Traitor's Codex Page 8

‘Master Guest, I represent a most important personage. My name is Hugh Ashdown, and though I am not a monk, I live the life of a religious.’

  ‘Who? Who is this personage and why should you wish to preserve a blasphemous book?’

  ‘It isn’t blasphemous to the one I follow. It can be a most important book to understand our Lord, to see the greater mystery of Him, to delve deep into the unknowable of God.’ He shook his head. ‘Sometimes the message is difficult to understand fully. It is not for every man to be able to discern all the mysteries. But there are some who can. Still there are those in the Church who seek to destroy any other message they do not understand. They call them heresies and move to root them out without question. It was from those men I sought to protect the text. From one man in particular.’

  ‘And who is that?’

  ‘A bishop from Yorkshire, who has worked many years in this rooting out of heresies of both books and men. He works secretly with his own henchmen to do his work.’

  ‘I have met those men. They killed an innocent bookseller, a barber, and a goldsmith for no other reason but that I brought that book to them.’

  ‘He is ruthless, Master Guest. Bishop Edmund Becke would see the one I follow quieted.’

  Crispin turned his thoughts over. ‘I have encountered this bishop before as well.’

  ‘Have you? Somehow that doesn’t surprise me. Then you know he poses a threat to the greater wisdom of God.’

  ‘I don’t know about that, but he is a single-minded man. I met him some twelve years ago in less than ideal circumstances.’

  ‘Is the book protected? Do you have it still?’

  ‘I do. And I know what it says.’

  ‘May I … see it?’

  Crispin narrowed his eyes. ‘It is safe.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Ashdown. ‘Well then. Surely you must realize that you are in danger as well. Perhaps it might be best if I take it off your hands.’

  Crispin got in close. ‘And so you knew this would happen. My whole household has been interrupted and endangered. Why did you bring it to me? Couldn’t you protect it?’

  ‘Alas, no. Bishop Becke has been on my trail.’

  ‘And now he is on mine.’ His glare didn’t seem to have any effect on the mild-mannered man. ‘Are you, too, a Lollard? London seems to be lousy with them of late. Like the plague.’

  ‘Not quite a Lollard. Not like your own Lancaster.’

  ‘Do not speak of him. I will not allow you to speak of him.’

  Ashdown held up his hands again in surrender.

  ‘I remind you,’ growled Crispin, ‘that what I do, I do for a fee.’

  Ashdown observed Crispin mildly a long while before he reached for his scrip. ‘I have been authorized to pay you. How much?’

  ‘How much is a man’s life worth?’

  ‘Come now, Master Guest. There are sacrifices that must be made for the greater good.’

  ‘Allow a man to decide whether he’d like to make those sacrifices.’

  Hugh sighed. ‘How much, Master Guest?’

  ‘Half a mark.’

  Hugh brows rose, but he dug into his bag and pulled out the coins. ‘I was mistaken in thinking it was … six pence a day.’

  ‘The price went up.’ Crispin snatched the coins and shoved them into his own scrip. ‘Now. This personage. What is so special about him? Is he a lord?’

  ‘No. The humblest of people. But you will see. You will be visited shortly.’

  God’s blood, he thought. Just what he needed. More foolery coming to his doorstep.

  The door slammed open and Jack stood on the threshold, his dagger in his hand. ‘Master, are you well?’ he asked suspiciously, looking over the stranger.

  ‘For now. This is my apprentice, Jack Tucker. And this, Jack, is Hugh Ashdown, the knave who gave me that damned book.’

  ‘Oh is it?’ With a scowl to match Crispin’s, Jack slammed his knife back in its sheath and stalked up to the man. He was several inches taller and he used it to his advantage. ‘What you go and give that book to my master for? There’s been murders because of it.’

  ‘As I was explaining to your master, it was necessary to make certain it wasn’t destroyed. The other men … I am sorry.’

  ‘Oh, you’re sorry, are you?’ Jack didn’t seem to have any intention of letting up. ‘And what about us? My master and me, getting thrust in the middle of it. My wife and children had to flee this place!’

