Troubled Bones

by Jeri Westerson

  Chaucer followed him with his eyes around the room. Crispin stabbed a look at him and quickly turned away.

  Finally, Geoffrey spoke. “I’m to submit to the sheriff without so much as an explanation?”

  Crispin turned. “I’d rather have the sheriff here. A neutral party. For your sake, it is best.”

  “For my sake? Now we are concerned with my affairs?” He faced the archbishop. “If my friend Crispin will say nothing, perhaps his Excellency will indulge me? I take it I am being accused of a murder. Master Guest intimated that Brother Wilfrid was killed.”

  “If you plead guilty now your soul will have mercy,” said Courtenay evenly.

  “Right now, I am most concerned with my neck,” and he eased his hand across his throat.

  “Just keep still, Geoffrey, until the sheriff arrives!” hissed Crispin.

  “I’m not particularly anxious to wait,” said Chaucer. “I demand leave to send a message to his grace the duke, who will no doubt get a message to the king.”

  Courtenay eased back in his chair. “In good time.”

  “Now!”

  Courtenay rose and pressed his hands to the table. “Do not threaten me, Master Chaucer. Your life balances on a thread. A good wind might just hack it in half.”

  Crispin clenched and unclenched his fists. Why couldn’t the two of them just keep their mouths shut!

  A knock on the door. Crispin sighed with his entire body. It couldn’t have come soon enough. He went himself and opened the door and looked into the face of a stocky man with sandy brown hair that wisped over tiny eyes. The man measured Crispin and gave a brief and polite smile. “You must be Crispin Guest. I am Thomas Brokhull.”

  “Lord Sheriff,” said Crispin and stepped aside with a bow.

  Brokhull strode into the room and bowed to the archbishop. “Excellency.” The archbishop nodded in reply. The sheriff turned to Chaucer. “Why was I summoned?”

  “There have been two murders in the cathedral,” said Crispin. “And this man, Geoffrey Chaucer, is being accused of one of them.”

  “Both,” said the archbishop.

  Crispin spun and glared at him but restrained from speaking.

  Brokhull addressed Chaucer. “You are Geoffrey Chaucer? The duke of Lancaster’s poet?” Chaucer bowed graciously as if he were at court. “By Saint Thomas! What goes on here?”

  “Murder,” said Crispin.

  “Lord Sheriff,” said Geoffrey. “I demand to send a message to my Lord of Gaunt. He should be informed that his servant is in peril of his life.”

  “Surely it isn’t that,” said Brokhull, noticeably nervous.

  Chaucer strolled a circle around Crispin. “Apparently so, Lord Sheriff. My very dear friend here thinks me guilty of murdering one of these monks.”

  The sheriff looked from Chaucer to Crispin and his expression changed. Crispin knew exactly what he was thinking: Should Brokhull take the word of the court’s poet or that of a traitor?

  He closed his eyes in consternation. “I have only done what Archbishop Courtenay commanded of me. I have discharged Master Chaucer into the care of the Lord Sheriff. Now, am I free to go so that I may find the true killer?”

  Brokhull bristled. “True killer? If you do not think Master Chaucer guilty then why must I arrest him?”

  Courtenay lifted the dagger from his table. Chaucer saw it for the first time and his face went white. “This was recovered from the throat of our dear Brother Wilfrid,” said Courtenay tightly. “Is this your dagger, Master Chaucer?”

  Chaucer stiffened. “It … is.” He darted a desperate look at Crispin. “But I do not know how it was used so foully. It has been missing from my room for days. Someone must have stolen it.”

  Courtenay gathered the red gown rolled into a bundle, also on his desk where Crispin deposited it. “And this gown with the tear?”

  “That … is also mine.”

  “Be so kind as to tell us about the tear, Master Guest,” said Courtenay in an inappropriately jovial tenor.

  Crispin stood against the far wall in the shadows. “When I examined the locked Corona tower after the first murder—”

  Brokhull moved closer. “What first murder?”

  “One of the pilgrims. The prioress Madam Eglantine de Mooreville. Two nights ago.”

  Brokhull stomped toward the archbishop. “I have heard nothing of this crime, Excellency. When were you planning on informing me?”

