Traitor's Codex

by Jeri Westerson

  ‘Dame Julian? Who by the mass is that? I never came to call until this very moment. I had a devil of a time finding you. First, I was directed to Bread Street and then finally here … where I found two of you. Or … did I imagine that? With my head aching so, I’m not sure.’

  ‘Dame Julian, man. Of Norwich.’

  ‘The anchoress? Oh no, I do not know her. And if she is an anchoress, why is she traipsing all over England? Master Guest, I am confused enough for the both of us.’

  ‘I must confess, I am confused too.’ Crispin looked him over. Yes, he was the man who had given him the book. But … was he the man who had come when Julian of Norwich paid him a visit? It was all so strange he began to wonder if it had ever happened. He mulled it for a few moments. ‘Master Ashdown – you are Hugh Ashdown, are you not?’

  ‘No. My name is John Pickett.’

  ‘But you told me your name was Hugh Ashdown.’

  ‘No, no! Don’t you see? That was his name. He has been impersonating me!’

  The pins in the lock fell into place. ‘You too?’ He got up and faced the man. ‘Master Ashdown – I mean Pickett – perhaps you had better relate the whole tale.’

  The man called John Pickett who looked remarkably like Hugh Ashdown sat back in the chair. He didn’t look well. His face wore a gray pallor and his eyes had dark pouches under them. On closer examination, the two men looked similar, but not as alike as Crispin had first thought. Much could be hidden under a hood.

  Crispin snatched the cup from the table that Spillewood had used and poured more ale in it. He handed it to Pickett, who drank thirstily. ‘Ah,’ he said when he took a breath. ‘For this relief, much thanks. He starved me, left me alone. I think he meant to kill me.’

  ‘The beginning, sir.’

  ‘The beginning,’ he parroted vaguely. ‘The beginning was a year ago. I met a man in the Holy Land, a lord. His name was Henry but he gave no other name. I didn’t recognize his arms, but his father is a duke …’

  ‘Henry Bolingbroke. He is the Duke of Lancaster’s son.’

  His face wore shock. ‘Bless me. I didn’t know. He … he was a congenial man. I’m a merchant, you see, and I had done my pilgrimage. It was arduous. Many sea voyages and travel over land in strange caravans with men who spoke—’

  ‘I am aware of travel in the Holy Land, sir, for I have been there myself.’

  ‘Oh. Oh, yes. You were Lancaster’s man, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Go on.’

  ‘Well, Lord Henry, as he would be called, spoke of this and that. I told him I was returning to London straight away and he got a strange look all of a sudden. He told me, “Master Pickett, if I give you a book, then I should like you to take it to a good friend of mine in London. His name is Crispin Guest and he has a most unusual occupation.” He said it like that. And he further told me that once I had given it to you, you would know what to do with it. He gave me some coins for my trouble – which I tried to refuse but he was so insistent and kind about it – that I took them and began my journey back to England. I arrived not too long ago to Yarmouth and met a man there at an inn. Well, you know what happens in an inn when one is drinking. You tell tales. And I told him mine. He asked about the book – which I don’t remember mentioning but I did tell him about Lord Henry and so …’ He rubbed his temple and winced. ‘Anyway, I had speculated as to what the book could be. While waiting for a ship in Jaffa I had a man look at it to get an idea … and he told me what it said. Read out part of it for me. Well! Master Guest, I didn’t know what to make of it, but if this lord vouched for you, I knew you would do it credit. I still wasn’t certain about this book, but I had made an oath and I was bound to carry it out. I’m afraid I told the man at the inn more than I intended. He explained that he was a Lollard and that such books should be destroyed. It was then that I awakened to what I was doing and I worried that he might become violent. So I told him that perhaps it was all a tale for I was in my cups. I soon went off to bed and didn’t see him in the morning. And then I set out for London—’

  ‘Not Norwich?’ Crispin interrupted.

  ‘No. I had no business in Norwich. I had to return to London and, remembering my duty, I sought you out. But to my surprise, you weren’t anything like he said. You were entertaining crowds with your feats of bravery. From Lord Henry’s description I took you to be a humble man.’

  ‘And so I am, sir, or try to be. You met my double.’

