Troubled Bones

by Jeri Westerson

  “I would be pleased,” he said distractedly. Reluctantly, Jack followed the man back to his mean lodgings and entered the little hut. Harper searched for a cup and Jack leaned against the table, fidgeting with the curled parchments and books. His eyes glanced lists of names, charts, long descriptions in French going on about something he didn’t quite understand, like a code. He snapped up his head when Harper brought him a cup.

  “Now tell me,” said Harper. “What troubles you?”

  Jack paused. Well, I think one of the monks here is a murderer. No, that would never do. He realized he would have to lie again. Harper was like Crispin. Maybe he could help Jack better understand the circumstances. “I have traveled far and wide, to many a monastery,” said Jack carefully. “But I have never been to a cloister where its monks had, well, heretical leanings.”

  “Never? I find that hard to believe.”

  “Well, some not so obvious. But here, well. To put it another way,” he whispered, “I think there is a fox in the henhouse.”

  Harper pulled an indulgent smile and sat with his cup. “Indeed. And what heresy does this fox bark?”

  He could think of a number of things, but the only one he could speak aloud he did. “I think he’s a Lollard.”

  Harper’s smile froze and gradually faded. “Truly? What makes you say so?”

  “Well then. He didn’t seem to think that the missing relics were all that bad a thing.”

  He nodded and drank, measuring Jack over the rim of the cup. “Why do you suppose he said that to you?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Perhaps because it is easier saying such to a stranger.”

  “Perhaps. Still, I think I know of whom you speak.”

  “You do?”

  “Was this Brother Martin, by any chance?”

  Jack rose in his seat. “Aye! You’ve heard him, then?”

  “He is most indiscreet. I do not blame a man for a conscience, but a man who takes vows should show more loyalty.”

  Jack nodded and wiped the beer froth from his lips with his sleeve. “To me, loyalty is a sacred thing.”

  “Indeed? Then I wonder…” Harper glanced at his parchments and looked back at Jack. He seemed to be deciding something. “Never mind. I must be getting back to my garden, as you must be getting back to your prayers.”

  Jack put down his empty cup and headed for the door before he slowed down. “Master. What would make a man … commit murder?”

  Harper studied Jack a moment. “Surely it is the Devil that puts a man to such treachery. Ever since Cain slew Abel, Mankind has been so cursed. Who but God is ever certain what lies in a man’s heart.”

  Jack remembered a similar discussion with Crispin. Slowly, he said, “But did not Cain kill Abel because of his heart’s sadness? Because the Almighty was not as pleased by his gifts as he was with Abel’s? A man’s heart, then, seems to be a fragile thing, not necessarily a thing of sin.”

  Harper laid his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “That is a very compassionate assessment. Perhaps you should consider the priesthood, young man.”

  Jack backed away. “Oh no! Not for me! I ain’t worthy of that!”

  “Certainly men of less worth have taken vows.”

  Jack scanned the planes of Harper’s face, the crags of wrinkles and lines, the ruddy windswept complexion, and considered that this man would have done well as a priest, too, except for all his dabbling in his books and strange parchments. Jack turned toward the colorful drawings and all the lines connecting them. He even raised his hand and ran a finger along the leaf of a book lying open. “Master Harper, I wonder if you can tell me again the names of Becket’s murderers.”

  Harper raised his white brows. “Of course. Hugh de Morville, Reginald Fitz-Urse, William de Tracy, and Richard le Breton.”

  Jack shook his head. “There’s something about them names. It’s all familiar to me.”

  “Surely you have heard them many times before. Who does not know the story of the sainted martyr?”

  “Aye. But the names. You’ve got me vexed about this curse, sure enough, master. It’s got me to thinking.”

  “Well, don’t let it distract you too much from your duties. Wilfrid was also fond of spending time with me, much to the consternation of Dom Thomas. I would not see you in similar straights.”

  “Never fear for me, master. I owe no allegiance to Dom Thomas.”

  He nodded. “Will I see you tomorrow, Little Friar?”

  “No, good sir. I think this will be our farewell. I hope to leave this afternoon.”

  “So soon?”

  “Well, with no relics to see it is hardly worth the stay. You see, I am no Lollard.”

