starts today, Spillewood. In less than an hour.’ He reached into his scrip and took out the wrapped bundle. ‘You must take this package to Charing Cross and wait for a man in a plain carriage. And put on that red cote-hardie you used to wear to look like me. You’d better make haste. You haven’t much time.’

  Spillewood stared at the bundle and blinked. ‘But … that’s all? Am I not to receive something in return?’

  ‘Oh, I imagine you will. Make haste, Spillewood. Noon will come before you know it.’ Crispin turned his back and left the room, trundling down the stairs two at a time. He might have been whistling.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Crispin set out to the Horse and Dog Inn, but well before he reached Fenchurch, he saw the beggar Hugo Crouch slipping along the road, trotting close to the buildings under the shadows. Should he confront the man again? It was strange how he was always there, always just steps away from Crispin. The more he watched the man, the more unsettled he felt. He was obsessed with the dead. He followed Crispin. It was possible that he killed those men. And yet no one remarked seeing him.

  Perhaps it was time for Crispin to do a little following of him.

  He slowed and fell back behind the beggar, who seemed intent on his destination. Perhaps this time he wasn’t following Crispin, for he did not seem to notice him as he hurried along in a strange, sideways gait. He kept swatting at his ears as if shooing away flies. It was probably those voices he heard, and swatting at them was the best he could do to chase them away … besides outrunning them as he seemed to do as he hurried ever faster.

  He came to a church and passed through the lychgate, but instead of following the flagged stone path to the steps of the church, he veered away toward the churchyard.

  Once the man was around the corner, Crispin followed. His back to the church wall, Crispin watched the man retreat further into the churchyard. He trotted here and there, looking at the headstones, until he stopped, staring curiously at one in particular. It seemed to have been recent, at least by the soil mounded over the burial place that had no grass grown yet over it. He positioned himself on the mound and sat, legs folded under him. He bent toward the stone, closed his eyes, and cocked his head as if listening.

  Crispin realized that he probably was.

  He crept forward until he was several yards from the man. But, without opening his eyes, Hugo nodded. ‘I hear you there, Master Guest.’

  ‘Very well. I am here.’

  ‘So you do hear them.’

  ‘I do not. But I worry, Master Crouch, that you do more than listen to the dead.’

  Hugo still had not opened his eyes. ‘I don’t know your meaning.’

  ‘I mean …’ Crispin stepped closer.
‘That you first make them dead.’

  He opened his eyes at that. ‘Murder?’ He rocked back with a roaring laugh. ‘You think I murder? So that I can hear even more voices? You are as mad as they say I am.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Oh, aye.’ He rubbed at his nose, a smile still crinkling his face.

  ‘I don’t know, Master Crouch. I think that you followed me all over London and even to Westminster, and murdered those men with whom I consulted.’

  Hugo closed his eyes again and slowly shook his head. ‘It’s easy to blame a beggar, isn’t it, Master Guest? But it isn’t what’s true. I am no murderer. I need no more voices in me head. But I can tell you this. Them murdered men. They cry out to me. They tell you to look. To look for a man what you know and what is there and there.’

  ‘What the devil is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘The dead, Master Guest. They don’t make no sense sometimes. Especially the murdered ones because it came sudden on them like a surprise. They can’t believe they’re dead.’ He snapped his dirty fingers. ‘Like that.’

  ‘But what you said makes no sense.’

  ‘And I told you why. The murdered are all mixed up; all arse up, head down.’

  ‘“For a man that I know and what is there and there”?’

  ‘The dead. It’s their way.’

  ‘I will investigate, Crouch. And if someone remembers you even a street away from those murdered men, I will be back for you.’

  ‘I have no fear, Master Guest. I am not lying. But the dead know who murdered them. They are telling you.’

  He didn’t mean to shiver, but the manner of his saying it and the place that they stood … gave him pause.

  ‘Well then?’

  ‘And I told you. You’d know the murderer … there … and there.’ He pointed into the dark undergrowth.

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Crispin. He turned away without another word. And when he looked back, Crouch was still sitting on the grave, rocking gently back and forth.

  Was the knave telling the truth? He was mad so there was no telling what he knew or didn’t know, but his confession of what the murdered told him …

  It was damnable. He had no leads. He had no other ideas. He stood in the road like a lackwit, staring up at the buildings. Where had he been going? Oh, yes. To the inn to talk to Hugh Ashdown. He got back on the way to the inn and saw it as he came to the crossroads.

  An ordinary inn, with two floors and a red tiled roof, green in patches with moss. Hurrying to the inn yard, he stepped up to the sheltered portico and opened the door.

  The usual crowd, the usual noise. He spotted the innkeeper and motioned him over. ‘Good day to you, innkeeper. I am looking for Hugh Ashdown.’

  ‘He the one with them nuns?’

  ‘Yes, that would be him.’

  ‘Aye. Well he’s gone.’

  ‘Gone? What do you mean “gone”?’

  ‘He took his leave. Won’t be returning.’

  ‘But … the nuns. Are they still here?’

  ‘Oh, aye. Said they’d leave in the morning.’

  ‘Did they know about Ashdown’s leaving?’

  He shrugged. ‘Not my concern, is it? I got me payment.’

  Crispin grumbled. ‘When did he leave?’

  ‘Oh, must have been an hour ago by the bells.’

  Crispin barely controlled his ire. ‘Thank you, sir.’ He left quickly, standing in the inn yard and looking hopelessly around him.

  ‘When I get my hands on you, Ashdown …’ So the coward fled. What was he to conclude from that? That he feared what Crispin would uncover? That Crispin would find that he was a murderer?

  If he fled would he go to Norwich? Is he even from there? These were questions he might have asked had the knave not fled.