  ‘And I am heartily sorry for that inconvenience, Master Tucker. But I felt it must be done.’

  ‘Why?’

  Ashdown raised his hands to fend them off. ‘All will be explained when I bring the one whom I follow.’

  Crispin stepped up beside Jack. ‘And how do we know we can trust you?’

  ‘Well … you will have to go with your heart, Master Guest.’

  I’d rather go with my blade, but he didn’t say it aloud.

  ‘Do you ever intend to tell me of this “one whom you follow”?’

  The man smiled, irritating Crispin all the more. ‘In time, Master Guest. I have come to you so that you would not waste precious time looking for me.’

  ‘And now that I’ve got you, what shall I do with you?’

  The man measured him and appeared not to like Crispin’s expression. ‘As I said, Master Guest, I mean no harm.’

  ‘And yet harm you have done. And what about me and mine? Shall this bishop come to my doorstep and hunt me down?’

  ‘I hope not, Master Guest. For the meantime, I think I have redirected his cause.’

  ‘Oh? What other poor unfortunate do you plan to have killed?’

  The man lifted an indignant shoulder. ‘Truly, Master Guest. I was given to understand you were from nobility and expected more courtesy from you.’

  Incredulous at the gall of the man, Crispin could only stare.

  ‘God’s blood, man!’ cried Jack, pouring all of Crispin’s own indignity into his words. ‘Master Guest owes you no such courtesy. And neither do I! Innocent men have died. We might be next.’ He turned to Crispin. ‘Do I have your permission, sir, to throw this whoreson out?’

  ‘By all means.’

  The man had time to take only one step back before Jack grabbed him and shove-walked him to the door, which Crispin promptly opened for him. With a last hard push, Jack tossed him over the threshold. The man tumbled over the granite step and out into the mud. The hog-seller across the way brayed out his laughter, as did others milling along the lane.

  Jack enjoyed their jeers for a moment more before he slammed the door and threw the bolt. He brushed his hands together. ‘That’s him told.’

  ‘Thank you, Jack.’ Crispin moved to the window and peered at the man through a crack in the shutter. He brushed the mud from himself as best he could, looked back forlornly at Crispin’s lodgings, and trudged away.

  ‘So you found him before I did,’ said Jack.

  ‘He found me.’

  ‘And who is this “one that he follows” or some such knavery?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He sank down into his chair and stared at the naked hearth.

  Jack began to clear the spoiled food and crusty pot. ‘What of the one who is after us and killed them men?’

  ‘That is our old friend Bishop Becke.’

  Jack stopped and whipped around. ‘The same from …’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Blind me,’ he muttered, continuing his cleaning.

  It had been a while since it had been him and Jack alone. He watched for a few moments as his apprentice fell back into old habits of cleaning and preparing food. He almost missed those times when it was just the two of them, but with an unexpected pang in his chest, he realized he missed Isabel’s humming, Little Crispin’s battles with imaginary foes with a stick as a sword, and even Baby Helen’s crying, for she giggled almost as much.

  ‘I’ll make it right again, Jack, and then your family can come home where they belong.’

  Jack smiled under his shoul
der. ‘Ah, you miss them too.’

  ‘I do. It’s foolish of me to deny it.’

  ‘You are a good master, aren’t you?’

  Crispin threw a spoon at him.

  Crispin didn’t know what steps to take next. Maybe he should have given it back to Ashdown when he asked for it, but Crispin hadn’t liked the strange look in the man’s eye. Maybe Crispin should just destroy the book himself and be done with it. He’d been paid more than adequately for watching it. But what if that bishop needed proof? He mulled it, turning the cup of ale Jack had provided him with, spinning it again and again without drinking, watching the damascene foam on the surface rock back and forth.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  Both on alert, Jack was first at the door with his knife drawn. He looked back at Crispin for permission, and Crispin gave him a nod.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Jack called.

  ‘Master Guest! I am here. Please open the door.’

  That sounded like …

  ‘It’s Christopher Walcote,’ hissed Jack over his shoulder. ‘What shall I do?’

