Troubled Bones

by Jeri Westerson

  “Yes. It keeps me fed.”

  “Not as well as it should.”

  Crispin made a noise in his throat.

  “And so. How does this exonerate me?”

  Crispin shrugged. “As of yet, it doesn’t. At least, not to the satisfaction of the archbishop.”

  “But if there is another murder while I am locked in here—”

  “Tut, Geoffrey. Would you wish that on poor Gelfridus?”

  “No, no. Of course not.” Chaucer dropped his face into his hands. “I make a very poor prisoner. If put to torture I fear I would spill all.”

  Crispin quashed memories of his own torture. He had said nothing, volunteered no name. But in the end, it had not helped him.

  “Have you warned Gelfridus yet?” asked Geoffrey. “Or do you suspect him?”

  “I will … talk to him.”

  “And Bonefey?”

  He scowled. “He is a player. Of this I have no doubt. But is he the puppet or the puppeteer?”

  “Speaking of puppets, those rascally fellows—the Summoner and Pardoner. I trust them not.”

  “Nor do I. I have issued them an ultimatum, though now I do not expect it to be carried out.”

  “You speak in riddles.”

  “I work in riddles.”

  Suddenly, it felt like old times; the two of them plotting, wrestling with an idea, some point of philosophy. He saw in Geoffrey’s eyes that he sensed it, too. They both fell silent, regarding one another.

  Finally, Geoffrey said, “I never believed you were guilty.”

  “I was.”

  “But dammit, Cris. Would you truly have killed the king?”

  Crispin had wondered that himself over the years. He hoped that Lancaster would not have asked that of him, but now, knowing it was all a sham, made his guilt somehow worse. He sighed and shook his head. Too many years ago to ponder now. He had been three and twenty at the time. Young and idealistic. The world had been his, spread out before him like one of Harper’s parchments. He had been in his majority, at the height of his strength and his wits—or so he had thought. To have been spared execution was both bane and blessing. “I was Lancaster’s man. I would have done anything he asked of me.”

  Geoffrey cocked his head and studied his friend silently.

  Crispin rose. “Worry not, Geoffrey. I will see you freed.”

  As he neared the door, he heard Geoffrey’s voice softly say, “And who will free you?”

  He resisted glancing back and stepped into the archway when he was suddenly surrounded by men-at-arms. He reached for his dagger but did not draw it. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

  “Step aside, my lord,” they said to him, obviously having no idea who he was. “We are here for Geoffrey Chaucer.”

  “What?”

  He saw Geoffrey through the doorway back away from the men who entered.

  “What is this?” Crispin persisted. “Are you the sheriff’s men?”

  “No,” said the one who seemed to be in charge. He was taller than Crispin and broad-shouldered and a little too formidable to take on. “I belong to the archbishop’s retinue. His Excellency has called for an Episcopal inquisition.”

  “God’s blood! He can’t do that! This is not a heresy trial. This is the jurisdiction of the crown.”

  He pushed Crispin back. “Not anymore. His Excellency says this man confessed to Lollardism and murdered because of it. He must be brought before the bishops before he is executed for heresy.”

  “But—” He glared desperately at Geoffrey whose wrists were being bound by two guards. “He has only confessed to me. The archbishop does not even know the nature—”

  “His Excellency says he does not need to hear it. Only that it is so. The hearing is only a formality. The execution is tomorrow. Now stand aside.”

  Breath caught, Crispin watched as the men ushered Chaucer forth. He stumbled once, looked back at Crispin, and followed helplessly.

  21

  CRISPIN WASTED NO TIME getting to Courtenay’s lodgings, but the stern-faced chaplain said the archbishop was not there.

  His voice was tightly controlled though his muscles were coiled for action. “Where is he?”

  “He is unavailable, Master Guest. I suggest you return—”

  Crispin lunged and slammed the defenseless cleric into the wall. He felt the man’s bones jar against the stone. “Don’t make me ask again.”

  The chaplain’s rounded eyes watered from pain. “Please … have mercy!”