  He turned back toward the inn. Should he ask Dame Julian? The thought soured even as it was poured out. No, he didn’t want to trouble her. To do so seemed … sacrilegious.

  But then again, perhaps she wasn’t who she said she was. After all, an anchoress leaving her anchorhold on a whim? Were saints given to whims?

  He took a step back toward the inn and stopped again. He’d read many a story of the saints, and they seemed to do a great deal on a whim; smiting their enemies with beasts and fire, bringing cows back to life, calling for storms. And she’d had visions of Crispin, so Ashdown had said. Still, what if she were mixed up in all this. What if she were not the real Julian of Norwich?

  He took another step … and stopped once more.

  Hadn’t he felt the strange tingling in his hand when she touched him? That had only happened to him when he touched a true relic. No, he knew she was who she said she was. It was a solid truth in his heart. He looked down at his fingers, the fingers that had touched her. He rubbed them together. He remembered the feeling and it sent a shiver over his shoulders. He would not disturb her.

  There was little left to do but hasten back toward the Shambles. This sense of unease in a case unsolved burned in him like a live coal. The only thing that could extinguish it was the catching of a murderer.

  He got to the old poulterer’s and opened the door. Jack and his family had not yet returned. No doubt the shopping had delayed him, or perhaps Helen or Little Crispin required their naps. He sighed, thinking of his own son. He wondered about his early life. If he took to naps. Crispin hadn’t, so he’d been told. How he longed for them now!

  A knock at the door interrupted his confused musings. He stared at it. The knocking was insistent and unceasing. He took the few steps and pulled it open.

  ‘Master Guest, you did me a disservice,’ said Spillewood, out of breath and spilling into the room.

  ‘Me? A disservice to you?’

  Spillewood lifted his bruised chin and straightened his dusty cote-hardie. ‘Yes! You sent me on a mission that you knew would place me in harm’s way.’

  ‘I didn’t know it … but one could hope.’

  He jabbed a finger at Crispin. ‘You are no gentleman!’

  ‘No, indeed. That is the crux of it, Master Spillewood, and why I hold my name and reputation dear.’

  Spillewood ran his hand over his mouth. ‘I escaped with my very life.’

  ‘Sit down, man.’ Crispin pressed him into a chair and went to fetch him ale from the jug on the sill. ‘There,’ he said, handing him a cup. ‘Drink up and tell me what transpired.’

  Spillewood slurped up the ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘You deliberately put me in harm’s way, Master Guest. Very well. Maybe I deserved it. But I am not trained as you are in arms or in fighting my way out of a situation. It was very unfair.’

  ‘All right, Master Spillewood.’ Crispin tried hard to keep the laughter out of his voice. He sat across from him. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Well …’ He took another drink before setting the cup down and caging it with his fingers. ‘I went to Charing Cross as you instructed. And anon came a carriage with a most disagreeable man as its driver. He said not a word, but the man in the carriage did. He asked if I had it – mistaking me for you, mind you – and I said I did. Well, my voice obviously didn’t satisfy, as the man exited the carriage and looked me over. ‘You are not Crispin Guest,’ he said. I bowed and told him that you had sent me with this package, which I gave him. He tore it from my hands, ripped off the wrapping, and looked at the book and read your missive. And I must say, he was very angered by this. He signaled to the driver, who bounded off of his perch and headed straight for me with evil intent. I ran around the wagon, eluding him as best I could. That man in the carriage tried to trip me but I managed to kick him and he fell back into the thing. The driver pursued me and I barely got away in one piece. And so, if you don’t mind, I don’t think I shall be doing you any more favors, whether you threaten me or not. I am what I am, Master Guest, and I am no martyr.’

  With his hand over his mouth, Crispin managed to stifle his mirth. ‘Well … that is a tale. No, Master Spillewood, I consider your debt paid.�
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  ‘Thank Christ!’ He got to his feet and headed for the door. ‘Then consider that nothing on this earth will ever compel me to want to impersonate you again, Master Guest. The lesson is learned. I hope this is the last time we will ever see one another.’

  ‘I hope so too, Master Spillewood. As long as you cleave to the straight and narrow path.’

  ‘You can be certain of it.’ He grabbed the door latch and flung wide the door … but a man was standing there, disheveled, dirty, with a torn houppelande.

  Spillewood looked back at Crispin. ‘Another one of your errand boys, no doubt.’

  The man – Hugh Ashdown, as it turned out – looked from Spillewood to Crispin. ‘God’s wounds. I’ve been looking all over for Crispin Guest … and now there’s two of you.’

  Spillewood didn’t wait. He shoved Ashdown aside and left as quickly as he could. But Ashdown looked ready to fall over. Against his better judgment, Crispin helped him to a chair, for it looked as if he sorely needed it.

  ‘Well?’ he said, looming over him.

  ‘Well what? I have been injured and abducted and kept under lock and key. What has happened to the book?’

  TWENTY-TWO

  Crispin held himself in check. He wanted nothing better than to fall on Ashdown with his fists. He walked away and paced instead. ‘I was going to ask you the same thing. As well as a host of other things. For instance, whether Dame Julian knew about your devilry or not.’

  Ashdown cradled his head. There appeared to be dried blood in his sweaty and disarrayed hair. ‘Master Guest, I beg you to talk more quietly. I feel as if my head has been cracked like an egg. It has been so for these last three days. Or has it been longer?’

  Crispin turned to look at him. Really look at him. He leaned in and peered at his face. ‘You … you are the man who gave me the book.’

  ‘Yes. Days ago. I think. Where is it?’

  ‘I … gave it to you.’

  ‘Master Guest, you seem a bit confused. I gave you the book.’

  ‘Yes, and then when Dame Julian came to call, I gave it back to you.’