  ‘Let the boy in.’

  Crispin stood, straightened his clothes, and then felt foolish for it.

  Jack opened the door, and the young boy who looked so much like Crispin that Jack shook his head, strode in. A servant was with him, looking about anxiously toward the street.

  Christopher bounded forward right up to Crispin and closed his arms around him in a hug. Crispin stood limp-armed, staring down at the boy, at the top of his head covered with a fashionable hat.

  ‘I’m so glad to see you again … and that you are still my friend.’ He looked up, gray eyes ablaze with warmth.

  ‘Master Walcote,’ said the servant fretfully. ‘We should not be here among … these people.’

  ‘I am not just anyone, sir. I am Crispin Guest, the Tracker, and I am a friend of Master Walcote here … and his parents.’

  ‘Yes, well … Master Walcote was not to stray far from home today. He said he had your permission—’

  Crispin looked down and Christopher wouldn’t meet his eye. ‘Were you not to send a message to me first? What if I had been out? I very often am.’

  ‘I had to take a chance. It’s been so very long since I’ve seen you, Master Crispin.’

  ‘Only this morning. Well … I shall forgive you this once, Master Christopher, as long as you send that missive the next time.’

  ‘There will be a next time, then?’

  ‘We shall see.’ He noticed the servant eyeing the two of them. He turned his back on him. ‘Tell your servant to await you outside. Make sure no one disturbs us.’

  Jack sensed what was needed, grabbed the man, and pushed him through the open door. ‘Just out here, my lad.’

  ‘But I don’t think—’

  ‘And that’s right and proper for a servant.’ Jack waved at him and closed the door. He blew out a breath as he leaned against it.

  Crispin looked to Jack for help.

  ‘Perhaps Master Christopher would like to handle a sword, master. The proper way to handle a sword comes before using one.’

  The boy clapped his hands. ‘Oh, yes! I should like that.’

  But before Jack could grab his sword, hanging from its place by the door, a knock sounded a second time.

  Jack scowled and yanked open the door. ‘Didn’t I tell you to wait outside … oh!’

  A man in livery stood on the threshold. Crispin stood to attention when he saw it was the Duke of Lancaster’s arms. ‘I’m looking for Crispin Guest.’

  ‘I am Crispin Guest,’ he said, stepping forward.

  The servant handed Crispin a sealed parchment, bowed, and pivoted out of the doorway. Walcote’s servant watched him go and looked back hopefully at Jack before Jack shut the door on him once more.

  Crispin used his fingernail to snap the wax seal. As soon as he opened it, he saw it was written in the duke’s own hand.

  God have mercy, my dear Crispin,

  The queen is dead. His Majesty, mad with grief, has burned down the palace at Sheen. The court ran for their lives. Make certain you stay out of Westminster. Your life will be in danger. The king will brook nothing from you or even word of you.

  He didn’t sign it but he didn’t need to.

  ‘What’s it say?’ said Jack.

  ‘The queen is dead.’ And even as the words left his lips, every bell in every church in London began to toll.

  EIGHT

  ‘Blind me,’ said Jack, crossing himself. He bowed his head, a tear in his eye.

  Crispin knew the queen’s kindness to Jack. She had saved his life from Richard’s wrath. Who would save them now?

  ‘He doted on her,’ Crispin said softly. ‘She was a kind and gracious lady. I shall never forget her bravery and generosity toward you.’

  Jack sniffed, rubbing his nose.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Christopher. ‘What’s happened?’

  He could scarce believe he had forgotten Christopher was there. Crispin crouched before him. ‘Our queen has died. She was the mother of England. That is why the bells ring.’

  Christopher’s eyes enlarged. A child is full of empathy and it was clear the boy likened this mother to his own. Those eyes became glossy. ‘I should go home.’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid you should. There will be another time, Master Christopher.’

  ‘Yes. I must stand with my father and mother at this sad time.’

  Spoken like a courtier. The boy wasn’t all that far from it. His father was an alderman, might even be knighted someday. It made Crispin burn with a sudden flash of envy.

