Troubled Bones

by Jeri Westerson

  “Aye, I know it. But justice for you!”

  “Justice is justice—for me, for you. For those poor souls who lost their lives in the cathedral. They must have it. I personally do not believe Geoffrey is guilty, but … My good sense in these matters of former friends and lords…” He sighed. “I must admit to a certain lapse in judgment of late. I need this information if only to eliminate the wrong path. I know you can do it. Don’t you remember telling me only last year you could never learn to read or write? How many languages can you read now?”

  “Three, sir. Almost four.”

  “True, your Greek is rusty, but you will improve. You’ve a head for it. Faith, Jack, with your learning you may be the most highly educated monk there.”

  Jack considered, his mouth drawn down in a frown. “Do you truly think so?”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  Jack glanced at the tailor’s sign, then at the ground. “You are my master. Do I have a choice?”

  “Yes.”

  The freckles nearly disappeared as Jack’s eyes widened and his brows leaped upward. “I do?” he whispered.

  “You’ve always had a choice. I have no bond with you. You owe me no fealty. We have sworn no oaths to each other. You are free to leave me at any time.”

  Jack swallowed hard. His ginger brows knitted. “I never said I wanted to leave you, sir.”

  “And I’ve never asked you to stay. Well”—he fit his thumb in his belt—“now I am.”

  “Oh for Christ’s bones! So now you would!”

  “I don’t know how much clearer I have to be. Didn’t I declare my intentions on the Corona tower?”

  “You want this that bad?”

  “No. But it is clear you must know exactly where you stand with me.” Crispin pushed back from the wall and took a step into the muddy street, the air filled with the smells of wet thatch, stone, and horse droppings. “It grieves me to see that most of my former life has been a lie. Lancaster, Geoffrey. I didn’t realize the level of deceit. Perhaps they are merely the symptom of a greater disease. A disease I was never aware of, foolish, naïve man that I am.” He gazed at Jack fondly. “But I will not have that with us. There are to be no lies, no secrets. My ‘yes’ means ‘yes’ and my ‘no’ means ‘no.’ And thus it will always be between you and me.” He thrust out his open hand but Jack only stared at it.

  “Master Crispin, you shouldn’t aught to do so much. I’m … I’m no one.”

  “And so am I.” He smiled. “What say you, Jack Tucker? Shall you be in league with the scoundrel and traitor Crispin Guest once and for all, forsaking your soul and your peace of mind?”

  “I done that already,” he muttered. He eyed Crispin’s hand as if it were a snake. “You want me to do this, don’t you? I don’t think you truly know what you are asking.”

  “But I do.” He cracked a lopsided grin. “Must I foster you to show you my sincerity?”

  “No, Master! I … I believe you. Very well, then.” He reached a trembling hand forward and grasped Crispin’s, guardedly at first then stronger as Crispin shook it once and released him.

  “Good. Now, can we please go inside?”

  “Aye, master.” He grabbed the door handle and stopped. “But I ain’t calling you by your Christian name. That I will not do!”

  “Of course not. I am your master. That would be improper.” He gestured for Jack to pull open the door.

  Inside, the cold of April succumbed to the golden tones of the warm room. It smelled of a toasty fire, cloth and pungent wool, acrid dyes, and habitation. A man scuttled down the ladder of a loft and turned his head once to spy the customers. “Bless my soul! It’s Crispin Guest!”

  “Greetings, Master Turpin.”

  “My, my,” said Turpin, reaching the ground level and turning round. His frame was similar to Crispin’s, though his hair was sandy and thin, unlike Crispin’s own thick, dark locks. “It has been a long time, hasn’t it?”

  “Indeed.”

  “As I’ve told you before, any favor I can render, any at all. I am your man.”

  Jack eyed Crispin and muttered, “Is there no one that don’t owe you a favor?”

  He ignored him. “This is something of an urgent nature, master.” He stood behind Jack and dropped his hands on the boy’s shoulders. Quietly, he said, “I need to style this young lad as a Franciscan friar.”

  Turpin’s eyes enlarged but he never asked. “I may have something that will suit. I’d merely need to hem the bottom and the sleeves. I take it you need it right away.”

