Traitor's Codex Page 3

  They reached Newgate and headed up Wood Street from West Cheap. They passed several shops and houses. Crispin noticed that beggar again, leaning against a wall and gazing casually at him. He thought of sending Jack to shoo him away but he felt foolish suddenly at the notion. He turned away from him and spied the barber pole, dirty and grayed from soot. He and Jack turned at the same time and went in.

  A man was sitting backward in a chair. His coat lay aside, and his chemise rucked up over his shoulders, exposing his back. And on his back, a series of ceramic cups were stuck like barnacles, puckering the flesh around them. An old man who looked more like an alchemist than a barber, with a black merino cap and long robes, bent over him, examining the cups to make certain they stayed in place. He took one more from the hearth where it was warming and, holding it with a cloth, quickly applied its open end to the man’s back. The client hissed and writhed in pain but soon settled down as the old man soothed with calming words and a steady hand to the back of his neck.

  ‘There now, Master Field. You sit there and relax. The pain will soon recede.’

  ‘Thank you, Master Pardeu,’ he gritted out.

  It was then that the old man turned and spied Crispin. ‘Masters,’ he said with a bow, stroking his long beard. ‘I shall be with you shortly. This man requires only a few moments more for his cure.’

  ‘We will wait,’ said Crispin, both hands on the scrip he held before him.

  The barber offered the man a small cup of what looked like wine. He took it and drank. The barber set about putting his tools away, sweeping the ashes back into the hearth, and then looked back at his client. ‘Well now. Let’s take a look, shall we, Master Field?’ He carefully pried off one cup and touched the reddened ring left behind. ‘Excellent. Those foul humors were adequately removed.’ He took off each cup carefully in turn and laid them in a row on the hearth. Examining the man’s back, he nodded his satisfaction. ‘Master Field, you should feel the easing of your pain in a day or so. Remain as warm as you can tonight and take wine if possible. Two pence, if you will, master.’

  The man pulled his shirt down carefully over the red rings on his flesh, and grabbed his cote-hardie, shrugging into it. He buckled his belt loosely around his waist and dug into a pouch hanging from it. ‘Here you are, barber. And for this, much thanks.’

  He nodded to Crispin, buttoned up his cote-hardie, and left the shop.

  ‘Now, my good master,’ said the old man, facing Crispin. ‘What can I do for you? Or is it the young man who ails? For with such a proud red beard I can see he has no need of a shave.’

  Jack reddened and brought a hand self-consciously to his trimmed beard.

  ‘Nothing of the kind, Master Pardeu,’ said Crispin with a chuckle. ‘We have come from a certain goldsmith in Westminster who recommended we go to you.’

  ‘Oh? Well, it is good when clients make recommendations.’

  Crispin stepped closer and glanced at Jack over his shoulder. Jack went to the door, and positioned the bar over it, locking them in. He strode to the window and closed the shutters.

  ‘What is this?’ cried the old man. ‘If you’ve come to rob me, I warn you. I am paid very little.’

  ‘Be at peace, Master Pardeu. Or should I say … Rabbi?’

  The barber stilled. His blue eyes searched Crispin’s face, then Jack’s, and then toward the window. ‘What nonsense,’ he said tentatively.

  ‘Perhaps I should have first introduced myself. I am Crispin Guest. I am known in London as the Tracker. And this is my apprentice, Jack Tucker.’

  The man’s face changed from stark fear to careful hopefulness. ‘You are the Tracker. I have heard of you. Almost … legendary.’

  ‘Yes. Master Middleton would not have told us to come if he did not trust me. You recall twelve years ago …’

  ‘Yes, indeed, Master Guest,’ he said quietly, softly. ‘There is not a Jewish household within my care who does not praise and pray for Crispin Guest.’

  Crispin scuffed the stone-laid floor with his boot. He grunted his reply. ‘Then … you realize that it is no mere fancy my being here.’

  ‘No, of course not. What is it I can do for you, sirs?’

  ‘I have this book. I hoped that you could translate it for me.’

  ‘Translate? Is it … is it in Hebrew?’

  ‘No. It is in a language called Coptic.’

