Troubled Bones

by Jeri Westerson

  “I think he is right. Do you insist we continue to stay?”

  “I do.”

  “To what end? It must be clear to you by now that we have nothing to do with these murders.”

  Crispin glanced out Bonefey’s open window. It overlooked the courtyard and the stables. A lone stableman pitched hay into a stall and a shaggy horse bent its head to nuzzle the golden fodder. “I wonder about your disagreement with the Prioress.”

  Silence. Crispin turned, making certain Bonefey was still in the room.

  “Why?”

  “Because she’s dead. And because you were the only one to have a motive to kill her.”

  Bonefey drew his sword. His reddened features twisted with rage. “How dare you!”

  He merely looked at the naked blade gleaming in the firelight. “You like your sword, do you?”

  “You insult me, sir! You accuse me of a most foul deed!”

  “And you have drawn your blade on a man who owns no sword. Yes, you are brave indeed, Sir Philip. And what weapon do I use to defend myself? My fist?”

  Bonefey’s sword wavered. His murderous eyes never flinched from Crispin’s, but his face lost its initial dark hue. Finally he lowered the sword but did not sheath it. “That is a foul charge.”

  “Merely an observation.” He studied Bonefey’s sword. “By the way, what are your family arms?”

  “What?”

  “Your blazon, sir. What manner is it?”

  “It’s a black shield with five feathers. Why?”

  The hearth belched a spiral of black smoke and Crispin looked, eyes suddenly widening. Three steps took him to the fire and the gown smoldering in its midst. He grabbed the poker and yanked the garment from the coals, but the red gown was too burned to make much of it. He threw the poker down and glared at Bonefey. “An unusual laundering method.”

  Sir Philip still held his sword at the ready. “It was an old gown. It was of no further use to me.”

  “No further use, eh? Did it by any chance have a rip in its hem? Or was it covered in too much blood?”

  Crispin felt the sword whistling toward him. He grabbed the chair and met the blade with it. The sword clattered against the wooden legs and with a twist, he sent the weapon flying free from the Franklin’s hands. Lunging forward he pinned Bonefey to the wall with the chair. “Come at me with a sword, will you?” he hissed between clenched teeth. “I’ll have your head, Bonefey. I’ll see it hewn off.”

  “You’re mad! Get off me!”

  “You are as guilty as they come. And I’ll not rest until I see justice for the innocent you slaughtered.”

  “I did not kill the Prioress. And you are making the biggest mistake of your life. If you do not unhand me now, I’ll see you on a gibbet!”

  It was a stand-off. Crispin snapped back and tossed the chair across the floor. The sword lay on the other side of the room. He sneered at the Franklin when he reached the door. “My eye is on you, Bonefey. Don’t try to leave this inn or you’ll spend the rest of your time in a Canterbury prison.”

  He slammed the door and stomped across the gallery. Should he get the sheriff now? Crispin swore. He needed far more proof before he could accuse such a wealthy man. The sheriff would never take his word over a Franklin’s. Besides, he couldn’t call in the sheriff without mentioning Chaucer. God’s blood! He was too pent up now to go to his room, and wine sounded like a better option.

  He trotted down the steps. Alyson sat near the fire, a cup in her hand and a full jug in front of her. When she looked up, she motioned to him to join her.

  “Your brow is furrowed for one so young,” she said and poured more wine into her cup and handed it to him.

  His fingers brushed hers as he took it and tossed back the cup. She chuckled and poured another. “I’m not so young,” he said.

  “You’re fifteen years my junior, I’ll warrant.” She eyed him up and down before raising her chin. “I’m five and two score and proud of it.”

  He nodded. “You are a good judge. I am one and thirty.” He took another long swallow.

  “I know my men,” she said. He handed the cup back to her and she sipped at it. But by the color rising in her cheeks and nose, he suspected she had the lead of him. When she handed back a full cup, he did his best to catch up.

  “I heard about the other murder,” she said, leaning back. She ticked her head. “This pilgrimage has turned to a right nightmare. Ever since Cain brought murder to Mankind, there has been no peace.”

  “How fares Dame Marguerite?”