  ‘The man who was just here? Yes, I see that now. It was a good thing I did not approach him immediately, for I had since discovered from others that you could be found easily at the Boar’s Tusk, and you look very like him—’

  ‘He looks like me, which was deliberate in order to deceive.’

  ‘Yes, quite. So I found you in the Boar’s Tusk … I did, did I not?’

  ‘You did. And have caused me no end of trouble since.’

  ‘Forgive me for that, Master Guest, but Lord Henry never told me to expect that. I delivered it to you, and shortly afterward, I was coshed on the head. See?’ He bent over to show Crispin the bloody lump. ‘He tied me up and left me for dead for days in some mews somewhere in London, leaving me neither food nor drink. I have only just escaped. I worried over what might have happened to you. That’s why I didn’t go to the sheriffs … but now I suppose I should have done.’

  ‘And this man to whom you told your story. Did he look like you?’

  ‘I did not see the resemblance at first, but I did on seeing him again. He looked like me, a slightly younger version, perhaps.’

  ‘And he has come to me with an equally strange tale, using just enough of your own story to confound and confuse me. He claims to be a follower of Julian of Norwich. And on some whim, she came to see me.’

  The shocked expression again washed over his face. ‘I can hardly believe it.’

  ‘Neither can I. But he had befriended her.’

  ‘Do you suppose he told her he was a Lollard?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. Was it because of his Lollard teachings he sought out the book to destroy … and to murder all those who knew about it?’

  ‘Good Christ! He murdered?’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t know what else to do with the book but to find out what it meant. I went to three different men, two in London and one innocent in Westminster, and one by one in my wake they were murdered. I have no doubt now that I would have been next.’

  ‘And you think he did the killing?’

  ‘I am convinced of it. Where did he hail from, Master Pickett, and what was his real name?’

  ‘Hugh Ashdown, for all I know. He said he was a Lollard and the way he spoke of his beliefs seemed a bit, well, tilted. He frightened me. And when he hit me and tied me up, he told me that I was getting what I deserved to help the filth of the world – that is what he called it. That the Bible in its pure state was the only Scripture, and any other was to be destroyed along with all who knew of it. Why he did not kill me straight away, I do not know. Divine intervention, no doubt.’

  ‘I have come across difficulty with Lollards before, but none so deadly.’

  ‘If you don’t mind, Master Guest …’ He rose, still holding his head. ‘I have done my Christian duty by warning you. And now I think I shall return to my home for succor.’

  ‘If I had a horse to give you, Master Pickett, I would.’

  ‘You are as Lord Henry said you are, Master Guest. I am sorry for bringing these troubles to your door.’

  ‘And I am sorry on your behalf, sir. Can I help you home?’

  ‘No. My home is not far. God keep you, Master Guest.’

  ‘And you, sir. Oh, one thing more. Did Ashdown say where he lived?’

  ‘Come to think of it, I think he said Raundes … which I believe isn’t far from Norwich, if that helps.’

  ‘It does indeed. Thank you, Master Pickett.’ He watched the man make his slow progress down the Shambles toward West Cheap. Ashdown would take the Aldgate road toward Norwich an
d Raundes, then. If he had a horse he’d be long gone. But what if he hadn’t gone? What if he was working with other Lollards? Lollards had been like pests lately, at every corner crying out their preaching, and now, as he looked to the Shambles, suddenly he couldn’t find even one. But, of course, he knew where they’d be at court.

  I don’t want to go back to court, he moaned. The king was still in mourning. But Crispin did have Lancaster’s livery …

  With a sigh from the center of his being, he trudged back home to fetch the tabard.

  He made it back to Westminster Palace and kept his hood low over his face. When he passed St Stephen’s open doors he saw the glow of the candles over the queen’s bier, and the figure of the king still kneeling there.

  He pressed on, asking servants where he could find Thomas Clanvowe, one of the king’s courtiers. He was directed here and there, but it was never quite the right place. He turned the corner in the depths of the palace and unexpectedly encountered the king’s chamberlain, Sir Thomas Percy. Crispin turned on his heel and headed in the other direction, when the man called out to him.