  Jack opened the door. ‘You!’ he called to the servant.

  The man scurried to reach the door.

  Crispin rested his hand on Christopher’s shoulder, feeling the warmth … and the boniness. He was but a small boy, after all, and boys were little sticks. He longed to hold him, to crush the boy against him. Reluctantly, he said instead to the servant, ‘Come. Take your master home. This is not a day of revelry. For the queen is dead and England mourns.’

  The servant looked up to the steeples and the bells tolling and grimly took his charge.

  Before Christopher could be led away, he turned back. ‘I will come again, Master Crispin.’

  ‘Yes. Do that. But send a message first asking to come.’

  He watched the boy go with sadness at his absence, at the lost years, at the death of the queen.

  Jack was reading the rest of the message that Crispin had left on the table. ‘Blind me. His Grace is right. You’d best lay low. There’s no telling what the king would do to you.’

  Crispin nodded, thinking. And hadn’t Crispin’s own manor been burned to the ground? Not by his hand, but he was still responsible. Yes, he’d rather it burn down to ashes than let another live there. Perhaps that is what Richard thought. He’d rather not see their home without his beloved wife, for they had been as close as man and woman could be. And yet they had no heir.

  They’d have to find another wife for him. If not and he died without an heir … Crispin scarce wanted to think of what would come of that.

  ‘I can’t sit around here, Jack.’

  ‘Then what are we to do? We mustn’t make a fuss.’

  ‘The king has his own worries. He’ll never spend a moment thinking of me. But I won’t sit here like a boar in a trap, waiting for this bishop to pounce. I want to find him, get it over with.’

  ‘But master, what if his plan is to arrest you?’

  ‘I’d like to see him try.’

  ‘This is what I meant by “fuss”, sir.’

  ‘You’re coming with me.’

  Jack took a mere moment to contemplate that. He seemed more relieved that he would be there to monitor Crispin’s activities. It was almost amusing.

  They set out on to the Shambles. Jack sighed. ‘I miss me wife.’

  There hadn’t been a moment in their marriage when she wasn’t with child. ‘She has only just left not
more than a few hours ago.’

  ‘Do you suppose it will be long? Her having to be away?’

  ‘I hope not. I’ve become used to better cooking.’

  Jack looked around. ‘Where are we going anyway?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’

  They both fell silent, until …

  ‘You’re trying to draw him out, aren’t you, master?’

  ‘I had hoped. I assumed he had men watching our lodgings.’

  ‘Should I …’ Jack was cautiously glancing over his shoulder. ‘Should I be prepared or …?’

  ‘Be prepared … to be unprepared, I suppose.’

  ‘Master Crispin, there is one thing I can always count on with you.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  He laughed in spite of the worry on his bearded face. ‘I’m never bored.’

  Despite what Crispin said about looking unprepared, Jack kept his hand on his dagger hilt. Crispin noticed he’d done the same unconsciously to his own dagger.

  They walked the streets of London, watching as the news spread of the queen. Citizens came out of their houses and shops to stand with others, talking fervently. Others wept, crossing themselves. Every now and then, people would lift their tear-stained faces to the steeples and the cascade of tolling bells. Some didn’t talk at all but looked on at their neighbors with grim faces, some even muttering over rosaries.

  ‘Why did she have to die?’ asked Jack softly beside him. ‘I prayed for her every night.’

  ‘Was not your prayer for her soul? And surely these prayers and her deeds sent her to Heaven all the sooner.’

  ‘Aye, that’s true. But we needed her here. That the king should burn down his palace! What’s to stop him from burning down all of London?’

  ‘His ministers and lords. Gaunt and Bolingbroke.’

  ‘Master,’ Jack said quietly after a pause. ‘What makes some women strong and some succumb? I … I pray each time my Isabel goes to her childbed. The lass is strong and came through it twice and I pray she will a third time. But I worry.’

  ‘Jack,’ he said, laying his hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘You have nothing to fear. She is strong. And you are a reverent man. What would all of us do without your prayers?’

  ‘But that’s just it. I prayed for the queen … and she died.’