  “If we can wait for it?”

  “That urgently? Of course, Master Guest. When was ‘leisure’ ever part of your lexis.”

  “Once, Master Turpin, a long time ago.”

  “Very well, then. Young man,” he said to Jack. “Please remove your cloak and tunic.”

  Crispin took the wrapped sword from Jack’s hands and set it aside.

  Jack looked from one to the other and slowly peeled his chaperon hood off his head and shoulders. He made as if to drop it on the floor but Turpin took it tenderly between his fingers. Except that Jack would not let it go. “What will you do with that, sir?”

  “I’m merely putting it aside.”

  “Tell him, Master Crispin. Tell him that’s all I got in the world.”

  “He knows it, Jack. Do as Master Turpin tells you.”

  Reluctantly, Jack released the hood and unbuttoned his cloak, which Turpin also took. He unbuckled his belt with a reddened face. He unlaced his tunic and pulled it over his head, leaving him in his stockings and shirt.

  “Dear me,” muttered Turpin, examining Jack’s threadbare clothes. He folded them into a neat pile without further comment and placed them on a shelf. “If you will excuse me.” He disappeared through a curtained doorway.

  Jack rubbed his arm self-consciously. “I feel like a sheep being sheared,” he muttered.

  “Nonsense. A sheep looks happier.”

  Turpin returned, a brown gown draped over his arm. “This will do, I think. I can sew on a hood and provide a belt. Er—”

  Crispin stepped forward. “I can pay you, Master Turpin.” His pouch bulged with the archbishop’s reluctant generosity.

  “Oh no, think nothing of it. I owe you after all, Master Guest. But—”

  “We will return it when we are finished. Will that suffice?”

  Turpin’s pointed face did its impression of a grin. “Oh indeed! Indeed!” Crispin flashed Jack a quick, reassuring smile. “Now, young man, if you will … will…” He urged the gown on Jack. Jack took it in both hands and meekly lifted it over his head. “Other way, other way,” chirped Turpin. He grabbed the material wrapped around Jack’s head and twisted. Jack released a muffled curse and his head finally popped through. Turpin pulled it down over his torso and lifted Jack’s arms into the sleeves. Jack stared at him as if he were mad. He took Jack’s shoulders and turned him around pulling up the collar of the robe and measuring across his shoulders with a string. He turned Jack around again to face him and ticked his head at the hem. “The hem seems fine but the sleeves are a bit long.”

  “That’s fine the way it is,” said Crispin. “But it needs the cowl.”

  “Yes, I have something. Very well, young man. Off with it.”

  Jack gave a pleading look before Turpin whisked it up his body, obscuring his face.

  The tailor disappeared once more and left Jack standing in his shirt and stockings again. His sorrowful expression caused Crispin to chuckle. At least it made him forget the circumstances for an instant or two. But then he thought again about Chaucer’s dagger back in Courtenay’s lodgings and the mysterious and secretive monks of Christchurch Priory. What was it they wanted to hide? Did Dame Marguerite see a cassock on the assailant as she thought? Though by her own admission she wasn’t certain. If not the archbishop—and it truly seemed an outlandish supposition—then perhaps one of the monks. Any one of them could have used the archbishop’s cloak to hide themselves.
But what was the reason for killing the Prioress? Was it merely a distraction to hide the theft of the bones? And what did Chaucer’s dagger have to do with it? No, something was amiss. The only certainty was the missing bones. He only hoped they hadn’t been destroyed.

  Turpin returned and showed his handiwork. Crispin smiled and nodded appropriately and Turpin proceeded to entangle Jack in the cassock again. He tied the laces at the yoke of his neck, adjusted the belt, threw the hood up over his head and opened his hands. “And there. One young Franciscan, Master Crispin.”

  “Excellent, Master Turpin. I thank you for your time. And one more thing.” Crispin whispered in his ear and Turpin withdrew from him with a wide smile. “I would be most pleased, Master Guest.”

  “Good. Take your time. Fare you well.”

  “God protect you, Master Guest. And you, too, young man.”

  “And you, sir,” mumbled Jack. He walked out of the shop and stood in the street, head down. “I feel like the proper fool.”

