Troubled Bones

by Jeri Westerson

  “Oh aye,” she said. “She was emphatic about that. Poor soul. It is the only home she knows.”

  He glanced over at Jack who had just finished with Gelfridus. Jack shot him a bitter look and shuffled up the stairs. “Jesu, but I suddenly feel old.”

  “Surely you cannot mean dalliance is only for the young?”

  “No. But all this.” He gestured loosely, aimlessly. “I am at a loss to understand it.”

  “Crispin Guest. Have you never taken a virgin’s flower?”

  For some unaccountable reason, he blushed. “Er, no. What has that to do with—”

  “Then you cannot know the appeal to the young man. He can scarce be much of a man. Have you sat the boy down to discuss it with him?”

  “Discuss it? Discuss what?”

  “Blessed Mary and Joseph! Why! The ways of love! The boy has no one else to advise him, no father, brother, or uncle. That leaves you for the task.”

  Crispin shrank back. “Me? But I don’t—”

  “You cannot tell me you are not experienced enough to discuss such with him, for I will avow otherwise.” She smiled and elbowed him.

  His shoulders slumped. God’s blood! He never reckoned on something like this. He’d almost rather face the torturers again. Well, if it’s to be done he might as well get to it. Rubbing his face with a calloused hand, he rose. “Very well, Alyson. You have shamed me to it. God help me.”

  “God keep you,” she said, smiling after him.

  * * *

  CRISPIN OPENED THE DOOR to his chamber slowly. Jack sat by the hearth, sewing a patch on one of Crispin’s stockings. He didn’t look up but scooted on his stool closer to the firelight. Sighing, Crispin closed the door, and sat on his bed. He watched Jack for a long time, saying nothing, letting the crackle of flames do the talking for him, until he knew he must speak. “Jack,” he said gently.

  “There’s no need,” Jack said tightly. “I done what you told me, and I shrived m’self. I’ll do me penance and be done with it. Happy?”

  He leaned forward, clasping his hands together. “You’re a good lad.”

  “That’s not what you said earlier.”

  “I misspoke earlier.”

  “Hmpf.”

  “Jack. It has come to my attention that the time has come to discuss, well, certain matters.”

  “What ‘certain matters’?”

  Crispin rose and tugged the stocking from Jack’s clasp. He tossed it on the bed but Jack would not look up at him. He stood above that ginger head before he decided that wine was in order. He retrieved the jug from the sill along with two clay cups. He poured generously into each and handed one to Jack. Jack still would not look up and did not take it. “Come, Jack. Drink with me.”

  “I am not allowed,” he grumbled. “I am on bread and water, remember?”

  “As your master, I … temporarily reprieve you from your fast. Come now.”

  “So I’m still bound to you.”

  “I do not know. What am I to you? Besides a bastard.”

  He whipped his head up. “I never said such!”

  “But thought it, I’m sure. Take it.”

  Jack stared at the sweating cup and slowly raised his hand to grasp it.

  Crispin took a sip and returned to sitting on the edge of the bed. Jack stared into his cup but did not drink. “What matters would you discuss with me, Master Crispin?”

  “Matters of the fairer sex.”

  Jack’s head snapped up at that and he nearly spilled his cup. “W-what?”

  “Tell me, Jack, how much experience do you have with women?”

  “Experience?” The boy’s face reddened almost more than his hair. “Well now. I don’t rightly know—”

  “Have you ever lain with a girl?”

  “Now, Master! That is hardly a matter I’d discuss with you!”

  “But this is the very matter that needs discussing. Come now. We are men here. Nearly.”

  Jack stared wide-eyed for a moment before he grasped his cup tightly and downed it in one. Crispin took up the jug again and poured more. Jack held the cup in both hands and chewed on his lip. “We-e-ell, I…”

  “I trust you are schooled as to what parts must unite to—”

  “God’s teeth and eyes!” Jack shot to his feet. His face flushed as he paced before the fire. He drank down his second cup and wiped his mouth. “I know what goes where! Blessed Saint Margaret! That ain’t talk for no decent folk!”

