Jeri Westerson - Troubled Bones

Crispin watched the exchange with concern. “Come along, Jack. We must see the archbishop. Go up to our room and get the … the object.”

Jack glared at him. It was a new face for Tucker. The boy seemed to be blossoming into a man before his eyes, but at a most inopportune moment with an equally inopportune object of affection.

“Jack,” he repeated gently.

Tucker snapped out of his mood and his eyes were shaded with embarrassment. He took a moment to gather himself and loped up the stairs, returning only a moment later with the wrapped sword. He scampered ahead of Crispin to open the door for him but the way was blocked.

“Good morrow, Cris,” said Chaucer, standing in the doorway. He was as loud as usual but his voice struck Crispin as a little overenthusiastic for the hour.

He narrowed his eyes at Chaucer’s ankle-length red gown. “Geoffrey. Where have you been? I wanted to talk to you.” He took the poet by the arm in a firm grip and steered him back outside.

Standing on the stone threshold, Chaucer shook him off. “What do you think you are doing?”

“I said I want to talk to you.”

“That’s a rather accusatory tone, Cris.” He straightened his houppelande. His thin brows lowered over his eyes. “What vexes you?”

“Have you not heard?”

“By God’s toes, heard what?”

“Last night. The Prioress was murdered.”

Chaucer recoiled. “Madam Eglantine? Are you jesting?”

“No jest. Last night. In Saint Benet’s chapel.”

“God’s wounds!”

Crispin strode quickly up the avenue. Chaucer did his best to keep up. “And more. Becket’s bones were stolen.” Chaucer stopped. Crispin turned to face him. “And so I ask again. Where were you?”

Chaucer stared for several heartbeats before an uncertain smile slackened his taut face. “By Christ! You’re not accusing me ? Say you are not.”

“No. But I need to know-”

“Are you sheriff now? Or coroner?”

“Neither. I am commissioned by the archbishop-”

“Oh, I see! It all falls into place.” He laughed without mirth. “The Tracker! You feel the need to ‘track.’ And you have tracked … me ?”

Crispin crooked his eye at the very public street. “Don’t be a damned fool!” He took Chaucer’s arm again and pulled but the man refused to budge.

“I’m not one of your chessmen, Guest. You think you can manipulate me?” He ran a finger around the collar of his houppelande. “I don’t need you to make a mockery of me. I can do the job quite adequately on my own.”

“You are damnable, Geoffrey!”

“Yes, I know.” He glared a moment more before he offered a brief smile. “I was in town. On business.”

“All night?”

“Yes, all night.”

“I thought you were here for the pilgrimage.”

“Among other things.”

If Chaucer wished to keep silent on a subject, Crispin was no match to drag it out of him. He gave a conciliatory nod and Geoffrey’s face drew on a flat expression, though he also had that sharp look in his eye that Crispin remembered from long ago, a look that proved he meant to get something out of Crispin.

Chaucer suddenly whirled on Jack, who had run to catch up, the linen-shrouded bundle tight in his arms again. Jack dug his heels in the road. “I’m sure Young Jack here can go on ahead to whatever mischief you had in mind.”

Jack eyed Chaucer and then looked to Crispin for confirmation. “I’ll … go on ahead, shall I?”

Crispin nodded and Jack bowed to both before skirting his way around them and trotting toward the cathedral gate.

When they were alone, Chaucer turned to his friend. “He’s a fine lad, is your Jack. He reminds me a little of you at that age.”

“I was never that age.”

Chaucer frowned. “This is damnable business, Cris. How was she killed?”

“By the sword.”

“God’s blood and bones!” Geoffrey muttered. “Who did it?”

“I do not know. Yet.”

Chaucer fell silent. Only the noise of their feet sucking in the muddy avenue accompanied the morning sounds of commerce. “Then … this is truly what you do now? Inquire about crimes?” Chaucer’s voice sounded hollow and surprised.

“What did you expect?”

Chaucer shook his head. “I don’t know. I suppose … I just thought being this Tracker … I thought it might be a metaphor.”

He snorted. “Metaphor. Only you would think such.”

They walked several more silent paces until Geoffrey took a deep, sighing breath. “I also thought you would clap me in your arms like an old friend, Cris. And yet you continue cold as ice.”

He felt the hot blood creep up his neck. “You know why,” he said huskily.

“Afraid treason would rub off on me?”

The silent shopfronts and the gold-tinged street gave no respite to the look on Geoffrey’s face. “ You knew I was still in London. Yet not one word from you.”

“True. Contact with you was, shall we say, discouraged. Especially by my wife. I think she did fear treason was somehow transferable.”

“For my part, I took the king’s words as Gospel. He said that those who gave me succor would suffer my same fate. I felt it best I have no contact with former friends.” He stopped and threw his head back, staring up at the misty morning sky. “Dammit, Geoffrey. I wanted no harm to come to you.”

“And no harm has.”

“You are still Lancaster’s man.”

“Yes. And you?”

Crispin furrowed his brow, toed the mud. “Not as much these days.”

“Oh? Is the well poisoned?”

“It’s just that … his grace and I … Lancaster … he … he…”

“Good Christ. If you’d rather not say-”

Crispin unclenched his hands and nodded stiffly. “I’d rather not.”

“So that subject is closed. But what of us? Too many nights we spent drinking together.” They both smiled and then quiet fell between them. The smell of mud and horse dung grew stronger in the rising light. A long time passed before Chaucer whispered, “I’m glad you’re alive and free. Those were the best tidings … and most unexpected, under the circumstances.”

“Yes,” he muttered. “I am alive.”

Chaucer toyed with the buttons on his gown. “So. Tracker, they call you. Tell me about this unusual title. Not a metaphor.”

He shrugged. “I find things. Documents. Jewelry. Even murderers on occasion.”

“That sounds like the sheriff’s job.”

“Have you met the sheriffs of London?”

His friend chuckled. “Indeed.”

“These are the tasks my clients would rather not trouble the sheriffs with, if you understand my meaning. Consider me a private sheriff, if you will.”

Geoffrey leaned into Crispin’s shoulder. “This murder was unexpected, but you said you came here on assignment for the archbishop of Canterbury. Are you in his permanent employ, then?”

“No. The assignment is temporary. And that’s how I would have it.”

“You always were your own man. You didn’t like following orders.”

“Do you?”

“I’ve grown accustomed to it.”

“That’s not the Geoff Chaucer I knew.”

“The Geoff Chaucer you knew is eight years older, with a wife and children.”

Crispin lowered his eyes. “How fares your good wife?”

“Well. And the children. We are happy in London.” A pause. “And … where in London do you reside these days?”

Crispin was used to saying it, but it somehow stung today voicing it. “I live on the Shambles above a tinker’s shop.”

His friend fell silent. Geoffrey’s hand slid toward his money pouch. It rested there a long time before he allowed his hand to fall away. “Can you … will you tell me your tale?”