Jeri Westerson - Troubled Bones

“What tale should I be telling you?” Silence. Crispin looked sidelong at his friend, who seemed to be deciding what to ask.

Shopkeepers were just opening their doors, sweeping away the dew. Young apprentices and servants brought forth the wares and set them on tables. “Tell me a tale of long ago, Cris. Eight years ago, to be precise.”

Crispin watched Tucker’s back as the boy made his way toward the cathedral, legs working, arms swinging. “I know that you sometimes serve as the king’s spy. Don’t you know all my tales already?”

A sly smile curled the poet’s mustache. “By the saints! How did you ever discover that?”

Crispin snorted. “I’m the Tracker. Remember?”

“Well.” Chaucer looked behind him. Crispin followed suit. No one of any consequence there on Mercy Lane but the usual merchants and shoppers, from lowly to upper class. “When I do spy for the king,” said Geoffrey quietly, “it is hardly ever on these shores. Only abroad.”

“Indeed.” Crispin kept his eye on Jack far ahead. He offered an enigmatic smile. “You’ve already told me you are aware of the plot that felled me. The plot devised to depose King Richard and put Lancaster on the throne.”

“Yes,” Chaucer said steadily, quietly.

“Then what is your question?”

The poet kept his voice unnaturally low. “Since you were accused of high treason, if you were truly guilty, why did Richard let you live?”

“Oh, I was guilty.”

Chaucer stopped and grabbed Crispin’s arm, pulling him into the shadow of an overhanging eave. All trace of amusement left his face. “I do not understand.”

“I was guilty, but there was no plot. The plot was a sham to catch the enemies of the throne. I was only one of many fish caught in the net. Lancaster begged the king for my life and the king granted it. With … provisions.”

“That your barony, lands, and knighthood be stripped from you.”

He looked at Geoffrey’s solemn expression. “Were I a Franciscan I would have been utterly ecstatic.”

“What did you do?”

“I took to the streets. And then I starved.” He nodded to himself, remembering. “I became good at that. You see, I couldn’t quite believe my predicament at first. It wasn’t until I was on my last legs that I begged food at the alms doors of many of London’s churches.”

Chaucer kicked at a stone and they both watched it bounce along the avenue. “Why did you not take to the highways and become an outlaw? You would not have starved.”

“Some men are made for that. Not me. I preferred to earn my keep honestly. And I did so. My first job was as a gong farmer.” Chaucer grimaced in sympathy. Crispin said it with relish, almost enjoying the slap of the pronouncement. “Mucking a privy isn’t so bad. It’s mucking hundreds that makes it unbearable.”

Chaucer checked behind him again. “But what of your other skills? Could you not have gained employment as a scribe?”

“I did. Eventually. And an accounting clerk. But I did so for merchants. Court was closed to me.”

“Then how did you fall into … into…”

“My present occupation? It began as a simple challenge and then evolved. And now it is my sole means of employment. It does not pay well, but I find it intellectually stimulating. And I am my own man.” He glanced up at the cathedral. “Most of the time.”

Chaucer smiled and stroked his beard. “This is a finer tale than I could ever weave even from my fertile imagination.”

“Just keep me out of your writings.” He stopped and looked up at the church ahead. “I have my work to do. Have I satisfied your curiosity?”

“Satisfied? You’ve only piqued it.” He grinned, his old self again. “May I go with you? I’ve never watched a murder inquiry before.”

Crispin shut his eyes. He didn’t see how he could divert Chaucer. Besides, a small part of him wanted his old friend in his company.

They walked in silence up the long pathway to the cathedral where Jack stood at the foot of the stair to the archbishop’s lodge and waited for them.

Behind the quiet Jack Tucker, Chaucer followed at his heels, an annoying smile on his face. They were led to Courtenay’s apartments and when Courtenay saw all of them, his face darkened.

“Master Guest,” he said. The tone in his voice asked many questions. Crispin tried to answer some of them.

“Master Geoffrey Chaucer, my lord,” he said by way of introduction.

Chaucer bowed, stepped forward, and kissed the ring on Courtenay’s hand. “Your Excellency.”

Courtenay’s hand hung limply for a moment as if the archbishop were wondering what to do with such an honor. Courtenay’s heavy red cloak hung about his shoulders, making his larger-than-life figure that much larger. He angled his shoulder, dismissing the presence of Chaucer. “Have you anything to report to me, Master Guest?”

“Yes, Excellency.”

Chaucer looked amused. It irked.

Crispin reached into the pouch at his belt and drew out the bone. “I have recovered only a small portion of Saint Thomas.” He dropped the bone into Courtenay’s open hand just as Chaucer gasped. “I found this by the tomb,” Crispin went on. “Obviously left by hasty thieves.”

“God blind me!” whispered Jack before he slapped his hand to his mouth.

Courtenay did not move but stared into his palm. A fire crackled in the hearth, but no other noise disturbed the archbishop’s reverie. He muttered something. A prayer? A curse? Finally the archbishop closed his hand into a fist, capturing the bone. “I thank you for this at least, Master Guest.”

Crispin bowed. “Your Excellency.” He wondered whether to bring up the red scrap of cloth, his only real clue besides the sword. He couldn’t be certain, of course, if the cloth had been left behind earlier and thus had no relation to the murder and theft, but it was all he had. He reached into his pouch and his fingers eased over one leftover rosary bead before they closed on the scrap. He lifted it just as Courtenay turned, his cloak sweeping across the wooden floor. And there, near the hem, a jagged tear.

Crispin paused and withdrew an empty hand from his pouch. “Excellency, your cloak appears to be torn.”

Courtenay looked down. He dismissed it with a careless brush of his hand. “I am always getting it caught in doorways. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.” He sat and curled one hand around the chair’s arm. The other holding the bone remained tightly closed. His eyes flicked to Jack and Chaucer. “Have you come to any conclusions about the horrific murder of the Prioress?”

“No.” Crispin edged toward the fire and stared into it. His mind ran ahead, working independently of his mouth. “Only that if the Lollards are behind the murder and theft, their peaceful methods have changed.” He looked at Jack clutching the wrapped sword. Tucker’s face turned toward the window and the burgeoning sunlight. “You did not by any chance personally know the Prioress, my lord, did you?”

The archbishop blinked slowly. “As it happens, I was acquainted with Madam Eglantine.”

“Indeed. And may I know the nature of this acquaintance?”

Courtenay’s eyes were a remarkable shade of blue and they fixed on Crispin like gems. He’d seen the like before on necklaces and crowns, but those gems had no more animation than did the archbishop’s suddenly cold glare. “A year ago,” he said stiffly. “I presided over a judgment. The priory’s lands encroached on the land of a Franklin.”

“And that was when you met her?”

Courtenay said nothing. His hand tightened on the chair arm.

“Did you exchange words with her, my lord? Then, or more recently?”