  Alyson sighed. “Poor lamb. She tries to bear up. Father Gelfridus is with her often and his presence gives her strength. But I do not know. Such a shock for one so young and innocent. But she will survive because of her faith.” She swirled the jug and smiled. “I strung her rosary for her. She was pleased to have it, but there was a bead missing.”

  Crispin reached into his pouch and felt the lost bead at his fingertips. “Alas,” he said.

  “It is no matter. She will work it out.”

  He shook his head and brought the bowl’s rim to his lips. He drank and set the bowl on his thigh. “I came here to do a simple job. But it has turned to murder. And more.” He tilted his cup again and wiped the spilled wine from the side of his mouth.

  “You have a haunted look about you. What more troubles you?”

  “I do not wish to burden you.”

  She elbowed him and smiled. Her face brightened with it and she leaned toward him, her ample bosom pressing against his arm. He inhaled her earthy scent. He could easily see how she acquired so many husbands. “Burden me. If not me, then whom? ‘When he cries out to me, I will hear him, for I am compassionate.’” Her smile turned to a sad one. “And I am just as involved. It was I, after all, who dressed Madam Eglantine for her final reward.”

  He sighed. The wine warmed his belly and added a soothing buzz to his head. He took another long swallow and allowed Alyson to fill the cup again. “I am weary of deceit. All of my life seems to be woven with it.”

  She studied him over the rim of her cup. “I do not see your friend Chaucer here. You don’t mean him, do you?”

  He set his mouth. He’d spoken too much already. “I implore you, madam…”

  “Now, now. I’m growing quite fond of you. Can’t you see your way to using my Christian name?”

  He smiled, weakly at first, then more boldly as she greeted him with her brash grin. “Alyson. And you must call me Crispin.”

  “I shall. You were telling me?”

  His smile faded. “You must be cautious of Sir Philip,” he said quietly. “He is a very dangerous man.”

  She leaned in. “Is he the murderer?” Her words slurred but she didn’t seem to notice.

  “He’s a scoundrel,” he said, or at least tried to, but the word “scoundrel” caught on his tongue. He stared at Alyson. “I beg your pardon, but I seem to be getting drunk.”

  “There’s no need to beg my pardon, Crispin. I seem to be a bit drunk myself.” Her hand fell to his thigh and stayed there.

  He looked down at it. When he glanced up again she had edged closer, so close, in fact, that her soft hip pressed warmly against his. He decided he liked the feel of it. “Alyson, are you trying to seduce me?”

  “Bless me,” she said with a sultry chuckle, “if I were better at it you wouldn’t have to ask.”

  11

  JACK TUCKER WALKED THE longest mile of his life to the door of the Benedictine priory of Christchurch. The ancient door was tall, of dark oak, hewn and carved centuries before. Even its black iron hinges seemed impenetrable. Hanging just to the side was a bell rope and, with a trembling hand, he grasped it. With a murmured prayer to the Almighty and a curse to Crispin, he pulled.

  He waited. One moment. Two. He listened to his heartbeat, surely loud enough for anyone to hear. Finally he heard feet approaching. He clenched his hands into fists, forced them down to his sides, and caught his breath just as a smaller door within the larger s
wung open.

  “Benedicte,” said the monk in the doorway, eyeing Jack carefully.

  “Deo gratias,” Jack gasped. He ducked his head in a curt bow but never let his eyes leave the monk. In a rush he said, “My name is Brother John and I come from the south to see the martyr’s shrine.”

  The monk looked as if he would burst into tears. His mouth trembled and his eyes were already rimmed with red. “Of course you may enter, Brother John, but I fear you have come a long way for nought.”

  He stepped aside, and Jack passed into the cloister. He jumped when the door slammed behind him and the monk locked it. He swallowed, but the hard lump in his throat wouldn’t seem to leave him. I should never have let Master Crispin talk me into this. I’ll foul it up. Aloud he said, “Why do you say that, Brother?”

  “A great evil has come to Canterbury Cathedral, Brother John. A great evil. Death, heretics. You would do well to leave this place immediately. I fear God is raining His justice upon us.”

  Jack didn’t know what he should say to that and was reprieved from a hasty comment when another monk rushed around the corner. He stopped short when he spied Jack.

  “Brother Arthur, you are wanted. Who is this?”