  The old man’s eyes lit with a sense of excitement. ‘Is that so?’ He gestured Crispin forward toward a table. Following, Crispin removed the book and laid it down on the surface. Pardeu touched it reverently, running his fingers over the leather cover. ‘The cover seems new,’ he said, ‘though well-traveled.’ He opened the cover and touched the paper. ‘By my life,’ he muttered. ‘Papyrus.’

  Crispin edged forward and peered over the man’s shoulder. ‘Can you read it, sir?’

  The man’s hands trembled slightly as they glided over the page. ‘Where did you say you obtained this, Master Guest?’

  ‘I didn’t. It came to me anonymously.’

  ‘I see.’ He took a quick glance toward the shuttered window, as if checking to make certain it was still shut. He pulled the candle closer and seemed to be looking over the script, line by line.

  ‘What is it, Master Pardeu? Can you read it?’

  He slowly turned toward Crispin. His eyes, a little yellowed with age, gazed at him with some concern. Softly, he said, ‘Perhaps it is best you take it away and burn it.’

  ‘What? Why?’ His patience tightened. ‘What the devil does it say, man?’

  His gray brows winged upward, cradling the steps of his forehead. ‘Very well. But I did warn you. I shall translate.’ He put his finger to the top line, licked his lips, and read: ‘The secret revelation by which Jesus spoke in conversation with Judas Iscariot, during eight days, three days before he celebrated Passover.’

  THREE

  Frowning, Crispin leaned over the table, staring at the words that were frustratingly beyond his deciphering. ‘Our Lord … in conversation with Judas?’

  Pardeu rubbed his hands nervously. ‘It might be rightly interpreted as a … erm … a gospel. Of Judas.’

  Crispin glared. Until he remembered Pardeu was a Jew. He stood up and stared down his nose at him, unsheathing his dagger. ‘Do you toy with me? What does it truly say?’

  ‘I swear to you, Master Guest, that I am not lying. My eyes are old. Perhaps I mistook the words—’

  ‘Perhaps you are making it up out of whole cloth!’

  Pardeu raised his hands as if to fend off a blow. ‘I am not. You said you trusted me, trusted Master Middleton. Then why can you not trust the words written herein? I have never seen the like before.’

  ‘You said the cover was not old.’

  ‘But the pages within are. They are faded, torn, some even lost. I fear it is very old. And made of papyrus and written in Coptic … this is evidence that it came from far away, in the only place such things can be acquired: the Holy Land.’

  ‘Master.’ Jack’s anxious voice came from behind him. ‘Why would Master Pardeu have cause to lie to you, sir? Did not the bookseller say as much? Put your weapon away and let us hear what he has to say. No matter how blasphemous.’

  Crispin was not as godly a man as Jack was, but he had prayed, felt he’d done his best under the eyes of God, and even got the blessings of two abbots of Westminster Abbey. Surely that meant he could tell truth from a lie.

  Would this man, given what he said about Crispin, lie to him now?

  He slowly lowered the dagger and sheathed it smartly with a snap. He grabbed a chair and pulled it out, stepped over the seat, and sat hard. ‘Read it, then.’

  Pardeu glanced toward Jack. The boy gave him a weak smile and an encouraging nod. Pardeu warily seated himself and pulled the book toward him.

  Crispin stood at the barber’s hearth and stared into it. He and Jack had remained quiet during the brief reading. Peter Pardeu’s voice was soft and gentle as he had read, saying al
oud the outlandish words. It was such a strange tale. And yes, it sounded very much like a gospel. The man had called it a secret text, much in the realm of heretical sects that claimed to have special and enlightened knowledge beyond what the Church taught. Like these damned Lollards.

  Crispin knew his Scripture. And what was in this Judas ‘gospel’ was nothing like he’d ever heard before.

  ‘If I understand this book aright, Master Pardeu,’ said Crispin, never taking his eyes off the fire, ‘then our Lord is not Savior because of his sacrifice, but because of this … “special knowledge” he imparts to …’ He paused to shake his head. ‘To Judas, of all people. The one man this text seems to say was the most enlightened of all his Apostles?’

  ‘It seems fantastic,’ said Pardeu, ‘but that is what it says.’