  “Nor am I. I have seen for myself the power of relics.”

  “As have I. If only my former master were as convinced.”

  “He is not a Lollard sympathizer by any chance?”

  “Oh no, sir. But he has had his fair share of relics and they are sore trying to him. Er…” Jack realized too late that he’d spoken too much yet again. “Well, I must take my leave. God be with you, master.”

  “And with you.”

  Jack made his way back to the main cloister and saw Cyril across the greensward. He hurried to him with a greeting.

  “Brother John.”

  “Father Cyril. Where might I find Dom Thomas?”

  * * *

  DOM THOMAS CHILLENDEN REFUSED to look up from his books, taking his time carefully scrawling numbers into columns. Jack rocked on his feet, staring at the monk’s bushy brows, his fringe of hair, his gnarled fingers curled around the goose quill. The treasurer had him standing there a long time. Jack wondered how much longer. He didn’t feel it his place to confront the monk, and indeed, if he were a murderer, he’d rather Crispin do the honors. But he must complete his duty so that he could report back to his master. “There are important matters I would discuss with you, Dom Thomas,” he said tightly.

  The monk’s eyes looked up. Slowly, he laid his quill aside, folded his hands before him, and raised his chin. “Very well, then. Go on.”

  Flustered suddenly at the attention, Jack adjusted his cincture and pulled at the yoke of his cassock. “First of all, I think I have discovered the identity of your Lollard.”

  The brows rose. “Have you? That was quick work, Brother John.”

  “There’s no need for that,” said Jack with a scowl. “We know who I am. I’d ’a thought you’d be interested to know who the heretic was amongst you. Makes me think that maybe he ain’t the only one.”

  Dom Thomas snapped to his feet. Jack cringed back. “You insolent cur! If you did not have the protection of the archbishop I should strike you down!”

  “Now that ain’t very Christian, is it?” Jack strained to get his breath under control and pasted on a confident sneer. “What makes you so angry?”

  Thomas pushed at his books so violently they skidded across the table. He tramped forward and came to rest a foot from Jack, his nostrils flaring, fists tight to his sides. “Because I have known of these difficulties for quite some time and my pleas for help have gone unanswered. Until now. Now suddenly the archbishop acquiesces to my wishes. Why? I can only speculate and none of it bodes well.”

  Jack drew back. He expected an outburst, just not one with those sentiments. “So … you knew there was a Lollard here undermining the shrine?”

  “Yes,” he hissed. He eyed Jack with a deepening scowl. “And I don’t need the lackey of the likes of Crispin Guest telling me my job.”

  “I ain’t—I’m not telling you your job. I am merely doing mine. Do you wish to know or not?”

  Dom Thomas sighed deeply and lowered his head. “Yes.”

  Jack moved closer and spoke in a conspiratorial murmur, “It is Brother Martin.”

  The monk’s face blotched with fury. “I know that! Do you think I’m a complete fool?”

  Jack’s jaw dropped several inches. “If you knew that then why didn’t you do anything about it?”

/>   “What could I do? He is a good worker. He makes no trouble. For the most part, he has kept his opinions to himself, though lately I have noticed his becoming more vocal on … certain topics.”

  “Like the martyr’s bones, perchance? And his stealing them away? What about murder? Does that warrant your attention?” Jack hoped to provoke a reaction and kept his hand on his dagger just in case.

  The fury on the monk’s face subsided and in fact drained of color. His eyes drew on a sunken, forlorn appearance. He collapsed on the edge of his table, arms hanging limply. “No,” he whispered. “I refuse to believe he had anything to do with these deaths. Least of all for Brother Wilfrid’s.” He raked his hand over his eyes.

  Again, Dom Thomas did not react as Jack expected. If speaking of murder did not make Dom Thomas wrought with denials, then what was behind that scene in the church?

  Jack lowered his hand from his knife and softly offered, “I have learned through these last two years with my master that anyone can be under suspicion. Perhaps something has changed in Brother Martin to force his hand.”

  Thomas shook his head and then stopped. “There was something last year. He was one of several monks to accompany the archbishop.”

  “Where?”

  “To oversee a trial.”