  “Father Cyril, this is Brother John. I tried to tell him he has come at a wretched time—”

  Cyril grabbed Arthur’s arm and pulled him aside. “What have you told him?” he hissed.

  “Only that evil dwells here now,” he sighed miserably.

  Cyril frowned and pushed him forward. “Fool. Keep silent.” He stared at Jack while Arthur shuffled away. “Some of our brothers here know no discretion. I hope you are better schooled.”

  Jack bowed, not knowing what to add. It seemed to be the right response. Cyril’s lids were drawn low over his eyes, and his aristocratic nose arched over a small pursed mouth. He gestured for him to follow. “I will take you to the prior. Of course we will give you hospitality, Brother, but if you have come to see the shrine … well. I’ll let the prior attend you.”

  Jack allowed himself to be led. The cool shadows of the cloister walk enclosed him. In the little square surrounded by the gray stone of the cloister ambulatory, the sun shone brightly. The recently mown green grass and the budding flowers breathed their fresh fragrance into the air. But they offered no comfort to him moving behind the silent monk under the cold stone arches. His eyes darted from carved granite to the peaceful garden and back again. Already he missed the freedom of the sunshine as they ducked through an arch and entered the cooler precincts of the priory.

  He followed Cyril up some stone steps, down another corridor, and up to an oaken door. Cyril knocked, heard a reply, and entered, waiting for Jack to pass before he closed the door behind him. An old man, balding, with fluffs of white hair spraying over his ears, looked up from his chair by the fire. “Forgive me, my Lord Prior. But this is Brother John come from far away and wishes the hospitality of Canterbury.”

  The prior turned rheumy eyes toward Jack but only fleetingly. “You are welcome, Brother John.” He made a cursory cross in the air in Jack’s general direction. “But alas, you’ve made a futile journey. My heart is heavy on it. Please, Dom, you tell him.”

  Jack turned to another monk in the room and met the eyes of Dom Thomas Chillenden. The monk’s eyes fixed on Jack’s for a long moment before they enlarged to round disks. Jack’s grew almost as large, pleading for the monk to say nothing. “Er … yes, my Lord Prior. I will … I will show this fine brother the precincts and explain it all to him.”

  He took Jack’s arm roughly and steered him out the door. Two monks had gathered to talk furtively to Father Cyril, and Dom Thomas ushered Jack in the other direction until the monks were only distant shadows. “By all that is holy what are you doing here?” he hissed in Jack’s ear. “And dressed like that!”

  Jack peeled the monk’s hands from him and stepped back, adjusting his collar. “There’s no need for that. My master sent me here on the word of the archbishop.”

  “You were sent to spy on us!”

  “Well, just a little.”

  “Just a little? God preserve us!”

  “Do you not want to know who killed the Prioress and Brother Wilfrid? Or where the bones of the sainted martyr are?”

  Dom Thomas’s face sobered. He wrung his hands. “Poor Brother Wilfrid. He did not deserve that. I shall do much penance for what I have wished upon his killer!”

  “And so. Master Crispin thought this the best way to find out the doings, seeing that the monks most like would not talk to him.”

  Dom Thomas swept his disdainful gaze over Jack. “So he made you a monk, damning your soul to this sham, this blasphemy.”

  “He didn’t damn me to nought. It ain’t a sin to pose as a monk.” But then a grain of uncertainty crept in. “Is it?”

  “Why didn’t the archbishop tell me himself?”

  “Does he have to make all his decisions through you?”

  He raised a brow. “Insolent. You had best watch yourself, Master Tucker.”

  “It’s Brother John, if you don’t mind. Why don’t you help me if you’re so keen to see me leave? The sooner I find out something the sooner I can go. Are there any monks that you think might be suspicious?”

  “It’s absurd. Of course not. All our brothers are trusted without question—” But as he spoke, a faraway expression intruded on his blushed countenance. He fell silent.

  Jack placed his hands on his hips impatiently. “Looks like you ain’t all that trusting.”

  Dom Thomas glared. “Find out what you will. I will not interfere.” And he turned on his heel.

  “But you’ll not help?” Jack called after him.

  The monk stopped and pivoted long enough to say, “You seem to have all well in hand … Brother John,” and left him alone on the cloister walk.