  “It is an ecclesiastical matter. She was a prioress—”

  “And the other victim your monk. What is the difference?”

  “The difference is Geoffrey Chaucer!” His arm shot up and stabbed a finger at him. “This heretic’s knife was found in the throat of my monk. There is a greater conspiracy afoot. More than heresy. More than the Church can root out.”

  Silently, Brokhull regarded all in the room. “Have you searched this man?” he asked of Crispin. He shook his head. Brokhull strode up to Chaucer and stood toe to toe with him. “Sir, surrender your scrip.”

  Chaucer took a deep breath and shot another desperate glance at Crispin. He unbuttoned the pouch’s straps and handed it to the sheriff. Brokhull dipped his hand in and removed coins, a pouch of more coins, a pilgrim’s badge, and a key.

  “Wait!” Crispin hurried across the room and pulled his Church key from his own pouch and snatched up the other.

  They were identical.

  His stomach churned. He turned a deadly glare on Chaucer.

  Geoffrey’s face paled to a sickly gray. “I would like to confess,” he said suddenly, voice strained.

  Crispin’s heart leapt to his throat. “What?”

  Courtenay’s face lit with triumph. Geoffrey turned to the sheriff. “I would like to confess … but only to Crispin Guest.”

  Brokhull, already up to his ears in confusion, shook his head. “This is all highly irregular.”

  “I will only give my confession to Crispin Guest. Alone.”

  Crispin shook his head. “Don’t do this, Geoffrey.”

  “Well, Lord Sheriff?” said Chaucer. “Surely there is a place…”

  “The Westgate tower is not yet complete. There is another prison across town. But”—he raised his face to the archbishop—“my lord, are there not cells in the monastery? Cells that lock from the outside?”

  “Yes, yes.” His mouth curved. “And I would be pleased to house such a prisoner here. He deserves our undivided attention.”

  “No doubt,” muttered Chaucer. “Then we may use a cell here. Agreed?” He looked at the sheriff for confirmation.

  The sheriff nodded. “If you don’t mind, I will accompany you.”

  The archbishop called for his clerk who escorted the sheriff, Crispin, and Chaucer to the monastery door. They took corridors and stairs to the monks’ quarters and found the last cell unoccupied. The sheriff asked the clerk for a key and was given the one on the monk’s belt. Brokhull gestured for Chaucer and Crispin to enter, and when they had, he locked them in. “Give a shout when you are finished, Master Guest,” said the sheriff.

  They heard his steps recede and finally raised their eyes to one another. “What addlepated idea have you hatched, Chaucer?”

  At last, Chaucer was visibly shaken. Alone with Crispin, he could drop his façade. “Lord have mercy. What have I gotten myself into?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know.”

  “First of all—” Geoffrey drew back his fist and swung. Crispin’s face exploded with pain and he staggered back, holding his chin.

  “What the hell was that for!”

  “That’s for accusing me in the first place. And second”—he nodded—“I can certainly see why you did.”

  “Then why strike me?” He held his chin, hoping his double vision would soon clear.

  “I had to do something.” Sitting heavily on the straw cot, Geoffrey rested his cheeks in his hands. “For the love of Christ, what am I to do?”

  “You can start by explaining yourself. Why do you ha
ve this key?”

  He looked up with his hands still cradling his face, mashing his cheeks together. His mustache wept over his fingers. “Well, I suppose that is in order.” He breathed raggedly. “You see, his grace the duke was worried about Becket’s relics. He knew there was a plot afoot to steal or destroy them, and so … so he sent me, well, to fetch them.”

  “Fetch them? Indeed. His new lapdog would do so.”

  “Don’t, Cris. I haven’t the wits to match barbs with you now.”

  “So go on. You arrived a fortnight ago and stole the keys in order to make a copy.”

  He froze. “How did you know?” Crispin rolled his eyes. “Never mind. You’re the Tracker. I concede it.”

  “Why didn’t you steal the bones then and there?”

  “No opportunity. And I needed to measure the circumstances. I thought it best to return and travel with another group of pilgrims to mask the deed.”

  “Very well. You hid in the Corona tower until all were gone and you caught your gown in the door.”

  “I’d forgotten that until I found you in my room. You are very good at what you do.”

  “Save it for later, Chaucer. Explain what happened. Did you kill the Prioress?”