  “God blind me!” Jack straightened. “I’ll wager my last farthing I know which trial that was!” He ran to the door, grabbed the ring and paused. “Oh! I almost forgot. Why is it the monks here don’t trust my master?”

  Dom Thomas seemed to have recovered himself and his half-closed lids and customary snarl returned. “Because he is a Lollard sympathizer.”

  “Where’d you get that fool notion? He isn’t. He’s just a … a thoughtful man. Likes to ponder new ideas. It was the duke that was the Lollard and my master ain’t—isn’t in the duke’s retinue no more. But my master is a friend of Saint Thomas, of that you can be certain. He came here to root out the evil, not sanction it.”

  Something flickered in Dom Thomas’s eyes and then disappeared again. “That has yet to be proved.”

  Jack started to make a gesture, but dropped his hand. He shook his head, trying to keep his anger in check. “You’re the fool. He’s not the one harboring secrets. What was it anyway that got Wilfrid so upset that he wanted to come to my master and tell him?”

  The monk lurched forward. “What?”

  Jack’s hand was on his scabbard again. “Before he died, Wilfrid was frightened. Not just of—” He almost said “Geoffrey Chaucer” but decided against it. “He was frightened of something in the monastery. Something Edward Harper said was too much for him to keep secret. What did you have him do?”

  “I think it time you leave.”

  “Answer the question!”

  He drew himself up. “I am not required to answer to you! Begone, I say.”

  “Very well. I leave this monastery still suspicious of certain persons,” and he screwed his eye and aimed it at the monk.

  “Wait! You can’t leave in the middle of the day like this. Mass is in an hour. You must stay for the sacrament or it will appear suspicious.”

  Jack stopped at the doorway. “Mass?”

  “Yes.” A thought seemed to have occurred to the monk that lightened his mood. Jack was instantly wary. “And to properly receive the communion bread,” Thomas continued, “you must be shriven.”

  Jack blanched. “Sh-shriven?”

  Dom Thomas smiled. The bit was in the other’s mouth now. “Yes. I suggest you go to Father Cyril since you seem so keen on him.”

  “Now wait—”

  “Will you take the Host with the sin of deception on your heart? Surely damnation is not your preference.”

  Jack wobbled on the balls of his feet. “I—” It had been a while since he’d received the holy bread. And longer since he went to confession. But with Dom Thomas suddenly looking more authoritative—even for a criminal—Jack did not feel he was at liberty to argue. He shuffled out of the treasurer’s office and wandered down the breezy cloister. He asked a monk where he might find Father Cyril and was informed that he was shriving in the sacristy, and after finding out where that was, Jack made a reluctant trudge toward the church.

  He peered into the dark sacristy lit only by a tall window. “Father Cyril? Father Cyril?”

  Cyril poked his head from behind a screen. “Brother John? Have you come to be shriven?”

  “Aye. It— Aye.” He shuffled forward and took a seat opposite the screen, pulling the scratchy yoke of his cassock away from his throat. He sat a long time in silence, looking up at the dusky vaulted ceiling and waiting for doom to descend. Couldn’t he just leave or would it draw too much suspicion on an already jittery monastery?

  “Brother?” ventured Cyril after a pause. “Of what sins would you be shriven?”

  Jack dug his fingers into his thighs. How could he confess that he was living a lie for the past two days, deceiving everyone he met? But how could he receive the sacrament if he lied in confession? Hell for certain. He shook his head and even jerked up from his seat to leave, but stopped and eased back down.

  “Well, I have been lying, Father.”

  “Oh? In what way?”

  “In every way. But I can’t … I can’t tell you.”

  Cyril sighed heavily through the screen. “If you cannot tell me I cannot absolve you.”

  “I know. That is a problem. But if it is any solace, I am lying for a good reason.”

  “One cannot sin to do good. It is against God’s law.”

  “It is, is it?” Jack bit his lip. He slid to the edge of his seat and bent over. “If only I could tell you and you couldn’t tell no one.”

  “But of course, Brother John. You of all people must very well know that the sacramental seal binds me. I can never tell a living soul, or suffer great consequences.”

  “Oh. I … forgot.” Jack swallowed hard. “Well then, you’re certain I can tell you anything and you can’t say aught?”