  Jack mumbled a very unclerical curse, and looked around. He didn’t know where anything was, where his room might be, even the privies, and he was feeling the need for the latter. He’d have to look about for himself and hope he didn’t get into trouble. If he was caught, he’d be able to tell them in all truth that he was lost. One lie at a time, indeed.

  Jack made his way through the cloister and came to another door. He slowly pulled it open and saw that it led to another smaller courtyard with a set of huts, trees, grass, and foliage. An old man was hoeing his own little garden, the dark earth turning with his blade. Tall sticks were propped together into a cone shape in anticipation of the young bean tendrils to come.

  Taking a swift glance, Jack didn’t notice any privies and turned to go when the man looked up. He smiled under a white beard and mustache and lifted an arm with a wave.

  Jack turned back and approached. He reckoned the man was a caretaker. Perhaps he might know something.

  “Good day to you, young friar,” the man said, and rested his hands on his hoe when Jack neared. He did not sound like a caretaker. He sounded more like a man in the manner of Crispin.

  “Good day to you, sir.” Jack stood with his hands behind his back and surveyed the patch of cultivated ground. “You’ve been very diligent.”

  The old man’s cheeks flushed. “Why yes. It is now a passion of mine. Such passions are allowed within a monastery.” He chuckled.

  “Are you— Do you work here? You do not appear to be a monk.”

  “No, I am no monk. This is my retirement. I live under the care of the good brothers here. I have given up my worldly goods, my estate, to pay to be cared for here under the wings of God.”

  “I see,” said Jack. He looked at the old man with admiration.

  “Would you like refreshment?” He leaned the hoe against the side of his rustic cottage wall and ducked as he entered under the low lintel. “Come in,” he called from the shadows.

  Jack scanned the courtyard for other faces, saw none, and entered after the old man. The cottage was small, only one room, a little larger than Crispin’s lodgings in London. The air seemed to sparkle with motes
of dust and hay. Shafts of sunlight angled toward the wooden floor, and though it was mean lodgings, it was clean. Shelves and tables lined one wall and Jack was surprised to see them filled with layer upon layer of scrolls and even a few books. He glanced casually at them, noting a few colorful drawings of shields and animals on one open scroll.

  “This is far less than I was used to, I assure you,” said the old man, pouring ale from a chipped jug into a wooden beaker. “But I can equally assure you, I am content with what I now have.”

  Jack took the offered beaker and drank hastily. He hadn’t realized how dry his throat was.

  The old man poured a beaker for himself and drank thoughtfully, eyeing him. Jack lowered his cup. “Forgive me,” he bowed. “I am Brother John. I have come to visit Canterbury from the south. But—” He tried on a dramatic expression. “The monks all appear to be anxious about something. I’ve only just arrived and no one will say.”

  “Oh.” The old man sat on the one chair and offered a stool for Jack. “Yes, great tragedy is here in Canterbury. The monks try to hide it but I see much.” He leaned toward Jack and said solemnly, “I do not wish to alarm you, but there have been two murders in the church within the span of two days.”

  Jack did his best impression of horror. “No! God preserve us!” He crossed himself. “Who?”

  The old man shook his head and ran his hand over his white beard. “A prioress, visiting as a pilgrim. And one of our very own monks. He was a young man. About your age.” His sincere expression of sorrow brought a lump to Jack’s throat.

  “How can such a thing happen?”

  The man sighed deeply and lifted his yellowed eyes to Jack. “Murder is a terrible thing. But there is something else. The monks have been acting like agitated bees in a skep. Though in truth, much of it began happening before the murders, if I am not mistaken. As an old man, I sometimes confuse recent events with older ones.” His eyes traveled and landed on Jack again. He smiled. “I don’t know why I am telling you.” He sat back and held his cup to his chest. “Perhaps because you remind me of Brother Wilfrid, who was kind to me. Or perhaps because, as a visitor, you have a right to be warned. There is something about the martyr’s relics. I am not certain exactly the circumstances, but I know that this mischief concerns them. The strange thing is, there seemed to be a flutter about the martyr’s remains well before these deaths. Or perhaps my mind is playing tricks on me.”