The Deepest Grave

by Jeri Westerson

  ‘And good morn to you, Isabel. Is Jack awake?’

  ‘He’s attending to Abbot William. I’m sorry if I woke you.’

  ‘No apologies necessary. It was time I got into the day.’

  He rose and stretched again. But when he turned to grab his cote-hardie, he didn’t see it.

  Isabel held it out for him. ‘I brushed and cleaned it for you, sir. It had dirt on it. And a little blood.’

  ‘I can assure you it was not my blood.’

  She wrinkled her nose and held it out for him to slide his arms into. ‘I’m not certain I am assured by that.’

  He chuckled and shrugged it over his shoulders before he began to button the many closures. She had prepared his shaving water and supplies, and he set about shaving without his brass mirror.

  Once done, he rolled down his sleeves, buttoned them, and felt prepared as Abbot William trudged down the stairs at last to join him.

  He sat heavily in the chair by the fire. ‘Crispin, I fear I am getting old.’

  The monk’s silvered barley-colored hair was curled at his ears. The top of his head was, of course, shaved, denoting his clerical status, but it hadn’t been re-shaved in some time and was fuzzed with a nap of downy hair.

  ‘What shall you do in the light of day, Crispin?’ he asked, accepting a cup from Isabel. ‘What have you decided regarding walking corpses and murder?’

  ‘I do not believe it was a corpse who did the murdering, my lord. Else why be concerned where you beheaded someone? It should have been done in the coffin. No, that particular act was done at a place to hide it and was not the method of execution.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. His throat was slit first. That’s what killed him. And then beheaded for … for what purpose?’

  ‘Don’t forget that he was beaten about the face,’ said Jack, striding down the stairs.

  ‘Yes.’ Crispin rubbed his newly shaved chin. ‘It was plain he was in a fight for his life.’

  ‘I saw his hands, sir,’ Jack went on. ‘He fought back. Hard. His knuckles was all bruised.’

  ‘Were they?’ asked the abbot. ‘And Bulthius seemed so tame a man.’

  ‘He was young yet, sir. Maybe all that religion hadn’t wrung all the life out of him yet. Oh. Begging your mercy, m’lord,’ he said with a bow.

  Abbot William hid his amusement in his cup of warmed wine. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about, young man.’

  ‘We must return to the parish church,’ said Crispin. ‘I don’t know who else to speak to about the missing items or who will take over the parish now that he’s gone.’

  ‘The Bishop of London, I should think,’ said the abbot. ‘Though as Bulthius was a Benedictine, as I am, perhaps there is something I can do.’

  ‘Get a message to the bishop, sir. Tell him … well.’ Crispin shook his head. ‘I don’t exactly know what you are to tell him.’

  ‘Perhaps he will meet us at the church.’

  ‘Do you think he will?’

  ‘I shall couch my phrases carefully. I think he might. Do you have ink and quill?’

  Crispin saluted the abbot with his cup. ‘I look forward to it.’

  Robert Braybrooke, Bishop of London, arrived with his retinue to St Modwen’s parish church near noon. The abbot and Crispin had busied themselves going over the books and inventory with an old sacristan called Stephen, who was so feeble that he was of little help in the matter.

  Crispin had sent Jack to survey the grave, but Horne had been reburied in his casket and the grave covered up again. The gravediggers covered the turned earth with a large slab of flagstone, likely in the hopes of keeping the corpse from roaming. Crispin thought the gesture was amusing, though his apprentice did not share in his humor.

  The tall bishop put his hand out for Abbot William to kiss his ring. When he turned and spied Crispin, his long face frowned. ‘Aren’t you Crispin Guest … the traitor?’

  Standing stock still, Crispin answered stiffly, ‘I am.’ Braybrooke was Richard’s man. The bishop had stood by the king in all his missteps and had been handsomely rewarded for it.

  ‘And what are you doing here?’

  ‘Master Guest investigates crimes, Your Excellency,’ the abbot interjected, ‘as you know.’

  ‘I have been so hired by the sheriffs to investigate the death of Father Bulthius.’

  ‘Have you? I wish you luck.’

  ‘And God’s grace?’

