Jeri Westerson - Troubled Bones

“This is a disaster.” He paced, casting anxious looks at the body on the floor. “What’s to be done?”

“We must call in the coroner. It may take a week for him to get here. The body must not be disturbed in that time.”

Courtenay stopped, whirled, and stared at the body. “No, no. We mustn’t. The coroner cannot be called.”

“My lord, it is the law.”

He turned angry eyes on Crispin. “I do not fear the coroner’s fines. This is an ecclesiastical matter. It is not the king’s business.”

“But a murder-”

“Of a nun in a church! By the mass! It’s appalling. Blood has been spilt just as it was in the days of Becket. And his relics … I say it is his blood again spilt on the church floor. I will not have the king’s men fouling this holy place.”

Crispin shook his head. “I do not agree.”

“It is not for you to agree or disagree. You are now charged with discovering the one responsible for these misdeeds and for recovering the relics that I entrusted to you. You and you alone.”

“My lord!”

“My purse is at your disposal, Master Guest. This is to be kept quiet. Do you understand me?”

Crispin clamped his lips and curled his fingers around his dagger hilt. By agreeing to work for the archbishop he had indentured himself. But for how long? Who knew if the bones would ever be found and returned? And what of the murderer? Canterbury was a big city.

Courtenay gesticulated over the Prioress. “She is to be removed and readied for burial. I believe she had a chaplain with her.”

“Her young companion may not be in a fit state,” said Crispin tightly. “She was taken back to the inn. Surely the whole of the inn knows the nature of these circumstances by now.”

“Then it is your task, Master Guest, to see that these tidings do not get further than that inn. You have my full authority in this. See to it.”

The archbishop turned on his heel. The monks stood around the Prioress, loath to touch her.

Crispin stared at the retreating figure of the archbishop. He cast a glance at the sword and with a deep sigh, turned away from Saint Benet’s chapel and said over his shoulder, “I will get you help, Brothers. Leave her for now. Touch nothing.”

He suspected the Prioress would not wish for these brothers to handle her remains. He could seek help from the female servants at the inn. Or perhaps Mistress Alyson. No doubt she would have the stomach for tending to Madam Eglantine and preparing her for burial.

He asked the monk for a cloth to cover the sword. When the man returned, Crispin wrapped the bloody blade in the tattered linen, winding it around several times.

Halfway through the dismal march back to the inn, he met Jack running up the dark and silent road.

“Master! God be praised! Brother Wilfrid said only that the Prioress was murdered. He did not say how you fared.” His obvious relief at Crispin’s fate played out in nervous fussing over his person.

Crispin slapped his hands away. “I am as well as can be expected for a man who has miserably failed at his task. The damned relics were stolen.”

“Oh!” Jack pressed his hands to his face. “You don’t mean it! Not the blessed martyr!”

“I do mean it. Now we must remain in Canterbury for however long it takes to recover them. But I tell you true, Jack. I will not rest until I see that whoreson of a murderer hanged.”

“Why’d they do such a terrible thing as to kill the Lady Prioress?”

“I don’t know, Jack. It doesn’t make sense to me.”

Jack shook his head in disbelief. He searched the dark street as if expecting the imminent appearance of devils swooping down upon them. “Are you going to call the hue and cry?”

Crispin clenched his jaw, but the soreness stopped him. “No. The archbishop strictly forbade that. And in fact-” He scanned the quiet street. The houses were dark except for the occasional yellow lines of candlelight etched in the cracks of shutters. “How much was told to those at the inn?”

“When the monk came with the chaplain, all he could blubber was that the Prioress was killed most foully and to beg help for the poor pretty nun.”

He eyed Jack. Poor pretty nun, eh? “Did anyone leave the inn?”

“No, sir. Not that I could tell. Mistress de Guernsey went up to attend Dame Marguerite. The rest have been sitting in the hall drinking and talking.” Jack gestured to the package in Crispin’s hand. “What’s that?”

“This? The murder weapon.” He thrust it into Jack’s hands before the boy could protest. They now stood before the inn door and Crispin pushed it open. The pilgrims had indeed assembled as a quiet crowd. They stood when they saw him enter. Without asking, he was given a beaker of wine, and he sat before the fire, surrounded by the anxious pilgrims. He took a quick inventory. Besides Mistress de Guernsey, one other was missing.

Harry Bailey sat beside him and shook his head. “Can you tell us the tidings, Friend Crispin? What we heard cannot be wholly believed.”

“Believe it.” He drank then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His jaw and his head hurt. Vaguely he wondered if a day was allowed to pass without some part of him in pain. “The Lady Prioress was murdered in the church. At the same spot as Saint Thomas the Martyr.”

The assembly burst into troubled conversation. “It’s an outrage,” cried the portly tradesman. “I have never heard of such a thing. Who could have done it?”

Crispin lowered the bowl from his lips. “I intend to find out.”

The young, pale merchant shook his head. “I cannot recall a time I heard of such a horrific case. By my life, but the last time such a thing occurred must be when the blessed martyr himself was murdered.”

“One of our own,” muttered the tradesman. He eased down to the bench beside Crispin and slid his hand to Crispin’s shoulder. “I was the last one to talk to her. She and Dame Marguerite were leaving for the church. I bid them good prayers. She touched my hand.” He lowered that hand from Crispin’s shoulder and looked at it. “She said to me, ‘Much thanks, Good Miller. Bless you, sir.’ Just that. And then she went. We all traveled for two days together. All of us.” He rubbed his hand absently with the other calloused one. “Whatever you need, sir, I am your man. This cannot be allowed. Not in England.”

“I thank you, Master,” said Crispin wearily. His blood had been hot in pursuit of the killer, but now he felt near to collapse. Cold.

A thump at the stairs made him turn his head. Alyson descended, looking back over her shoulder at the closed room she had just quitted. She ticked her head.

He stood and parted the company to go to her. “How is she? Can she speak?”

“No, alas. She has uttered nothing and does not look as if she will be able to for quite some time.”

“She is the only witness,” he rasped.

“There is nothing to be done,” she said quietly. She turned to the others gathered about them. “Bless me. Such tragedy to befall so temperate a company.”

“The tragedy is great,” said Crispin. “Before I relate the whole of it,” he said to the assembly, “pray tell me … where is Master Chaucer?”

They looked around helplessly.

Sir Philip Bonefey shrugged. “I have not seen him since supper.”

“Were all here for supper?” asked Crispin. An emptiness inside him reminded that he had missed supper, too.

“All but the nuns,” said the merchant. “Bless their souls,” he added, crossing himself. Everyone followed suit.

“Nor were Master Maufesour and Master Chaunticleer,” said Father Gelfridus with a little too much malice.

Chaunticleer the Pardoner squinted his pale eyes at the priest. “We are here now,” he said.