  “If you can’t speak of it then likely you shouldn’t be doing it.”

  “I ain’t doing naught! I just kissed the wench.”

  “She isn’t a wench. She’s a holy sister. And I beg you to remember that.”

  Jack continued his appraisal of his now empty cup.

  “Well at least you know something,” muttered Crispin. “But you obviously do not understand when you are reaching beyond your station.”

  Jack stopped and turned his head. His expression was mortified. Finally.

  “Above my station? But she’s a nun. She’s a servant, ain’t she?”

  “She comes from better stock than that. They all do. And do I have to remind you again about vows?”

  “She’s a lady, then?”

  “Yes. Or should be. True, she is a bastard and not recognized by her sire, but I doubt that even a learned thief would be suitable.”

  “’Slud,” he whispered. “I didn’t know all that.”

  “Indeed. Perhaps the next woman you kiss you might inquire.”

  Jack looked properly chastened. His eyes were wide when he looked up. “Am I in trouble?”

  “Not from me.”

  “I mean … her priory. Can they do anything … to me?”

  “No. They only have jurisdiction over her. The archbishop, on the other hand—”

  “Jesus mercy!” He crossed himself. “You wouldn’t tell him, would you? That priest, he won’t tell, will he?”

  “Jack, calm yourself. I certainly have no intention of telling the archbishop. I was jesting with you. And Father le Britton is prohibited by virtue of the sacramental seal—”

  “Le Breton! Oh my soul!” He slapped his forehead. “That’s three!”

  “Three what? What are you babbling about?”

  A hurried knock on the door drew Crispin’s attention and Jack scurried to open it. Father Gelfridus pushed past him. “Master Guest! We need your help. Come, hurry!”

  “What is it, Father?”

  “It’s the church. They won’t let us in.”

  Crispin felt no surprise at this. So, the archbishop finally closed the cathedral as he should have done upon the heels of the first murder. “This is only correct, no? It must be reconsecrated—”

  “No, it is not that. It is the masons. They have blocked the doors and won’t even allow the holy brothers entrance.”

  “The masons?” He cast a glance at Jack, suddenly recalling Jack’s words concerning the conversation between Dom Thomas and the stone carver. “I will come,” he said and quickly snatched his cloak.

  18

  THE WEST DOOR OF Canterbury Cathedral was blocked by a throng of townsfolk, some demanding entrance, others just curious at the commotion. Crispin wished with all his heart he still possessed a sword. He hoped a commanding tone would do for him what three feet of absent steel could not.

  “What goes on here?” he shouted.

  He smiled to himself to see the crowd part for him. There was something to be said for a noble upbringing.

  He could see the door now. It had been wedged open by some of the townsfolk. Two broad-shouldered men stood within the entrance and one of them looked like the mason Crispin had seen the day before.

  “That’s Master Nigel,” whispered Jack, elbowing his side. “The one I saw with Dom Thomas.”

  “Indeed.” Crispin pushed his way up the steps, unmindful of the glares he received. “Master Nigel, what’s amiss? Why have you barred the way?”

  Nigel turned his wide, flat face, measur
ing him with keen, darting eyes. “And who might you be?”

  “I am Crispin Guest. They call me the Tracker.” There were a few gasps of recognition and even Nigel’s features became graver. “The archbishop has charged me with keeping the peace in this parish … and there has been precious little of that of late.”

  “Aye,” said Nigel with a leer. “If you have been so charged, you haven’t been doing your job well. Two murders, I hear tell. And … other mischief.”

  “Is that why you guard the doors? Because of ‘mischief’?”

  “Well, we might make a little mischief of our own, good Tracker. We guard the doors as we have promised to do if the monks here refuse to pay their bill.”

  Jack lurched forward. “But—”

  “Jack!” hissed Crispin and pushed him back. To Nigel, he said, “It is interesting that you should say so. I have it on good authority that you have already been paid these sums.”

  Nigel frowned and glanced at his fellows who were too far away to hear their conversation. He turned his back on Crispin to call a mason to the door. When a man arrived he spoke to Crispin again. “I will talk with you, Master Guest.” Jack made a move to follow but the man looked down at him and shook his shaggy head. “Only the Tracker, if he is brave enough.”

