Traitor's Codex Read online

  ‘This is strange,’ he said quietly. ‘It isn’t like any parchment I have ever seen before.’

  Jack leaned closer. ‘What is this writing, Master Crispin? It’s not Latin. Or Greek exactly.’

  Crispin turned another page. ‘I don’t know.’ He closed the cover and picked it up, turning it, examining the edges, the binding. ‘Why would that man leave this with me?’

  ‘Because it’s dangerous.’ Jack unconsciously put his hand to his dagger hilt hanging from his belt. ‘Why else would they burden you with such?’

  ‘He did ask if I was the Tracker.’

  ‘Then he left it with you for safekeeping.’

  ‘That would appear to be true. On the surface.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning that he might also wish to rid himself of it. But a book is a valuable commodity.’

  ‘Is it a Bible, sir?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Perhaps a Liber Usualis, a book of chants. Though … I see no musical notation.’

  Jack shook his head. ‘But a book is a rare thing. You’ve got that book of Aristotle.’

  ‘And it was hard to find for the price. But there are books of all sorts, Jack. Books of science. Books of histories. I used to have my share of them. And Abbot William de Colchester of Westminster Abbey has a mere few.’

  ‘Our landlord, Nigellus Cobmartin. He has law books. Being a lawyer, he’d need them.’

  ‘Indeed. He came from wealth, though little of it does he have now.’

  ‘A man foisting a book on you, sir. That’s leaving money on the table is what that is.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ Crispin had not stopped touching it, fingertips riding over the cover, the edges of the strange material that made up its pages.

  ‘Then the first thing to do is find out what it is, eh?’ said Jack.

  ‘That would seem the logical choice.’

  ‘A book dealer.’

  Both Crispin and Jack looked up at Isabel.

  ‘A book dealer,’ she said again, running her hand gently over the crimson hair of her son. ‘Didn’t you mention him once? On Chauncelor Lane?’ She shrugged. ‘Or a monastery. They would know about books.’

  ‘An excellent suggestion. Chauncelor Lane. Let us proceed there.’ Jack kissed his wife, ruffled the hair on the little boy’s head. ‘Now you mind your mother, Little Crispin.’ Then Jack grabbed his master’s sword hanging in its scabbard by the door.

  Crispin quirked a brow at Jack, but his apprentice merely turned him and strapped the scabbard around his master’s waist. ‘It doesn’t hurt to be too careful,’ Jack said.

  Crispin smiled and preceded his apprentice out the door, book dropped into his scrip once again. ‘I am regretting allowing you to name that boy after me.’

  ‘Why, sir?’

  ‘Because whenever she scolds Crispin and cries out his name with a harsh tone, I feel I am caught at something.’

  Jack laughed. ‘It’s guilt you feel. You feel she is scolding you for something you got away with. She’s God’s messenger.’

  Crispin snorted, adjusting his scabbard. ‘Wretched man,’ he muttered.

  They proceeded up Newgate, ventured out past the arch and iron-bound wooden gates, and continued out of London proper to Holborn. From there it was a good stretch of the legs to Chauncelor Lane. There on the left was the squarish building that used to be the Domus Conversorum, the residence of converted Jews, but its last resident had long since moved away and the building was dedicated to the Keeper of the Rolls of Chancery. Years ago, Crispin had dealt with converted Jews, and with those who had not converted but secretly lived in London well after King Edward I had turned them out of England. The street reminded him of that long-ago day of his investigation, and the treachery that followed. Glancing at his tall, young apprentice, the feeling of unease quickly dissipated, knowing that Jack had escaped the worst of what they had encountered.

  ‘I have never heard of a dealer in books, sir,’ said Jack, striding up the lane without seeming to share his master’s frightening memories. ‘Leave it to me wife to know better than me. They come dear, don’t they, them books?’

  ‘Indeed, they do. But the man we are about to meet travels far and wide, picking up small books of philosophy, law, and other such tomes. Books are so dear that they are left to children in dead men’s wills. Yet some of the children don’t appreciate them as you or I do. They sell them. And he buys them.’

  ‘Is that where you got your Aristotle book, master?’