  The bishop raised his brow and his lip in a sneer. He turned pointedly away to address the abbot.

  It was just as well. The bishop wouldn’t be helpful to him, but he had yet to speak with the gravediggers again.

  ‘What of a replacement for poor Father Bulthius?’ the abbot was saying. ‘And of course, to reconsecrate the churchyard after blood has been spilt.’

  ‘It’s a very small parish, of little importance. And Father Bulthius … a foolish man. He came to me with some story about the dead arising. What nonsense. Rumors like that certainly didn’t help gain parishioners. As far as I can tell, it kept them all away. I dislike speaking ill of the dead, but, well, perhaps it was best that Father Bulthius left this world.’

  ‘Surely you don’t mean that he deserved to be murdered?’

  ‘Did I say anything of the kind? You put words into my mouth, Abbot William. And I thought you had such a care with your own words and comportment. My fellow bishops were given to understand that you have a gift of discretion.’

  ‘And so I do, Your Excellency,’ he said with a bow. ‘Else I could not have performed my duties as Archdeacon of Westminster for those many years.’

  The bishop only acknowledged it with the slight cock to his head. ‘Of course, we are aggrieved that one of our own died in such horrific circumstances. And we are gratified that he is now in the arms of our Lord, but as far as St Modwen’s is concerned, it matters little, for I’ve been in consultation for some time about this parish, as a matter of fact. Our council has decided that the church will be absorbed by the closest parish and the church itself closed, deconsecrated. There will be no reconsecration of the churchyard.’

  ‘Closed? But my dear bishop!’

  ‘It has no income. The one feeble patron it did have … well. He’s dead and buried in this very yard, isn’t he? And I see that you’ve gone over the books. There is no income. No relic, no pilgrims, no endowments. I daresay this Horne didn’t see fit to endow the church with much. A pity it wasn’t his birth parish, else his mortuary fees might have accounted for more.’

  The bishop suddenly turned and scowled at Crispin who had been lingering nearby. ‘Haven’t you got somewhere to go, Guest?’

  Without another word, he bowed and took his leave, heading toward the hut with Jack in tow. Crispin stopped and put his hand on his apprentice’s shoulder.

  ‘Jack, stay with the abbot. He hasn’t got a retainer and I expect you to serve him for now, as you serve me.’

  ‘It’s an honor, sir.’ He slipped a gaze toward the shed, and one toward the bishop’s bored retainers standing with the horses along the lane.

  ‘And Jack?’

  ‘Aye, sir?’

  ‘Do keep your ears open.’

  Jack smiled. ‘I will indeed, sir.’ He trotted back toward the abbot and stayed a respectful distance behind the cleric and the bishop.

  Crispin continued toward the shed and knocked smartly upon the door.

  Hal came from around the other side just as Tom opened the door, as bleary-eyed as Crispin had seen him before, with the smell of beer on his breath.

  ‘It’s that Tracker again, Tom,’ said Hal, leaning a rake alongside the shed wall.

  ‘I can see that,’ he grumbled. ‘What do you want now?’

  ‘Some answers. Did either of you see anything of the night before?’

  ‘The coroner asked us that,’ said Tom.

  ‘And now I’m asking.’

  ‘No one believes us when we tell it, so we don’t say naught.’

&nbs
p; ‘Believes you? As in walking corpses?’

  ‘Aye, that’s just what I mean,’ said Tom, getting in so close his stale breath pelted Crispin’s face.

  Hal wrung the hem of his tunic. ‘It’s a terrible sight, sir. I never want to see it again. I seen it too much as it is in this damnable churchyard. I’d leave now, but I need me situation.’

  Should he tell them that their situation was likely to change, and soon? He mulled over it for only a moment.

  ‘Have the dead walked often in the last sennight?’

  ‘Was it four times, Hal?’

  ‘Aye, I think it was.’

  ‘And was it the same corpse to walk?’

  ‘Oh no, sir,’ said Hal, stepping closer. ‘Each time was a different one. It’s horrible.’

  ‘And you truly believe that the dead walked abroad?’

  ‘We seen it.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Tom. ‘We seen it. And in the morning, the turned earth and the disturbed coffins.’