  “No, damn you! Of course I didn’t. Nor did I kill poor little Wilfrid.”

  “Poor little Wilfrid was frightened of you. Did you threaten him earlier?”

  “No.”

  “This isn’t much of a confession.”

  “I’m getting to that. I had no intentions toward the Prioress. Are we clear on that?”

  “So it is merely a coincidence that you knew each other under dubious circumstances.”

  “Yes, only a coincidence. A horrible and possibly laughable coincidence. I came to steal Becket’s bones and only that.”

  “Oh, well then. I suppose all can be forgiven!” Crispin was so stiff with restraint he was liable to snap. “So where are they, Geoffrey?”

  “When I snuck out of my hiding place, I heard all sorts of noise. Screams, people running. I suppose that was when the Prioress was murdered. I did my best to stay out of sight. Whatever was happening, I thought it was a fine distraction to do what I needed to do. I did not know that you would return looking for me. Scared me out of my wits. So I’m afraid I … I hit you.”

  “The first time you hit me in the jaw,” he said resentfully, rubbing his jaw again.

  “Sorry, Cris. Couldn’t be helped. But I was free to get to the shrine, which I quickly did.”

  Crispin stood over him. “So where are the goddamned bones?”

  Chaucer wiped his lips with his hand and exhaled another ragged breath. “Once I had dispatched you, I managed to lift the canopy and push aside the casket lid … but the damned bones were already gone!”

  15

  “MORE LIES, GEOFFREY?” SAID Crispin wearily. “How many more do you have in that pouch of yours?”

  “I’m not lying, Cris. The bones were gone.”

  “And someone just happened to steal your dagger and kill Brother Wilfrid.”

  “Yes, yes! I don’t know when. I don’t remember when I had it last.”

  “How convenient.”

  Chaucer glared. “This is very pretty. You haven’t seen me in eight years and you simply assume now that I am a murderer.”

  “You’ve admitted to being a thief and a spy. Can murderer be far behind?”

  Chaucer shook his head and rose. “I never would have believed it of you, Cris. That you would have become so hard and immovable. True, you were always a bit stiff but never so hard-hearted.”

  “Live in my shoes for a day and you might understand.”

  “Am I to hang for a murder for which I am entirely innocent?”

  “Entirely? That is debatable.” Chaucer stiffened and curled his hands into fists. Crispin raised his bruised chin. “Are you going to hit me again, Geoffrey?”

  “Why bother?” He sat, dropping his face in his hands. Crispin stared at him for a long time and finally spun away, glancing up into the high window, welcoming the watery sunshine on his face.

  “Against my better judgment,” he said quietly, “I tend to believe in your innocence. At least where the murders are concerned. Doubtlessly, I will come to regret it.” He swiveled his head. Geoffrey’s face was still buried in his hands. “Exactly why would Lancaster wish to rescue such bones if he has Lollard leanings? I am unclear on this.”

  Chaucer’s voice was muffled by his hands. “He said he admired such a man who stood up against a king for his principles. He said he admired all such men.”

  Crispin stiffened and clutched his belt with both hands. “He said that?”

  “Yes. I found the affair amusing, to tell the truth—”

  “The truth?”

  “Not now, Cris.” He heaved a trembling sigh. “I had no idea—how could I? That such events would encircle a simple theft.”

  “Simple theft? Geoffrey! This is Saint Thomas the Martyr! The greatest saint in England. There is nothing simple about it!”

  “Yes, well. I know that now, don’t I?”

  Crispin paced until pacing seemed useless. He dropped heavily into the chair and stared at his old friend. “What am I to do with you, Geoffrey? What can I say?”

  Chaucer raised his face. “You could help me escape.”

  He frowned. “No.”

  “No? You mean you would let me hang!”

  He shook his head slowly. “No. But I cannot help you escape. We must do this logically, legally.”

  “I haven’t a leg to stand on.”

  “It certainly looks that way. But I am nowhere near done investigating.”

  Chaucer perked. He threw back his shoulders. “Indeed. Then what—?”

  “I can’t say right now. Rest assured I will see the real culprit caught and punished.”

  “I have only one request.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Can you do so before they hang me?”