  ‘And so Judas is not the villain, deviously living side by side with our Lord and his saintly Apostles and plotting his demise, but as a friend to Jesus, doing his bidding – even unto turning Him in to the authorities – and understanding his secrets better than the others.’

  Pardeu fingered the book’s edges. ‘That is what it seems to be saying, Master Guest.’

  ‘But how can this be? This is not anything like what has been preached to Christians throughout the ages. It is not what crusades were fought for.’

  The man gently pushed the book aside and folded his hands together on the table. ‘Master Guest, I wonder if you are knowledgeable of the Council of Nicaea, the first important Christian council convened by Emperor Constantine over one thousand years ago.’

  ‘Of course. We profess the creed that came out of that council.’

  ‘But are you aware of its significance?’

  ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me. How is it that a Jew knows about Christian councils and their significance?’

  ‘Be at peace, Master Guest. I may be a humble barber to all of London, but in secret, I am a rabbi, a man of learning. A scholar of the religion of my race, but also that of the Christian faith. Who would not study such a thing that can express its might in so many harmful ways to my own people?’

  Crispin’s smirk was black. ‘Lancaster often told me to know my enemy.’

  Pardeu made a noncommittal tilt to his head. ‘It has been important to know and to impart this information to my fellow Jews who live in secret but outwardly as Christians.’

  Such was distasteful to Crispin, and he couldn’t help scowling. But his experience on the matter also made him empathize. He had seen these English Jewish children cower in fear, the mothers encircling their charges within the safety of their arms, a safety that could have been easily snatched from them had Crispin reported them to the sheriffs. He could have turned on them, especially when the maiden – the Jewish maiden – he had been falling for, proved herself false and soured him even more on her race. But that had not been the fault of these Jews. They had been living peacefully, even industriously, in London and Westminster for a hundred years. Their fate had been in his hands. They had everything to lose if they revealed themselves, and much to gain by playing at Christian.

  Still, it left a bad taste in his mouth.

  ‘I concede it, Master Pardeu,’ he said after a long moment. ‘Then what was the significance of the Council of Nicaea?’

  ‘As you said, sir, the creed which you profess. But that creed was born of that council of bishops to truly decide on what it was that all Christians must believe. In those early years after Christ’s death …’ he paused and added, ‘and resurrection … it was debated between the many sects of Christianity that were spreading throughout the Holy Land and beyond, who Jesus actually was.’

  Jack stepped forward, his face full of concern. ‘But we know who he was, Master Pardeu,’ he said in a stern but gentle tone. ‘He is our Savior and our Lord. He is the Son of God.’

  ‘Yes, this is what you know now, and it came from this council. You see, much to the contrary of what you may have been taught, in the many places that Christianity had spread in those early days, there was no one unifying belief. The divine nature of Jesus the Son in relation to the Father was hotly debated among the bishops and scholars of the time. They feared a schism. Was the Son as great as the Father? In the Church in Alexandria they believed that the Father was supreme and a Son could not be equal. In other words, the Son was not God but created by Him and had not the eternity or the power of the Creator. Or was it – as the Roman Church believed, as you understand now – that the Son is the true God, coeternal and equal with the Father, begotten – as you say in your creed – not made, proclaiming that he was not a mere creature brought into being out of nothing, but the true Son of God, brought into being from the very substance of the Father.’

  Crispin nodded, watching the now-scholarly face of the man before him, all trappings of a barber washed away, replaced by that of the teacher.

  ‘Now the former was heretical and dangerous to the very notion of the salvation of one’s soul,’ Pardeu went on. ‘This difference in thought was causing errors and heresies. And so, Emperor Constantine wished to settle the matter and unite his entire empire under this one creed.’

  Jack looked questioningly toward Crispin. ‘Is that true, master? Did those in the Church ever believe different?’

  ‘It is true. I have heard of this before.’

  ‘How can that be?’ said Jack. ‘They were living in the time of Jesus. How could they not be touched by God to spread the one true gospel?’

  ‘But Master Tucker,’ said Pardeu, ‘this was many years after Jesus walked the earth, and the message had spread far and wide. Some regions of the far east had to interpret what they were told. There was need to strictly define this revealed doctrine. You must remember, in the very early days of the Church, it was forbidden to be Christian and they held their faith in secret, much as my people must do now in England.’