  ‘Was there a noise?’

  Tom sniffed and hacked a phlegmy cough. ‘A noise, sir?’

  ‘Yes. A noise of earth being dug up, or, I suppose, heaved up, and the coffin torn open?’

  He exchanged glances with the boy. ‘No, sir. Never heard a thing.’

  ‘And you were here, in the churchyard, during all this?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘And if it was twilight – supper time – why did you come outside at all?’

  Their faces went through various gyrations. ‘Well … we … we …’

  ‘I went once to the privy and saw something queer,’ said Hal.

  ‘And I stepped outside to get a bit of air.’

  ‘Father Bulthius told me that you were tending to the garden when he warned you to get inside.’

  Tom pointed to Crispin and nodded. ‘He said that. He told me.’

  ‘But you didn’t believe him at first.’

  ‘’Course not. But now …’

  ‘I see.’ Crispin looked out toward the meadow. He thought he saw smoke coming from the small cottage at its outskirts. ‘Have you ever seen strange lights out there?’

  Tom peered around Crispin and stared at the meadow. ‘Out … there?’

  ‘Yes. At night. Strange lights.’

  Tom exchanged a glance with Hal. ‘I never seen anything like that. Have you, Hal?’

  ‘I dunno. At night, I try not to look out there. It makes me come all over queer. Sick-like.’

  ‘Do you know who lives in yon cottage at the edge of the meadow?’

  Both men silently shook their heads.

  ‘And what of anything of animal killings?’

  Hal looked aghast. ‘Animal killings? Like what, sir?’

  ‘Geese being killed and left to rot. Goats sucked of their blood.’

  Both gravediggers looked horrified. ‘Bloodsuckers?’ gasped Hal. ‘Them walking corpses! I knew it! I told you!’ He pounded on Tom’s shoulder and Tom, now appearing more annoyed than horrified, grabbed Hal. ‘Don’t get excited, Hal. We … we should go to our prayers, that’s what.’

  ‘I don’t like it.’

  ‘Who does? Let us inside to ask God’s mercy.’ He glared suddenly at Crispin, pushing Hal before him inside the little hut where he slammed the door shut.

  Crispin let his gaze roam over the gravediggers’ hut, and then turned to cast his gaze over the meadow. Now that he looked carefully, there was not even a string of smoke escaping from that lone cottage’s chimney, and no movement from man or animal, at least that he could see.

  He left the churchyard, walking up the lane to town. He was thinking about what he’d seen and what it could mean when he found himself on Mercery Lane, standing at the corner with a view of both Walcote and Horne manors.

  Though his mind was thinking to talk to Madam Horne, his eyes kept roving toward the Walcote home, and all thoughts of walking corpses vanished. Would she be there? Would she welcome him?

  His feet took him toward the gatehouse, up to the porter, who didn’t even ask him, and escorted him without a word to the door.

  The steward opened it and explained that Master Clarence was somewhere in the other end of town on business, but would he like to speak with Madam Philippa?

  He nodded stiffly and was led again into the parlor.

  He paced. There was no fire in the hearth but the room was warm. Too warm. His back was facing the door when it opened. He stilled, waiting to hear her step, and only once he had, did he turn.

  She was framed in the light from the outer hall and stood with hands folded together. The lidded eyes – which could be interpreted as modesty as much as mystery – gazed up at him through her lashes. Her brassy hair, which seemed to be longing to escape, was instead discreetly encased in golden netting and veil.

  She shut the door behind her without turning, leaning back against it as if to secure the heavy wood. She looked him over. Hungrily? Was it only his wishful thinking that thought so? But no. For when her tongue wetted her lips, he could not help but stride forward, and didn’t stop until his arms encaged her where she stood, braced against the door.

  ‘Philippa.’

  She raised her glistening eyes to his and whispered, ‘Crispin.’

  He was lost again. His hands slid from the door to her shoulders and he dragged her in, covering her mouth with his. He kissed her hard, trying to take, but he soon succumbed to the soft gentleness he instead wanted to bestow.