  ‘Yes. I have since gone back many a time, but alas. I’d much prefer to keep you all fed than to spend our few coins on another book.’

  ‘Well, thanks be to God for that.’

  It was a thin little shop, as if its taller neighbors were trying to crush it between them. There was no display stand, as had many other vendors along the lane, for the shop’s precious inventory could not be allowed to be ruined by a sudden rainstorm or snatched away from an inattentive shopkeeper. Instead, there was a wooden sign painted with the image of an open book. The door was shut, but the shutters were open.

  Crispin got to the window and leaned in. He couldn’t keep himself from smiling as he ran his gaze over the many books and scrolls. He sighed a breath full of regret, of a past that was never to return.

  The shopkeeper, a man in his middle years with brown hair streaked with gray under a black felt cap, wore a long, dark gown like a priest’s. ‘May I help you, sir?’ he said to Crispin, a hand at his heart, and a slight bow to his head.

  ‘Indeed you can. May I come in?’

  ‘Of course. Say! Are you not the man who bought my book of Aristotle?’

  Crispin opened the door and walked in. ‘Yes. But that was many years ago.’

  ‘I always remember the books. Each one.’ He looked over his own shop with a gleam of pride in his eyes. ‘Some of them have traveled great distances. I obtained these law books from Rome,’ he said, pointing to several books stacked upright. ‘Would you like to know which one has been the farthest?’

  Without waiting for Crispin or Jack to answer as he ushered them in, the man shuffled to a shelf at the back of the shop. It was a small breviary, or looked to be. Its leather cover was ornate with gold-leafed scrollwork. ‘This tale of Launcelot was penned in London over fifty years ago, but you’ll never guess where I found it?’

  ‘Where?’ said Jack, caught up in the man’s excitement. Crispin couldn’t blame the boy. The bookseller was as much a storyteller as were his wares.

  ‘I found it in the Holy Land, young man. Bought it off a knight making a pilgrimage.’ He turned the finely wrought cover in his hands tenderly. ‘He felt it was a sin owning such a foolish book, as he called it. Took my money just the same.’ He chuckled. With a sigh of contentment, he returned it to its spot. ‘But you, sir, are a man of distinct qualities. I have a Socrates I have newly acquired.’

  Crispin closed his eyes and waved his hand. ‘Don’t tempt me, sir. I came not to buy – though I wish with all my heart that I could – but to ask your advice.’

  ‘Oh? Well then?’

  Crispin reached into his scrip and pulled out the book. He laid it on a table in the middle of the narrow shop. The man approached it as if it were a wild bird and liable to take flight. When he first touched it, his fingertips ran up the surface, examining the leather. He examined the spine, nodding and muttering. And, finally, he gripped the edge and carefully opened the cover. He blinked down at the careful script, gray eyes tracking over each line.

  ‘Intriguing.’

  ‘Indeed. Can you tell me what it is, what it says?’

  ‘Dear me, I was hoping you could enlighten me. It is very old, that much I can tell you.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Well, the binding, the cover is new. Fairly new. But the pages inside. The ink is faded. And it was not originally bound as a book.’ He ran his hand down the center where the stitches could be seen. ‘It was likely several scrolls. But the most interesting thing is
this. Look here.’ He lifted a page and rubbed his fingers very gently on either side of the corner of the page. ‘Here. Touch it, good master.’

  Crispin ran his fingers over the strange texture. ‘It isn’t like any parchment I have ever seen. It’s thin … with this pattern.’

  ‘That’s because it isn’t parchment. It’s papyrus. It’s made of reeds. Isn’t that ingenious? Reeds that grow in only one place. In Egypt, where Moses was born.’

  Crispin looked at it anew. He couldn’t help reaching out with his fingers again to touch the intriguing page. ‘Can you read this language?’

  ‘Alas … no.’ He looked the text over again and shook his head. ‘I am versed in French, Latin, Greek, even a little Italian, and I can recognize a few other languages by sight.’ He squinted over the page once more. ‘Yes. I believe this is Coptic.’

  ‘And what is Coptic?’ asked Crispin.