  “I’m not in a merciful mood. God’s blood! You will tell me or I shall grind you into this stone!”

  “H-he is in the great hall … with his clerics. They are holding a h-hearing for the prisoner.”

  He pushed the man back and stomped through the corridors, turned the corner, and came upon the large doors to the great hall. They were closed, naturally, but there was no guard. He hoped they weren’t barred.

  Pushing them open he strode in. The archbishop sat in the center of the head table flanked by the prior and sub prior and two other monks from Christchurch Priory. Chaucer stood before them as an inquisitor, the archbishop’s chaplain, paced back and forth, speaking in a measured manner in such a way as to suggest his oration would go on for a long time.

  Suddenly, everyone turned. He wished for the thousandth time he had a sword.

  Courtenay jolted to his feet. “What is the meaning of this, Guest?”

  “I would ask the same of you, Excellency.”

  The monks gasped. Courtenay slammed his hand to the table. “This is not to be borne! You are insolent in the extreme.” He motioned for a guard and the man advanced on Crispin, his spear lowered toward him.

  Crispin rushed forward, sidestepped the spear, and grabbed it. He swung the spear with the guard still attached and slammed him into the wall. The man staggered and released his hold on the weapon. Crispin turned it and brandished the point toward the assembly, effectively stopping the other guard from approaching. “I wish to address this hearing, Excellency.” He did not lower the spear and kept his eyes darting from guard to guard.

  “You are a churl, Guest,” said Courtenay in a darkly pitiless tone. “I should have known. A traitor can never be trusted. Lancaster taught you your heresy and now we see the proof of it.”

  “Whatever you think of me, your Excellency, is your affair alone. But I am here to see justice done under the eyes of God. Geoffrey Chaucer is not guilty of these crimes. This was not his confession to me. If you condemn him then it is you who are committing a most heinous offense against God and Man.”

  The archbishop raised his arm and pointed a shaking finger toward the door. “Get him out of here!”

  Crispin jabbed his spear toward the guard who seemed reluctant to take him on. “Your Excellency, I beg of you. Grant me one more day to prove his innocence. How can it be wrong to deny a man his chance at life? This body—this holy body—cannot mean to condemn a man unjustly.”

  “And you make your plea at the point of a spear?”

  He tightened his grip on the weapon and measured both guards and the clerics. Most had risen in their seats and were anxiously watching the outcome.

  Crispin had made many decisions in his life. Some had been terribly wrong, and some had proved his instincts. He had to rely on those instincts now.

  With a hurried prayer, he tossed the spear aside and held up his empty hands.

  He glanced at the guard. The man hesitated. It was enough. Crispin dropped to his knees. “My lord! Grant me this boon. I make this oath to you. I will find those guilty, and you will have been spared executing an innocent man.” Never mind that you have no right to do so!

  No one moved. No one breathed. He felt his heart hammering within his chest.

  Courtenay was livid. But Crispin knew the man had no choice. No prince of the Church could turn down a plea like this. He could tell that the monks were moved and appeared more than willing to comply with his petition.

  The arc
hbishop licked his lips. The hand he pressed white to the table lifted and caressed the bejeweled cross pendant lying on his chest. “This is a matter of heresy, Master Guest,” he said hoarsely. “Can you disprove that?”

  Crispin paused, glancing toward Geoffrey. Of course. This was no civil murder trial. The Church would only deal in heresy. Think fast, Crispin, he told himself. “Of course, your Excellency. This rather rushed gathering would seem to benefit from the wisdom of your peers, bishops like yourself—” Courtenay’s face darkened. “But since you felt the need to hurry the proceedings—fearing for the soul of Master Chaucer, no doubt—you must realize that the king’s uncle would surely never harbor a heretic.”

  His words were well chosen, for he saw Courtenay blanch at the mention of the king.

  “You have one day Master Guest. By sunset tomorrow, if you have brought no new evidence to me, then Chaucer hangs.”

  Crispin was about to argue but saw that it would do no good. “Thank you, Excellency. Thank you.” He rose and only then did he dare glance at Geoffrey.