  She melted into his arms. Her hands traveled up his back and dug in, gripping him tightly. He kissed her again and again, peppering his lips over her face, her greedy mouth, her throat. He longed to take her up against the door, and would have, when his senses abruptly returned to him. He drew on enough strength from within to stop himself, to simply hold her tight, resting his chin on the top of her head, fitting her against him as he had done all those years ago. He kissed her brow, for he could not help but touch his lips to her skin and hair.

  ‘My love,’ he murmured, closing his eyes, wishing this moment never had to end.

  Of course it did. But neither of them moved for a long time.

  She sighed, squeezing him once before she lowered her face and stepped back out of his arms. ‘You are honey to this she-bear.’

  He almost chuckled at that. ‘I am just as drawn.’

  ‘So I see.’ She touched her finger to her kiss-swollen lip. ‘As much as it pains me to say, I hope you have not come to see me … but to give me news.’

  ‘I will not lie. I did come to see you … and to ask more questions.’

  ‘Oh Jesu, Crispin. Tell me you have found John Horne’s killer so that my son will be free of suspicion.’

  Our son, he wanted to say, but refrained. ‘There is still much to discover.’

  ‘But the sheriffs—’

  ‘Have given me a sennight to discover the truth.’

  ‘Can you do it in that time?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ He walked toward the cold hearth, staring at the blackened stones.

  ‘You don’t sound so certain.’

  ‘I am. I will do it, woman. Your … your son is stubborn.’

  ‘Little wonder.’

  He rested his hand on the mantel and kept his eyes averted, bluntly aware of her presence behind him. She didn’t try for a palace accent when she was with him. He preferred her this way. ‘Will you … will you tell me about him?’ he said quietly.

  She sighed again and brushed down her serviceable gown, toying with the buttons running down its length. ‘He was always a clever child. Eager to learn. And happy. He wanted for nothing.’

  ‘You spoiled him,’ he said gruffly.

  ‘I did. I could not help myself. Clarence was always good and patient with him. But I confess, when I looked at the child, I saw you.’

  He picked at a splinter on the mantel with his fingernail. ‘Has he learned anything of arms?’

  ‘I suggested as much to Clarence, but he said time and again, “What does a mercer’s son need with
arms?” Christopher wants to, though. He adores knights so.’

  He whipped around. ‘You didn’t tell him—’

  ‘Of course not. But he loves horses and the pageantry of tournaments. He has his own horse and he took to riding immediately.’

  Crispin smiled, puffing a little. ‘Likes horses, does he?’

  Philippa’s dimpled grin ached his heart. ‘He’s mad for them. I don’t know that he is suited to being a mercer.’ The grin faded. ‘But that is what he is.’

  He frowned. ‘Does he … sing? Dance? Other courtly pursuits?’

  ‘He is being tutored. He can dance well enough. But as for singing …’

  ‘I’m a terrible singer as well.’

  ‘Are you?’ She touched his arm lightly but briefly. ‘I’ve never heard you sing.’

  ‘There is little enough cause.’ Still, his frown faded. ‘But in your presence, I feel I could sing now.’ He dared gaze at her then, and her sad smile tore at his already aching chest. He took a deep breath and looked away. ‘I came here to speak with him again.’

  She seemed reluctant to move from their frozen tableau: he standing at the hearth, she beside him. So very domestic. He moved first, stalking away from the cold fireplace to stand in the middle of the room. ‘I will go to him.’

  But still he paused. He set his mind to the business at hand, tamping down his ardor. ‘Do you know anything of Madam Horne?’

  She followed suit, stopped looking at him as if she would enfold him in a soft blanket. ‘I’ve met her, briefly socialized at the guild gatherings, but little more than that. Her christened name is Clementia.’

  ‘Is she kind; put upon; strong; spoiled?’

  ‘Ah, I see. You would know her character. Well, as I said, I know her little. But of what I have heard … she is stern, religious, not given to flights of fancy … not like her humble neighbor who rose from the kitchens.’

  He gave her a heart-warmed smile. ‘Who has made much of herself and has everything to be proud of.’

  Her brows rose for a moment before she looked down at her hands. ‘Thank you for that.’

  He knew he had to leave before he made a complete fool of himself. He strode toward the door with every intention of passing through it before he said too much, but it was she who stopped him this time.