  When will I ever learn? he admonished himself. He stopped, took a moment, then turned.

  ‘You’re Lancaster’s man—’ He stopped with widened eyes. ‘God’s legs, Crispin Guest.’

  ‘Yes, my lord. I am Lancaster’s man.’

  ‘What the devil are you doing here?’ he hissed out of the side of his mouth, searching up and down the corridor for spying eyes.

  ‘In the service of the king, looking for a murderer.’

  Percy’s eyes remained wide and his mouth hung loose. ‘What?’

  ‘My lord.’ Crispin sidled closer. ‘You might be able to help me.’

  ‘I will not!’

  ‘Find a murderer, sir? Why would you hesitate?’

  ‘I … I didn’t mean that, Guest.’

  ‘All I need do is find Sir Thomas Clanvowe.’

  His shock changed to exasperation. ‘Last I saw him he was in the great hall, arguing with some knave.’

  ‘Ah, then I thank you.’

  ‘Guest,’ he hissed again as Crispin turned to leave. ‘Make sure your exit is quick.’

  He bowed. ‘Always, my lord.’ He hastened through the corridor back to the hall.

  Clanvowe, looking dour and staring at the floor, was making his way back into the palace when Crispin stopped him.

  He didn’t look happy. ‘Bless me, it’s Crispin Guest. Again.’

  ‘Yes, sir. And, begging your mercy, its best to keep your voice down when saying my name.’

  He nodded, eyes darting to each courtier nearby.

  ‘If you please, I am looking for a man who might try to contact you. His name is Hugh Ashdown—’

  ‘That miscreant? I just now sent him packing. He talked nonsense of some scheme of his. Those who share my philosophy of faith need no zealots in the mix. It is a calm and quiet use of our minds that I prefer.’

  ‘I agree. It is safer that way, though you might wish to tell the street-corner preachers the same, for the king’s patience might wear thin.’

  ‘Indeed. That is exactly what I expressed to the man.’

  ‘And since you turned him out, did you catch which way he had gone?’

  ‘Why should you want to pursue him? He’s a fool.’

  ‘And a murderer. I must apprehend him.’

  ‘Not … not the queen?’ he said confidentially.

  ‘No, my lord. We have put that to rest. But three other innocents.’

  ‘By the mass. In that case, only a few moments ago, he was following the river back toward London.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. God keep you.’ Crispin made a hasty bow and took off running over the tiles, past the door, down the steps, and through the courtyard and the gate beyond. He scanned the people along the road but there were only the usual citizens with their carts, horses, and other animals. But when he glanced lower toward the bank, he saw a man hurrying along wearing a houppelande that looked familiar.

  Crispin dove down the angled bank and shouted. The man turned. It was Ashdown, and his look of surprise and then fear spurred Crispin on, especially when the wretch took off running.

  ‘No, you don’t.’ Crispin ran faster, catching up. He was no more than a few yards behind when he leapt and tackled the man, both rolling further down the bank over the rough stones. They stopped with Crispin straddling the man on the ground. ‘I have you. And I got the whole story from John Pickett.’

  Now the man truly was surprised. ‘He escaped?’

  ‘And now you admit your guilt. I’ll have you for murder and abduction.’

  His face, so mild before, molded into an ugly mask of contempt. ‘That vile book needed to be destroyed. And all who knew of it.’

  ‘Two of those men knew nothing about that book, you fool. You killed innocent men. And for what? A foolish book that no one could read.’

  ‘But you knew what it said. You translated it. Soon everyone could.’

  ‘You were working for Becke all along.’

  ‘Alas, no. But our purposes at least in this did cross paths.’

  ‘He would eliminate you and your Lollard ways if he could. He is no friend of yours.’

  Ashdown frowned. ‘That makes no matter in the end, Guest. I have accomplished my deed. My reward will be great in Heaven.’

  ‘I will see that you get to Hell sooner than that!’

  Ashdown squirmed. Crispin punched him in the jaw. The man took on a bleary expression for only a moment. And when he seemed cognizant again, Crispin spit out, ‘And what of Dame Julian? You deceived her. You, with your devil’s tongue, lied to so saintly a woman.’