  “But you look most convincing.” He handed Jack the wrapped sword again as they walked back to the cathedral.

  Jack pulled uncomfortably at the gown, loosening the leather belt. “I can’t do it, master.”

  “Yes, you can. You disguised yourself so once before to steal into court.”

  “But that was different! I didn’t have to talk to nobody!”

  “Stop sniveling and listen. When you greet someone you say, ‘Benedicte.’ And they say ‘Deo gratias.’ Got it?”

  “Aye. Benedicte. Deo gratias. Christ’s toes.”

  “And no oaths. You don’t want them to flog you, do you?”

  “What!”

  Crispin hid his smile by glancing ahead. “At meals there are considerably more prayers before you may eat. Never touch your food until the prior touches his, and don’t eat as if you will never get another scrap.”

  “I don’t eat like that.”

  “Yes, you do. A slower pace, Jack, remember.”

  “What if they ask me to say a prayer?”

  “Then say one.”

  “I don’t know no prayers.”

  “You don’t know any prayers. And yes, you do. Pater Noster, Ave Maria, Gloria Patri—”

  “Very well! I know them. But the chanting. I don’t know that.”

  “Feign it.”

  He glared. “Feign it? That’s your great advice? Feign it?”

  “You’d be surprised how often that advice works … in all circumstances.”

  “How can I feign—”

  “Then feign a cold.”

  Jack blinked. “Oh aye. I can do that.”

  He shook his head. “For a boy who made his living stealing men’s purses you seem to have an awfully weak stomach.”

  “I knew what I was doing there, didn’t I? I was quick.”

  “And you’ll be quick at this. Don’t do much talking. Listen. Discover if you can why they needed to keep secrets from Dom Thomas and if they know anything about Becket’s bones. I’ve told you the Lollard philosophy. Listen for any signs of that. And don’t make yourself obvious. Blend in.”

  “If I’m to blend in, then why am I dressed as a Franciscan in a Benedictine priory?”

  “Because a monk visiting a monastery who comes from a traveling order like the Franciscans is more easily explained. We must keep our lies to a minimum in order to keep your story straight.”

  “One lie at a time, eh?”

  He patted Jack’s shoulder. “That’s right, Jack. One lie at a time. Now you are gaining understanding.”

  Crispin continued his tuition, telling Jack what he could expect as a monk. When the shadow of the cathedral draped across their path, Crispin stopped. “Here’s where I leave you, Jack.”

  “What? I thought you would go to the priory with me.” His eyes were bright.

  “No, Jack. They mustn’t see you with me.” He took the wrapped sword out of Jack’s hands once more. “Only a few monks might have caught a glimpse of you in the church, but it was dark and your hood was up. So keep your eyes down. You are Brother John now. Answer to nothing else.”

  “I’m Brother John. Holy Christ Jesus’ toes.” He took a step and then stopped. “Oh wait! How will I know when I’m done inquiring?”

  “When you find out something. Good luck, Jack.”

  “Pax vobiscum,” he answered, making the sign of the cross over Crispin that quickly turned to a rude forking of his fingers.

  * * *

  CRISPIN DRAGGED HIMSELF BACK to the inn. What if Geoffrey was there? There had to be a reasonable explanation why Geoffrey’s dagger was used to kill Wilfrid. He racked his brain, but he could not recall if Geoffrey was wearing the dagger when they went to the cathedral or not. If he had left it behind or lost it, anyone could have retrieved it and used it. But why? Who would have cause to kill Wilfrid? The monk was a puzzle, but the Prioress’s death less so. He needed to talk to Bonefey. Of all the pilgrims, he was the one with the biggest grudge against the Prioress. He was anxious to corner him and maybe have a look at his red gown.

  He turned the street corner and spied Maufesour and Chaunticleer creeping back to the inn. Maufesour looked over his shoulder and gripped the door when he spied Crispin. He ducked hurriedly inside and Crispin mouthed a few choice oaths.

  He reached the door and yanked it open and merely stood in the doorway surveying the subdued company. Even Harry Bailey’s usual cheerful exterior was showing signs of wear. Crispin cut his glance to Maufesour and grinned maliciously at him before he greeted the Miller, who stumped forward, bagpipe in one hand, beaker in the other. “Master Guest, what is the word? We have since heard terrible tidings at the cathedral. It seems the devil has come to roost in Canterbury.”