  “Yes. Quite certain.”

  “Not even to the archbishop?”

  “Certainly not the archbishop. No one. No matter what you confessed.” He peered around the screen again. “Are things done differently in Suffolk?”

  “No, Brother. Father.” Hell. “Right, then.” Cyril withdrew again, his shadow bobbing slightly on the wooden screen. “I’ve … I’ve been lying … about who I am. I ain’t truly a monk at all. I’m the apprentice of Crispin Guest who’s investigating the murders and theft of the saint’s bones. He sent me here to spy on the lot of you.”

  Cyril’s head slowly emerged from behind the screen again. His eyes were as wide as they could go. Jack glared at him. “Ain’t you supposed to be behind the screen?” he whispered.

  Cyril ducked back and made some sounds until he finally asked in a hoarse voice. “Are you quite certain?”

  “Of course I’m certain! I’m no sarding monk! Beggin’ your pardon. I didn’t mean to lie but me master begged me do it and it was to discover a murderer and thief and all. I reckon God could forgive that. Can’t He?”

  Cyril was silent. Jack shifted on his chair and stretched his neck trying to peer over the screen. “Cyril … Father?”

  “Just wait a moment.” Cyril made some more sounds as if he were praying. Finally he intoned, “You … you must perform an act of Christian charity, remain on only bread and water for three days, and, er, make a donation to the monastery for your deceit.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Cyril muttered under his breath before he said in something of a flurry, “Et ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”

  Jack crossed himself. “Amen.”

  The monk peered around the screen again. “How long do you plan to stay?”

  “Only till after Mass. I am sorry for deceiving you, Father Cyril. Truly.”

  “Hmph! You don’t suspect me, do you?” said Cyril

  “Oh no! You don’t seem guilty of aught to me.” He t
ried to smile.

  Cyril made a hasty cross over Jack and ducked away again.

  Jack rose and walked uncertainly toward the door. He reached the sacristy’s entrance and paused. “Well, farewell, then.”

  All he saw was Cyril’s hand waving from the edge of the screen. “Yes, yes. God be with you. Now go.”

  “I’m going,” he muttered.

  When the bells were rung again (too many sarding bells) Jack took his place in the chapter house, the church no longer being fit for Mass. He sat next to Cyril’s place but the monk was singing the Mass with the old prior, who, with trembling hands, consecrated the Hosts along with the other priest monks. Jack partook with a relatively clear conscience. He slipped a glance at Dom Thomas silently praying in his stall before Cyril returned to his own seat by Jack, eyeing him fitfully.

  After Mass he said his good-byes and had almost reached the door when Dom Thomas, approaching in great rolling strides, stopped him. “Why, Brother John. You must have been long on the road. For shame. You have neglected your tonsure.”

  “My what?” His hand grabbed for the scalp of his head. The crowns of all the monks’ heads were shaved bald, denoting their purity. Jack’s was still vigorous with ginger curls.

  “But we can help you.” He took hold of Jack’s arm and grasped it tightly. “How hospitable would we appear if we did not barber you before you depart?”

  “Oh, don’t trouble yourself, Brother,” he said, trying to pull away, but the monk’s iron grip of his arm made that impossible. “I’ll attend to it as soon as I might.”

  “No trouble. Brother Matthew here can do the job. Bring a bowl and razor, won’t you, Brother Matthew?”

  Jack turned a scathing glare on Dom Thomas, but the monk’s lips only curled up into a triumphant smile.

  14

  CRISPIN COULD THINK OF nowhere to take Chaucer but to the archbishop’s lodge where a monk was dispatched to bring the sheriff. Chaucer scowled and said nothing, but Crispin was grateful his friend had gone with him without protest. He truly didn’t think he knew what he would have done had Chaucer fought the situation.

  The sheriff of county Kent, Thomas Brokhull, happened to be in Canterbury, and he would arrive in an hour. But the archbishop urged Crispin to question Chaucer. Refusing, Crispin stared into the hearth, listening only to the crackling flames, the logs snap, and the sticks sizzle. How could he even look at Geoffrey! Did he think his friend was guilty? He didn’t know anymore, nauseated by the whole affair.