  His face twisted again. ‘She … she knows nothing of this. She will go back to where she belongs in her cell and no one will hear of any of it.’

  ‘I will tell her. I must. She needs to know.’

  Anger blazed in Ashdown’s eyes. He turned his face toward the wrist that held him down and bit hard.

  ‘Damn you!’ Crispin slammed his fist into the man’s face again. Blood spattered over Crispin’s sleeve and Ashdown’s face jerked to the side. His eyes grew hazy. ‘What have you done with the book?’ Crispin demanded.

  Ashdown shook his head, licked the blood from the side of his mouth. ‘Burned it,’ he said distantly. ‘In my room. It’s done, Guest. There isn’t a thing you can do now.’

  Crispin grabbed his coat and shook him. ‘You’re done too. You’ll hang for your treachery.’

  Ashdown had seemed blurry, but he suddenly jerked hard, wresting himself from Crispin’s fists and knocking him over. He scrambled up the bank, but Crispin heaved forward and clasped on to his gown, pulling him back. They both lost their balance. Crispin tumbled arse over heels. Ashdown windmilled his arms, but it did him no good. He arced downward, smashing his head against the rocky bank before he tumbled into the Thames. He floated face down for a moment until he sank below the churning water.

  Crispin hurried down the stony bank and wetted his boots, standing in the water at the edge, but he could see nothing. Even looking down the river’s swiftly moving current yielded no bobbing body. He stepped back up the bank, scanning the river a long time, long enough for a man to come to the surface to breathe. Long enough to make certain he’d never come up again.

  A few men who had stopped to watch the altercation helped him up to the road and asked him what had happened.

  ‘A murderer found his due, is all. Do you trust me to go to the sheriffs myself? I am Crispin Guest.’

  ‘The Tracker?’ said one man. ‘The one on the Shambles?’

  Crispin sighed his relief that at least a few still recognized him and where he lived. ‘Yes. Do you trust me to go?’

  ‘Aye, of course. God bless you, sir.’

  Crispin asked the names and addresses of the witnesses, cradled his sore, bitten wrist, and trudged back toward London, satisfied that justice had been done.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Crispin, in his wet
stockings and coat, waited in the sheriff’s hall with Hamo Eckington, the sheriff’s clerk. ‘If you don’t mind my saying,’ said the old clerk, ‘you look worn through, Guest.’

  Crispin lifted a brow. ‘Why ever would I mind your saying that, Master Eckington?’

  ‘Send Guest in!’ came the call from the chamber.

  Crispin sauntered by Eckington, who seemed offended by Crispin’s remark. And well he should be.

  ‘What have you to tell me now, Guest?’ asked Sheriff Whittington.

  ‘The end to the three murders, my lord.’

  ‘Oh? Well then. Proceed.’

  ‘A man from Raundes called Hugh Ashdown. A zealot Lollard bent on getting the book from my possession. He abducted the man who had given me the book with the purpose of letting him die, alone and starving.’

  ‘Good God.’

  ‘He followed me throughout London and killed those men, any who knew of the book. He impersonated the poor man whom he abducted and allowed me to be lulled into thinking he was a friend of … an important personage. In the end, he burned the book, and I fought with him on the banks of the Thames in Westminster. He hit his head on the bank and fell into the water. I looked for him to jump in after, but I think the current took him to the bottom where he surely drowned.’

  ‘Ah, Master Guest. What a tale.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Well. You shall, of course, appear at an inquest.’

  ‘Of course, my lord. There are witnesses to my altercation who clearly saw what happened.’

  ‘So our bishop friend didn’t have a hand in it then?’

  ‘It appears not, my lord.’

  ‘That is a mercy. I dreaded dealing with him.’

  ‘I can well imagine.’

  ‘Tell your story to Hamo and then you are free to go.’

  He bowed. ‘Thank you, my lord.’

  Crispin told his tale again – slowly – to the aged clerk, who kept having him repeat certain passages, and then left as soon as he could.

  Crispin walked along Newgate Market, stripped the Lancaster livery off his cote-hardie, and balled it up under his arm. It had been a very long day and he wanted nothing more than to sit down to a supper of Isabel’s cooking and play with his namesake again.