  “Master Crispin is the bravest man in the kingdom!” Jack shouted, hands balled into fists.

  Crispin laid a gentle hand on Jack’s shoulder and eased him back. “That’s enough, Jack. Wait for me here.”

  Jack, all former animosity forgotten, stood his ground. Crispin smiled inside but turned a solemn expression to the masons. His lone dagger was small comfort as he passed under the arch within the cool church. He glanced up the nave and saw more masons barring the way from the cloister. Nigel led him to a dark corner near the quire before turning to Crispin with his beefy fists at his hips. His tunic was rough-spun and dusted with powder and bits of stone. His paunch spilled over the thick leather belt at his waist. His dark stockings had patches on each knee. Never had Crispin been happier to own a new coat and stockings, or he might have looked as poor as this man.

  “Very well,” said Nigel, his voice thick with intimidation. “What do you have to say?”

  “Merely that you have been paid.” He lowered his voice and glanced dramatically at the others. “Or is it a secret from your fellows?”

  “You lie.”

  He straightened. “A poor game, this. For you know I am not lying.”

  Nigel grimaced and pulled his dagger. Crispin expected it and had his out first. His other hand darted forward, gripped the mason’s arm, and slammed his hand against a pillar. The surprise of the action freed the blade from the mason’s fingers. It clattered loudly on the floor and echoed throughout the empty church. Crispin pressed his own blade to the bull-like neck. The man’s eyes widened when he stared down at the steel. “I don’t like men pulling their daggers on me,” he hissed close to Nigel’s face. “It isn’t friendly. It makes my own blade itch for blood. Should I scratch that itch?”

  “No, Master,” croaked Nigel. “It … it was ill-advised of me.”

  “I will put my dagger away and we will talk, yes?”

  The man nodded and Crispin slowly withdrew the dagger from the man’s neck and sheathed it.

  “Now. This is what transpired. You received money from Dom Thomas to hold your tongue about something you saw.” The man’s brows rose up his creased forehead. “It matters little to me if you wish to share this boon with your fellow guild members. My interest in it is this: I want to know what it is you saw. Why is Dom Thomas paying for your silence?”

  “It has nought to do with you, Tracker.”

  “Doesn’t it? I wonder how your fellows would react should I tell them that you have indeed already been paid and choose to keep it for yourself. Could you feign forgetfulness, I wonder, and live?”

  Nigel passed a hand over his sweaty face. “It’s not what you think.”

  “I believe it is exactly what I think. What did you see? If it was murder and you failed to report it to the authorities then you are as liable as the killer—”

  “Murder? Murder?” His sweaty face was suddenly pebbled with perspiration. “Blessed Mother! I am no party to murder!”

  His voice rose in volume, alerting the other masons nearby. Heads turned.

  “I have no part in murder!” he cried again.

  Damn the man! Crispin saw his opportunity slipping away as curiosity turned to concern. Some came away from their posts and headed toward them. Soon the masons were gathered around the two, casting accusatory and threatening looks Crispin’s way. Before Crispin could negotiate the situation, Nigel snatched up his own money pouch in a burst of inspiration. “Look! This man has talked to the good brothers and brought our pay! Let the monks come through, then, as our quarrel with Canterbury is at an end. We will return to our work. Come now!”

  The men, acting like a shield around Nigel, cheered and moved as one to meet the others at the cloister door. There was more discussion, some arguments, but the monks were soon allowed in and the dispute appeared to be over.

  Nigel looked back with a smirk. Disgusted, Crispin turned away.

  He met Jack at the entrance again and the boy was beaming at him. “Don’t be proud of me yet, Jack,” he said with a scowl. “I was not able to extract the information I wanted from Master Nigel. And now I never shall.” He recounted their exchange and Jack’s face fell. “However,” he said, “mention of murder produced a rather profound effect.” Jack didn’t understand. He steered the boy into the nave and bent close to Jack’s ear as they watched the monks’ shadows cross the Chapel of Saint Thomas at the far end. “Dom Thomas does not seem guilty of murder. I thought that would console you.”