  His friend’s face was wet with perspiration. He felt a constriction in his throat. Chaucer looked frightened. He wasn’t the only one.

  Crispin bowed low to the assembly, threw his cloak behind him, and marched out. His mind worked furiously. Today and tomorrow. That was all he had to prove Geoffrey innocent. But what evidence was there? A charge of murder he could elude, but one of heresy?

  He stopped. He had to get a message to Lancaster. It would certainly never reach him in time but he had to make the effort. He owed Geoffrey that much.

  He needed someone with a swift horse.

  Crispin hurried out of the cathedral precincts and then he ran. The Westgate. If the sheriff was there he had a chance …

  He barely took note of the streets as he passed through them. He could be in London as any other place, though he did not know these streets as well as he did London’s.

  His gaze rose above the rooftops, searching for the round tower gate, and he turned the corner of many twisting lanes to keep in the right direction.

  Finally, he rounded the last corner and the stone gatehouse loomed above him. The Westgate was surrounded by scaffolding while still under construction and he hoped the sheriff, or at least someone who could help him, was there.

  “The sheriff,” he told the guard, trying to catch his breath. The man only motioned him inside. Crispin looked around, saw a stairwell, and took it.

  The first door he came to he peered within. A clerk sitting at a desk and penning careful words on a parchment looked up.

  “The sheriff. Is he here?”

  “Aye. He is within,” and the clerk gestured to the closed door.

  “I must see him. Now.”

  The man stood. “And who are you, sir? And your business?”

  “I am Crispin Guest, and my business—”

  “Oh!” The man seemed to know well Crispin’s business and he scrambled to the door, knocked once, and entered, closing it behind him.

  He paced. He couldn’t stand still. Each moment that ticked by was another moment he wasn’t using to find the killer.

  At length, the door opened and Thomas Brokhull strode through. “Master Guest. What is it you require?”

  “Praise God. Lord Sheriff, I need your swiftest messenger sent to London immediately.”

  “Why so urgently?”

  “Because—” He suddenly noticed the clerk peering at both of them. The sheriff noticed as well, and led Crispin into his room. He closed the door.

  “Tell me.”

  “The archbishop, like any wily fox, has taken advantage and has condemned Geoffrey Chaucer for heresy.”

  “What? He cannot do that! Even if it were an ecclesiastical matter he hasn’t the jurisdiction to execute a prisoner.”

  “And so, too, would I think. But I do not put it past the man to use any means at his disposal.”

  “That is the crown’s jurisdiction,” Brokhull went on indignantly. “My jurisdiction!”

  “Indeed. But can we argue the point later? The messenger, Lord Sheriff.”

  “Oh yes.” He went to the door again and told the clerk to send for a man.

  “Have you quill and paper?”

  The sheriff offered his own desk for his use. Crispin circled to the other side, fetched a quill from its pot, and took the square of parchment offered. Hastily, he scribbled a note:

  Your grace,

  I write this in haste without room for pleasantries. Your servant, Geoffrey Chaucer, is in danger of his life. He is accused of murders for which I know he is innocent but a charge of heresy will be his end. In all God’s speed, send your emissaries to stop Archbishop Courtenay from this course. Urgency is utmost.

  Your servant,

  Crispin Guest

  He blotted it, sealed it with the sheriff’s seal, and clutched it in his hand until the messenger arrived. When he did, Crispin all but pushed the sheriff aside. “Give this to the duke of Lancaster at Westminster Palace. In all haste. How fast can you ride to London?”

  The man, wearing the tabard of the city of Canterbury, looked once at Brokhull and then at the window. It was almost noon. “With good weather and riding hard, I can perhaps make it by nightfall.”

  “Good then. Go. Go now!”

  With a look of acknowledgment from the sheriff, the man left. Crispin listened to the man’s feet thump down the stairs.

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  Remembering the sheriff, Crispin stared at Brokhull. “No, my lord. I work best alone. But believe me, if there was something you could do I would not hesitate to ask. I thank you for this.”

  “Well, there is one thing I will do. I will take my men and march to Christchurch Cathedral at once! This must not stand. Just who does the archbishop think he is?”