  Jack shuffled uncomfortably.

  ‘And there was yet to be a written gospel,’ Pardeu added.

  Jack shook his head. ‘No gospel? But didn’t His Apostles write it all down?’

  ‘Not immediately. And some of the gospels were written later by others. The bishops were only beginning to decide which of the many gospels should be included in what you call the New Testament. Though much of this had been decided well before the Council of Nicaea, of course, but they were still not entirely settled.’

  Jack frowned and stroked his beard.

  ‘Tell us more of this council,’ said Crispin.

  ‘Well, the bishops met, discussed, and debated – much as the early rabbis discussed and debated our Hebrew Scriptures, what you call the Old Testament. We, too, needed to know what the true message of God was for us. And so Constantine invoked a council wherein your bishops met to decide the very basic tenets of Christianity itself and a worldwide profession of belief, silencing the heresies.’

  ‘And did it silence the heresies?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Recall the Lollards, Jack,’ said Crispin, ‘who have their heretical beliefs about the sacraments and other tenets of the faith. It goes on even today.’

  ‘As your master says. There were those whose steadfast beliefs were hard to break. As I said, the gospels were joined before the Council of Nicaea, but it might interest you to know that there were many more gospels than the four you know today.’

  ‘Like this one,’ said Crispin, gesturing toward the book.

  ‘Yes. Just like this one.’ Pardeu stretched his hand over the papyrus page. ‘Many more synods were called to question these new gospels that appeared. These synods decided which gospels most conformed to what they called the true word.’

  ‘They decided,’ said Crispin. He did not like the sound of that.

  ‘Moved by God to do His will, of course.’

  ‘I have seen how bishops do the will of God,’ he muttered.

  ‘The orthodoxy of your canon is held very dear. And, as you say, there are heretics in every age. They cause havoc, disruption … even wars. Your Church holds t
ight to its doctrine, and any that defy it are put to the torch. Do you now understand, Master Guest, the danger of this book?’

  ‘I’m beginning to.’

  ‘What?’ said Jack, stepping forward. Crispin had noted that Jack was particularly quiet during the reading of the book itself – as much of it as Pardeu was able to read with its many torn and faded pages. ‘What does it mean, sir? Why should our Lord be so close and friends with the one who betrayed Him?’

  Crispin ran his hand down his face before fitting his thumbs in his belt. He swiveled toward Jack. ‘It means, Jack, that in this gospel, Judas did not betray Him, but did His bidding. A plan, as it were. And it is this knowledge that Jesus imparts to Judas that saves us from the pits of Hell – this sanctifying of self – not of Jesus’ sacrifice on the cross.’

  ‘But … that can’t be right, sir. Can it?’

  ‘Not according to all the Scripture we know.’

  Jack stared at the book a long time. ‘Is this Scripture we don’t know?’

  ‘Don’t be absurd!’ Crispin walked to the table and slammed the cover shut. But much like Pandora and her mythical box, the Creatures of Ideas had already escaped, casting doubt by their mere mention. He stared at the book and brooded. ‘If He did not sacrifice, then He did not need to rise from the dead. And if none of this is true, then where can we go to shed our sin and reach Heaven? Our sin is still with us if it is not expunged by Jesus on the cross. All of what we recite in our creed is then wrong.’

  Jack’s eyes widened. ‘Then it’s blasphemy.’

  ‘Very old blasphemy.’ He could not help himself, and lifted the cover again to stare at the ancient pages.

  And yet …

  This was why the old Jew told him the tale of the Council of Nicaea. That there were differing views when the Church was new. There were doubts. But the true way had only to be revealed to the bishops at the council, just as the true word was revealed when they met to find the true gospels.

  But as Pilate himself had said, Quid est veritas? What is truth?

  And yet Lancaster was a Lollard, as were many knights of King Richard’s court. Wycliffe might have been suppressed in death, but there were wealthy men who ascribed to his doctrine, even today. And, though Crispin couldn’t agree with all of it, he had to admit quietly to himself that some of it made sense to a thinking man.