  Jack nodded. “Indeed it does. A holy brother guilty of the greatest sin? Though I do not much like the man, I am relieved he is no killer. But what, then, did he need to pay extortion money for?”

  “That I do not yet know. But I shall ferret it out some other way.” He, too, was pleased that Dom Thomas, pompous as he was, was not guilty of murder, but it drew him no closer to finding evidence against Sir Philip. He shook his head. “Prioress Eglantine, Brother Wilfrid. Such heinous crimes. I wish I knew why—”

  “Oh! Oh God’s blessed eyes and ears! I do know why, sir!”

  He stared at Jack as though he had sprouted wings. “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s that curse, sir,” he said, grabbing Crispin’s arm and searching the shadows.

  “What foolish nonsense is this?”

  “It’s the curse, Master. What Edward Harper was telling me. The curse of Becket’s bones!”

  “I have never heard of such foolishness. I expected better sense from you. After the hours I spent teaching you—”

  “But sir! First it was the Prioress, and her name was Eglantine de Mooreville. And then poor Wilfrid, and his surname was de Tracy. Don’t you see, sir? They both have the same surnames as Becket’s murderers. The saint is taking his revenge on their descendants. And Father Gelfridus is next! He’s a Le Breton.”

  Crispin paused. He rolled the thought in his mind like dice in his fingers. Was there merit to such an idea? Was someone taking vengeance on the past?

  “Why, Jack, that is a very interesting theory. But how could the murderer know that these three people would be at the same place and time?”

  “If God wishes a thing done, then it is done.”

  “God is not killing these people!”

  “Well someone is!”

  “Who is this Edward Harper?”

  Jack looked relieved at last. “I will take you to him, sir.”

  19

  JACK LED CRISPIN UP through the nave, pulling at his arm. But when they approached the cloister door, a monk stopped them.

  “You cannot enter,” said the tall cleric. “This is for the holy brothers alone.”

  “Father Cyril!” Jack edged forward, grinning madly. He pushed back his hood rev
ealing his face … and tonsure.

  Cyril glared at him until recognition washed over his features. “Brother John, er…”

  Sheepishly, Jack fingered his coat. “Ah … alas, no, Father. I am Jack Tucker and this is my master, Crispin Guest.”

  Cyril eyed Crispin. “So it would appear. I have heard it from on high that this person must be allowed anywhere he wishes.” He regarded Crispin haughtily and though his words allowed access he did not step aside.

  Crispin bowed to him. “I understand the rare privilege afforded me, Father.”

  “Privilege,” he muttered, eyes flicking toward a chastened Jack. “Not so rare, it would seem.” He stepped aside and Jack looked back forlornly. Crispin felt a pang of regret for having used Jack so.

  The cloister was large. The open greensward was filled with wind-rustled herbs and other medicinal plants. Jack seemed to know his way well after only two days within, but he expected no less from the clever lad. He followed Jack down the colonnade and into deeper shadows until they came to a gate. Jack pushed it open and a courtyard spread before them shouldered by several small cottages. A man with wavy white hair and white beard was hoeing in a little garden of carefully tilled earth.

  The man looked up, squinted, and then straightened, leaning on his hoe. He waited until Crispin and Jack approached before setting his hoe against the cottage wall. “Do I have the honor of greeting Crispin Guest?” he asked.

  Mildly surprised, Crispin looked down at a red-faced Jack.

  “I told him your name, Master. I didn’t think it would do no harm.”

  Crispin saw clearly in the old man’s eyes that he knew his name very well. “Proper introductions, Jack.”

  Jack scrambled forward and threw back his hood as if doffing a hat. His tonsure gleamed in the sparse sunshine. “Master Harper, you knew me as Brother John and for that deception I am heartily sorry. My true name is Jack Tucker—” and he bowed low. “Here is my master, who is still my master. As you see, I am not a friar. I was sent to the cloister to help discover a murderer.”

  “And have you?” he asked tightly.

  “No, good sir. Not yet. But my master will have him. He always does.”