  “He thinks he is the Primate of England … and he is.”

  “But he is not the King of England. And the king is the law. I shall do my best to remind him of that.”

  He nodded. He liked this fellow. He was certainly better than Exton or Froshe. And more useful. “I have been given a day, Lord Sheriff. Forgive me if I do not waste it.”

  Brokhull nodded and Crispin departed, making swift work of the staircase. The irony of the situation was not lost on him. Here, two hundred years ago, Archbishop Thomas à Becket opposed his king, claiming that priests and monks should only be tried in ecclesiastical courts, while the king argued that he alone was the law. And now Courtenay would reverse the sundial.

  But at least Brokhull did not seem a man to countenance any perversion of the law. He might delay the execution in time for Lancaster’s men to intervene. It would take that extra time, for even should the rider make it to London by late tonight, how would Lancaster’s men get to Canterbury in time to stop Chaucer’s execution?

  He trotted back to the cathedral, hopeful that the sheriff might persuade the archbishop from taking further action, but uncertain if it could be done. True, the sheriff was the law, but the archbishop was the Church. When a man was threatened with excommunication and heresy, duties and loyalties could easily be forgotten.

  He wiped his mind free of Courtenay’s treachery. He needed to think, to concentrate. He had been so certain it was Sir Philip, but with circumstances being what they were, that certainty had eroded. He was so close to discerning the true killer he could taste it. Who? Who? Sir Philip had a grudge against Madam Eglantine but what of Bonefey and Wilfrid? And how did he obtain Chaucer’s dagger? No, no. This was no good. One thing at a time. Was it for the bones? He didn’t think so. Was it revenge? Was it this idiotic curse Jack would have him believe? Something about it was strange, personal, rabid. If God chose to take His revenge then it had been satisfied two hundred years ago. Even God ended his grudges in a timely fashion. No, this was human intervention. But to what purpose? The Prioress, poor Wilfrid, and perhaps Father Gelfridus. All religious. Did it have something to do with that? With the shrine?

 
He was drawing himself into circles and nothing was making sense. Becket’s four murderers. God’s blood, but that was the only thing that made sense! But how could that be!

  He stopped. Jack was waiting for him in the cathedral’s courtyard. After so heavy a heart, his spirits were suddenly lifted to see his protégé. Protégé. For so many years that word was like a curse. At least it had been to him, being Lancaster’s protégé. But Jack was his now and he would not see the boy ill-used, especially by himself. He joined the boy in the shadows of the stone arches and merely looked at him.

  Jack fidgeted. “W-what are you looking at, sir? Did I do something wrong?”

  “No. Not at all. But Jack”—he laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder—“if I were ever to order you to do something that you knew was wrong, I expect you to disobey me.”

  “Huh?”

  “Just know that it will eliminate a world of mistrust and pain.”

  “Sir,” Jack began carefully. “Master Chaucer. How … how did it go?”

  His hand fell from Jack and they climbed the steps, entering the portico at the west door. “The archbishop has moved to take matters into his own hands. He has condemned him and means to execute him on the morrow.”

  “God blind me! Can he do that?”

  “He forces the issue of heresy but he is breaking the law. I only hope the sheriff has his will of him, but I do not know … I earned Chaucer a reprieve, but only one day’s worth. And it is already late.” The sun was moving much too fast across the sky. “We must work quickly if we are to prove him innocent.” He stared at the floor tiles, the sound of the masons hammering fading as he fell deeper into thought. “I think I should see Saint Benet’s chapel again.” They made their way together up the north aisle.

  Apart from the masons and the occasional monk exchanging old candles for new, they were alone.

  Except in Saint Benet’s chapel.

  A slim figure stood amid the shadows. A candle from the altar limned the person with an edge of gold. “Dame Marguerite,” said Crispin, startled. He couldn’t prevent a glance at Jack, who turned multiple shades of red.

  “Dame,” he said, softer. He was suddenly worried for the sake of all the religious within these walls. “Perhaps you should not be here.”