  “Indeed. You may be right, Master Miller.”

  “It is Edwin Gough, good sir. At your service. Anything that you need, I will aid you.”

  “Thank you, Master Gough.” He shouldered his way through the others and sat heavily on a bench, laying the sword across his thighs. “But what I need is Master Chaucer’s whereabouts.”

  “We haven’t seen him,” said Clarke, the Manciple. He sat almost apologetically next to Crispin and rested his long pale fingers on the table before him. He made a sharp glance over his shoulder at the Summoner and Pardoner. “But his whereabouts aren’t the only mystery of late.”

  “I see I have been disobeyed again.”

  “There is nothing you can do with those two, Master Guest.”

  “Call me Crispin.”

  “And you may call me Thomas.” The Manciple edged closer and spoke quietly. “While it is true that my occupation only involves ordering provisions for the law students under my care, I have come to view the law with fascination. I sit in on the trials, you see. A Manciple I may be, but a man can show his worth by acquiring a wider sphere of knowledge.” Crispin nodded approvingly. “A particular law student makes me aware of unusual cases. For his trouble, I make certain he receives an extra measure of ale. Would it surprise you to know that I am aware of the trial of Madame Eglantine and Sir Bonefey?” Crispin was taken aback but tried not to show it. “I myself was not at that trial,” he went on, “but I studied the transcripts.” He answered Crispin’s quizzical expression. “The trial was curious and contentious.”

  “Had the Prioress a legitimate claim?”

  Clarke made loops on the table with his fingertips as if scribing his parchments. “I read the notes thoroughly, Master Crispin. I am no lawyer. But I have immersed myself in enough law to be a fine apprentice of it, I can tell you. Better than some of the students I have encountered.” He flushed from his own presumption. “But from what I could make of it, Sir Bonefey should have been the clear winner.”

  “Then why wasn’t he, I wonder?”

  Clarke opened his mouth and then closed it again. He made his imaginary scribing on the table and eyed Father Gelfridus talking quietly to Harry Bailey. “He challenged the Church,” he whispered.

  “I understa
nd Master Chaucer testified on behalf of Sir Philip.”

  Clarke’s nervous fingers twitched on the wood. It began to irritate. “That is what I read, Master Crispin. I know he is a friend of yours, but—”

  An icy hand clutched his heart. He knew he didn’t want to hear what the Manciple had to say, but hear it he must. “Master Clarke. Thomas. I should like to know.”

  “Well, he … he spoke on behalf of what he called the common man faced with the … the…” His voice fell to a whisper again. “The tyranny of the Church.”

  Crispin sat back. He could easily see how that would not sit well with the archbishop. He could imagine the rest. Did Geoffrey have to paint “Lollard” on his forehead?

  “Thank you, Master Clarke. Is Sir Philip here?”

  “I thought he was in his room.”

  “And Dame Marguerite? Is she better?”

  “She has been out walking in the garden.”

  He nodded and inquired which room was Bonefey’s. He rose and then leaned down close to Clarke. “Do me the favor of keeping an eye skinned on these two,” and he gestured toward Maufesour and Chaunticleer. “I’d hate for them to nip off again without my having a talk with them.”

  Crispin climbed the stairs. When he reached the landing he went to his chamber to discard the sword and quickly left before the call of the soft bed became too great to bear. He walked along the gallery to the last door and knocked.

  He heard shuffling. A chair skidded across the floor. Then, “Who is there?”

  “It is Crispin Guest, Sir Philip. May I enter?”

  A pause. “If you must.” The bolt grated and the door flung open. “Well then?” Bonefey planted himself in the doorway. “Do you have good news to report?”

  “I would rather not stand in the gallery, Sir Philip. If I may?” He advanced and Bonefey was forced to retreat. Making a cursory inspection of the room Crispin turned to his host. “There has been another murder.”

  “God preserve us! Who?”

  “A monk. Another innocent. In the church.”

  “Absolutely monstrous. What has become of this town?”

  “Gough the Miller says the devil has come to roost.”