  ‘A very old language, my good sir. Spoken in Egypt and Palestine by our early Christian fathers.’

  A chill rippled over Crispin’s shoulders. Something old. Something from the Holy Land. If not a relic then surely related to one.

  ‘Master,’ said Jack quietly. Yes, he’d worked it out, too.

  ‘Not now, Jack. Good sir, do you know of anyone who can translate such a book?’

  ‘Well. That is specialized. I don’t know that there is anyone in London …’

  ‘Do you have any idea who would want such a book?’

  ‘Anyone would want this book,’ he said, seeming perplexed at the question. ‘A scholar of Christian texts, certainly. A monk, a priest, a bishop. But alas, few could actually read it.’ He turned a few more pages. ‘Could you tell me, good sir, where you acquired such an unusual codex?’

  ‘It … dropped into my possession quite by accident.’

  ‘If you should like to sell it …’

  ‘I fear it is not mine to sell. If you should recall anyone who might be able to read it, please contact me at your earliest convenience. I am Crispin Guest, Tracker of London, and I can be found on—’

  ‘Blessed saints! You are Crispin Guest! Why didn’t you say so? I have been a great admirer of yours, sir. Why, just the other day, you saved a woman in great peril not more than a street away. Solved the murder of her betrothed. A stunning tale of valor.’

  ‘Did I?’ He looked back at Jack, who frowned. ‘Er … solved a murder?’

  ‘Yes, indeed! We’ve all been talking about it. It is a very great honor your being in my humble shop, sir.’ He grabbed Crispin’s hand and pumped it with both of his.

  Crispin politely extricated himself. ‘I thank you, but … I have done no such valorous deed of late. Could you be mistaking me for someone else?’

  ‘I hardly think so. There was much celebration. I’ve met the woman. You are too humble, Master Guest. If I find anything about this book, I will send a message to you on Bread Street.’

  ‘Bread Street? I live on the Shambles.’

  ‘Surely not. For during the celebrations, all said that the Tracker resided on Bread Street.’

  ‘I can hardly be mistaken where I have lived these last seventeen years. It is still the Shambles, though now in a poulterer’s old shop.’

  The man put a hand to his mouth. ‘I wonder that I had misheard. Well, it matters not. I will send for you, wherever you are.’

  ‘Good then. I thank you.’ He bowed, took the book back into the scrip, and signaled Jack to depart. Once on the street, his hand rested thoughtfully on the book inside its pouch.

  ‘I don’t recall you solving no murders of late, master.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s an honest mistake.’ He looked down the lane, remembering the case of that long-ago day that dealt with secret parchments, with even more secret Jews, and with a monster that may or may not have been. ‘I think I have an idea. We’ll need to head to Westminster … to a goldsmith’s shop.’

  TWO

  He wondered if Jack remembered when he was in the clutches of a man who murdered and abused young boys. Crispin said nothing as they headed up the Strand to Westminster proper and dove into the streets nearest the Thames. It had been a long time but Crispin recalled the way. Yet it wasn’t until they’d reached the goldsmith’s shop that Jack suddenly stumbled to a stop.

  ‘So you remembered,’ said Crispin carefully.

  His apprentice was stiff and stone-faced. ‘Aye, sir. Why are we here?’

  ‘It was a long time ago. When you were only a boy.’

  ‘Like yesterday,’ said Jack in a less than steady voice.

  Crispin rested his hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry. I did not mean to awaken such memories. That man is long dead and cannot harm you now.’

  Jack swallowed hard and passed a hand over his brow. ‘This is foolish. I’m a man now. I’ve been back to Westminster so many times since …’

  ‘But you were such a vulnerable child then. And I have never forgiven myself for putting you in such danger.’

  ‘Now I do feel foolish, sir. It makes no matter. I am not that child no more.’

  Crispin stepped back and looked him over. That gray look to him had gone. His face was flushed and pink, and the freckles were still in evidence, as was the proud upward tilt to his nose and the determination in his amber eyes.

  ‘Very well. Let us proceed.’ Crispin led the way to the goldsmith’s door and smartly rapped upon it.

