Jeri Westerson - Troubled Bones

Maufesour, Chaunticleer’s stout companion, stroked his greasy beard. “What has that to do with aught?” he snapped. “We have our own business in town. It is not all saints’ relics for us.”

“Indeed, not,” said Bonefey. “It is your stealing the souls from poor folk who fear the Church’s wrath, foul Summoner,” he said, turning a beady eye on Maufesour, “and the galling fees to be paid to the Pardoner to get them out of Purgatory. You two should always travel together, like Disease and Death, the two partners of Fate.”

Maufesour pushed aside the Pardoner and strode up to the Franklin. “You’d best watch your tongue, Bonefey,” he shouted. “Or you might find yourself slain and not in a fine church, but a back alley as you deserve.” Maufesour’s tirade left spittle dotting the Franklin’s beard.

Bailey and the Miller grabbed Bonefey before he could draw his sword. They wrestled him to a bench. Maufesour huffed and strutted, smoothing out the breast of his gown. Crispin was behind him in an instant and pulled the man’s dagger from its sheath before the Summoner knew it happened. He whirled, but without a weapon there was little he could do but glare.

“Have a care,” said Crispin in a low voice. “Too much blood has already been spilt this night.”

Maufesour calmed, even as he looked at Bonefey, still chomping at the bit. “Very well,” he said. “I will if he will.”

Crispin turned to Bonefey. “Sir Philip, his threats are groundless, as you might have surmised were you to keep your blood cool. Do you acquiesce?”

Bonefey glanced up at the hearty Miller and the equally solid Harry Bailey flanking him and nodded. “I do.”

They released him, and he straightened his houppelande. Crispin approached Maufesour while examining the dagger. The blade was hatched with deep scratches and grooves radiating upward from the point. “Your blade, Master Maufesour, is in poor shape. It looks to me as if you recently tried to pry something open with it.”

Maufesour snatched it back and promptly sheathed it. “Those are old scratches.”

“Indeed not. The scratches go all the way to the edge of the blade. Were they old the whetstone would have erased them from the edges by now.”

Maufesour frowned and glared at the others. “And what if I had? It is of no business of yours.”

“We’ll see about that.” Crispin made a slow circuit of the room, studying the faces glaring back at him. “A heinous murder has been committed.” He wondered whether to continue but decided he’d like to see the reaction. “And further … there has been a theft in the cathedral.”

Gasps erupted. The pilgrims muttered to one another, and invariably, most eyes turned toward the Pardoner and the Summoner. It was not lost on the two. “This is unconscionable!” cried Chaunticleer. “It is plain they mean to accuse us. We are entirely innocent.”

“Not entirely, surely,” said Crispin.

Maufesour lunged forward, hands clenched. “This is an outrage!”

“No one is accusing you,” said Crispin mildly before baring his teeth. “Not yet.”

They stepped back and all eyes focused on Crispin. Jack stood guard by the door. He wore an anxious look and clutched the wrapped sword to his chest. Would any of them bolt? Crispin had little reason to suspect the pilgrims of these crimes, though they all seemed to be acting guilty enough. He slid a glance again toward Maufesour and Chaunticleer. Those two certainly seemed in league with each other. What a coup if they managed to snag one of the greatest relics of all. A pretty price it would bring from some lord. He wouldn’t mind seeing them hang for it.

“It’s my duty to inform you,” said Crispin to the assembly, “that no one is allowed to leave Canterbury.”

“What? That is quite impossible.” It was Father Gelfridus who spoke first, but Bonefey was on his tail.

“You cannot mean to keep us prisoner here,” said Bonefey.

“I do not call it ‘prisoner,’ Sir Philip,” said Crispin. “I simply state that you may not leave the city. Further, I advise that you stay close to the inn. I should not like to go searching for you. And lastly … you are not to mention the murder or the theft. At all.”

“By what authority do you dare this?” cried Bonefey.

Crispin sneered. He pushed Bonefey back until his legs hit a bench, and he sat hard. “I’m not telling you all twice. The archbishop so charged me. I don’t like it any better than you do. But if stay we must, then it is to your benefit to assist me in any way you can. The sooner these crimes are resolved the sooner you can leave.”

They fell silent, each looking at one another.

“Mistress Alyson,” said Crispin. She raised her head. “A word with you.”

She stepped from the crowd and came to him. He moved with her into a corner. She tilted her head back and rested her hand at her hip. “Bless me,” she said. “I’ve never been accused of murder and mayhem before. I assure you, I am just as appalled as the rest. More so, after tending to that poor, sweet nun.”

His jaw ached. “I have not called you aside to accuse you. There is another matter for which I think you are suited. I believe I read you well, madam, in assuming a little blood will not frighten you.”

She nodded solemnly. “You may assume I have a hearty constitution. Do you speak of the Prioress herself?”

He was grateful for her candor. “Yes. The monks are not suited to deal with a woman. The archbishop insists on an expeditious burial. Can I prevail upon you to … to prepare the Prioress?”

She nodded gravely. “I would be honored, sir.”

“Shall I call upon the assistance of the maids here?”

“They are a hardworking lot, but I do not think it prudent to involve them. I can manage without help, I think. I shall go to the cathedral with you.”

He nodded. “It is best it be handled there. The archbishop would prefer it.”

“Let me get my cloak.”

He turned to Tucker. “Keep watch. Harry Bailey can be relied upon to keep our charges here tonight. But I want you to inform me when Chaucer returns.”

Cloaked with her hood raised, Alyson awaited Crispin by the door. In the still of the night, they walked toward the looming cathedral.

Crispin and Alyson arrived at the cathedral’s doors where two monks stood at the entrance, their faces shadowed by cowls. Crispin nodded and they let him pass.

He and Alyson walked up the long north aisle to the Saint Benet chapel and turned the corner. Two monks bent to pick up the body. Crispin felt Alyson stiffen with a gasp, and he placed his hand on her arm. She looked up at him and nodded. “I am well.”

“Wait,” said Crispin. The monks holding the Prioress’s shoulders stopped and stared at him. Crispin inspected the scene, trying to etch it into his mind one last time. Many footprints had smeared the spattered blood, but he could still see the initial puddle under the Prioress. A rag and a bucket would soon clear all traces of a life snuffed out.

Someone had thought to bring a bier. “Good Brothers,” said Crispin, “can we take her to the infirmary?”

“We must go to the cellar,” said one of the hooded men. He eyed Alyson. “The fastest way is through the cloister, but-”

“The archbishop has given me the authority to go where I please, Brother,” said Crispin. “As for Mistress de Guernsey, she is my agent and must accompany me. I know it is usually not permitted for laymen, especially women, to enter the cloister, but in this instance we may all go with impunity.”

They seemed less than satisfied with Crispin’s pronouncement but could not argue with him. They lifted the Prioress’s sheet-clad form, and carried her out the cloister door and down the dark walk.