  * * *

  ON THE ONE HAND, Crispin was angry that Geoffrey had gotten himself into this situation, and on the other he was scared. He felt in his bones that Chaucer was innocent of the murders, but he also knew he had been sorely wrong before. He desperately wanted his friend to be innocent, for if he was guilty, he wanted nothing to do with it. How could he possibly be responsible for getting his oldest friend hanged?

  The sheriff met him again and walked back with him down the cloister and into the dim church. “Do you have any theories, if you do not wish to entertain that Master Chaucer is to blame?” asked Brokhull.

  “I have known Master Chaucer for many years, Lord Sheriff. A man can change, but surely not that much. He could not have killed Brother Wilfrid and certainly not the Prioress.”

  “Then may I ask what it is he confessed to you?”

  “Do I have your confidence, my lord?”

  The sheriff measured Crispin silently and then nodded. “I know you by your reputation, sir. I have never heard a sour word spoken as concerns London’s Tracker.”

  “Very well. There was a matter of Saint Thomas the Martyr’s relics. Did the archbishop tell you…?” The sheriff wore a blank expression. “No. He did not. I feel you should be made aware, that the relics have been stolen.”

  “Good Christ!” The sheriff glanced instinctively up the nave toward Saint Thomas’s chapel.

  “Just so. Master Chaucer claimed that he was instructed to … to … retrieve … the bones himself, but that they were stolen before he got to them.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  Crispin paused. “I am not certain of that.”

  “If you do not blame him for murder, then who do you blame?”

  “There is a man at the inn whom I am certain is guilty. He had a grievance against the Prioress. A dire one. He is a man of loose temper and I do not gauge him above murder, though he is a wealthy landowner.”

  “Indeed. Who?”

  “His name is Sir Philip Bonefey.

  “I
see. Have you restrained him?”

  “I have little authority to do so, but I have put him on notice. He may flee.”

  “Do you want me to arrest him?” Brokhull looked uncertain.

  “Not yet. There is little evidence and I would not see you in disfavor from it.” Brokhull seemed relieved. “But if you could keep watch of the Martyrs Inn to make certain he stays, I believe I can further the inquiry from there.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  “Yes. The murder weapon. A sword. An old one. There is a blazon on the pommel. I need to find out whose arms those are.”

  “That may be a long and difficult process. But if I can think of any way to assist you, I shall.”

  Crispin fell silent, his mouth slightly open. “Forgive me, Lord Sheriff,” he began tentatively. “But … I am unused to such civility from the authorities. I was momentarily … stunned.”

  “Truly? Surely we must work together for the common good, no? Who has incurred such mistrust in you?”

  “I … live in London…”

  “Nick Exton and John Froshe are the sheriffs, are they not? I can see why you are hesitant. Careful fellows, are Exton and Froshe. They are jealous of their power. Perhaps you threaten them in some way.”

  “Only by being right.”

  “For them, that is enough.”

  Crispin scratched his head. “Maybe I should move to Canterbury.”

  Brokhull chuckled and extended his hand. Crispin took it. “Good luck, Master Guest. I will post a man near the inn as you advise. What does this man look like?”

  He described the Franklin and then took his leave of the sheriff, much invigorated that he would get real help this time. And he knew he needed it. Between Chaucer’s incarceration and the threats from Bonefey, he was a little unsure of how to proceed. It was as if every bit of this mystery was made of glass: the least amount of pressure one way or the other could shatter it.

  He stared at a shadowy statue for a long time before he turned to glance at Saint Thomas’s chapel. With a weary heart, he dragged himself up the nave and then around to the pilgrims’ stair and entered the rounded chamber. But instead of going to Saint Thomas’s shrine, he walked a little further and stood before the latten knight, the image of Prince Edward. He reached out and rested his hand on the cold metal. “Sire,” he said softly. “I pray you rest in peace in Heaven where you are, for there is so little of it here below. You left us in great turmoil. I should be angry with you, but alas, I am certain it was not your intention to die so young without a crown. And then your brother Lancaster with a crown snatched from his grasp by your son.” He walked beside the tomb, running his hand along the edge of the lid. “Little did we know. Little did we all know.” His fingers stopped trailing and he glanced again at the knight in repose, studying the ornate figure with somber eyes.