  Soon the door was unlocked and answered by a man, somewhat grayer and more stooped than when Crispin had met him twelve years ago. His beard was longer, his clothes hung on a thinner frame. Crispin didn’t have any reason to believe this man had not left with his compatriots when a sweep had occurred in London looking for stray Jews who had avoided King Edward’s expulsion. He had sent word to the man, in fact, warning him, and many of his friends had left London. Yet this man had remained, untouched, unknown to those who would see his kind all expunged from the land.

  The man well remembered Crispin, too, for his eyes rounded and he tried, as he had twelve years ago, to shut the door on Crispin.

  ‘Have no fear of me, Master Middleton. It is Master Middleton, is it not?’

  The man stopped and wearily let go of the door. ‘And you are Crispin Guest. I remember you.’ He gestured them through and looked both ways down the lane before closing the door after them. A goldsmith couldn’t be too careful.

  ‘It was a long time ago.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Middleton. He looked Jack over. ‘If this is your same apprentice, it has been a very long time indeed.’

  Jack bowed.

  ‘The last time we talked was because of dangerous parchments. This time, it is because of a book.’ Crispin took it from his scrip, opened it, and showed Middleton the pages.

  ‘Why have you come to me with this, sir? I am but a goldsmith.’

  ‘I thought, perhaps, you might be versed in languages. Have you seen this script before?’

  The man looked the page over. ‘I am not. Hebrew is the only other language I can read.’

  ‘And this is not Hebrew.’

  ‘I think you know that is true, Master Guest. But …’ He touched the page. ‘Unusual.’

  ‘I am told it is papyrus, made in the Holy Land.’

  Middleton drew back. ‘I have never been there.’

  ‘No?’

  He smiled. ‘I was born in Westminster, Master Guest, and have never left it. Do you presume to think that all Jews have come directly from the Holy Land? A pilgrimage is for wealthy wayfarers, knights and lords and their ladies, not humble tradesmen. And, of course, they are going to Palestine, not from.’

  ‘I see.’ Crispin instantly felt foolish. He had assumed that very thing, erroneously, it seemed. ‘You are quite right, Master Middleton. Forgive me. I have also been told that the language in which it is written is something called Coptic, from Egypt.’

  ‘Hmm,’ he said, stroking his beard. ‘I know of a scholar on Wood Street in London … a Jewish scholar,’ he said quietly. ‘He kno
ws many languages. He is … he is, in fact, a rabbi and well-respected, who also lives in secret. He knows of you and will, I think, help you if he can. Our community is grateful to you for your discretion.’

  Crispin made an exasperated sound. ‘I thought all of your race left London when I warned you to flee. Why did you stay?’

  ‘Some of us did indeed depart, fearing to be arrested. But many of us, like myself, are old and wish to live out the rest of our days in the country we have always called home.’

  Crispin sighed. How could he argue with that? He would have been satisfied to die at Sheen where his lands and manor house had been. Alas, they had burned to the ground. He had no country but London, it seemed.

  ‘I understand, Master Middleton. What is this man’s name?’

  ‘Peter Pardeu. He is a barber surgeon.’

  ‘Then it’s back to London for us.’ He bowed to Middleton, who looked happy to see the back of him, and proceeded with Jack.

  ‘Sir,’ said his companion after a mile or so. ‘I’m worried about this book.’

  ‘It is a strange thing.’

  ‘What if we can’t find out what it is and who it belongs to?’

  ‘Then we will add another book to our … one.’

  ‘But master, it’s old. It’s … almost biblical itself. Is it another one of them relics … or something else?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea, Jack. That is why one investigates. To collect the facts and cull the rest.’

  ‘I’m just waiting for the dead body to fall into our laps.’

  ‘That’s a horrible thing to say.’

  Jack crossed himself. ‘I know, sir, but I also know how these things turn out for the two of us.’

  ‘You’d better pray for a worthier outcome.’

  ‘I do, sir. All the time.’

  ‘Tucker, you’ll be gray before you’re twenty-five if you keep up that sort of worrying.’

  ‘If I’m a cynic it’s because I got it from you.’

  Crispin said nothing. The man was probably right.