Jeri Westerson - Troubled Bones

Courtenay’s countenance grew stonier. His mouth curved into a frown.

Chaucer moved hastily in front of Crispin. “I must apologize for my friend,” he said jovially, looking back over his shoulder. “So long from court, he is unused to civilized conversation. Come to think of it, even at court he never proved himself all that well versed in polite discourse.”

What the hell was Geoffrey doing? Crispin had the urge to throw him aside, but he knew the man well enough to recognize the cautionary note in Chaucer’s voice.

“And you are master of polite conversation, are you, Sir Geoffrey?” said Courtenay. “I remember you, too, good sir. Poet to the king. Lapdog of Lancaster.”

Chaucer drew his cloak about him and shivered melodramatically. “Fie! It’s chilly here of a sudden. The mere mention of Lancaster has blown an ill wind through the hall. Pray, your Excellency, why so cold when the discussion turns to talk of my master? He is the king’s uncle, his most trusted counselor, a patron of the arts-”

“You neglected to mention advocate of the Church, Master Chaucer. With good reason. For he is not. I have little trust for his grace’s intentions. Or that of his servants.”

“Oh dear.” Chaucer released his cloak with a flourish. “Is it because my master supported John Wycliffe-”

“The heretical Lollard,” Courtenay injected.

Chaucer raised his hands in a shrug. “I am not a theologian, Excellency. Only a poet. Everything is grist for my mill. Heretics, kings … clerics.”

“Much like a jester does, eh Master Chaucer?”

Geoffrey smiled and bowed in such a way that Crispin could well imagine him in motley. “As you will, Excellency.”

Crispin sidestepped Chaucer and motioned for Jack to come forward. He took the sword from the boy’s hands and unwrapped the pommel. “My lord, have you seen these arms before?”

Courtenay leaned forward. “Is that the weapon that committed this most foul deed?”

“Yes, my lord.”

His spine seemed to conform to the straight back of his chair and his voice fell to a deadly tone. “And you bring it here?”

“My lord, the arms-”

“Have you no delicacy at all, Master Guest? Faith! I should have known better than to go to London’s streets for help and contented myself with the king’s sheriff. Look what has happened under your watch, Guest. A horrible murder. A great theft; a theft you were supposed to prevent!” He snapped from the chair. “This is outrageous. Take your foul weapon from my chamber and never bring it again!”

Trembling, Crispin wrapped the bundle and tossed it across the room to Tucker. The boy barely caught it. “Do you free me from my obligation, then?” Crispin asked tightly.

“Free you? Out of the question. I want you to find those bones!” He thrust his hand forward and displayed the tiny finger bone lying on his reddened palm. “Do you think this will satisfy? I want Becket back! All of him. And I want that murderer to hang. Consider Canterbury your new home.”

“Then I will need the keys to the church.”

The archbishop’s face reddened with new outrage. “What?”

“I want the keys. I must have free rein to explore the cathedral grounds. Has a locksmith been called to change the locks as I instructed? I spoke of this to Dom Thomas Chillenden yestereve.”

“I do not know. You will have to discuss it with him. Go to the church and I will have him sent to you. And Master Guest.” He grasped the edge of his cloak. “Have you made any progress on the … other matter?”

Crispin racked his brain and then remembered. The archbishop was certain one of his monks was a Lollard. This was still within the realm of possibility and it would have to be dealt with soon, but the murder quite drove it out of Crispin’s mind. “No, Excellency. But you can be assured-”

“So far, Master Guest, you have assured me of very little.”

“Excellency, ‘It is possible to fail in many ways, while to succeed is possible only in one way.’”

“Then in future, Master Guest, see that your successes exceed your failures. We’ve had quite enough of those.” He raised a shaky hand and signed a hasty benediction over them, though Crispin thought the man would rather be waving a sword.

Crispin bowed low, mostly to shield from view the angry trembling of his hands. He spun on his heel and took long, swift strides to the exit. Not waiting for Chaucer or Jack, Crispin took the stairs two at a time and made his way into the church.

Hard steps conveyed Crispin almost all the way up the north aisle before Jack, out of breath, caught up to him. He held the sword over his shoulder like a shepherds crook. “Master. Please. Master Chaucer is coming, too-”

“Well, where is he, then?” he growled.

“Here!” said Chaucer. He trotted forward and stopped next to Jack. He, too, was short of breath. “Good Christ, Guest. Is that how you conduct an inquiry? It’s a wonder you do not get yourself arrested. Or excommunicated.”

“Aren’t you bored yet, Geoffrey?” he snarled.

Chaucer postured. “Is the mummery over?”

Crispin mumbled a curse and glanced at Saint Benet’s chapel. All trace of the Prioress’s blood had been washed away. No one would ever know that two murders had been committed on the same spot divided by the span of two hundred years. A pang of guilt warmed his chest, but he pressed on before he decided he didn’t know where he was going. He’d have to wait for Dom Thomas to arrive and there was little he could do but wander through the nave, looking like a lost pilgrim.

“Crispin.” Chaucer was suddenly at his side. “What have Lollards to do with the bones of Saint Thomas?”

“Leave it, Geoffrey,” he snapped.

Masons were perched on the scaffolding again. Their interminable hammering echoed throughout the church and stone dust showered in rhythm to their strokes. “Oi!” cried one mason to another on a far scaffold. “Have you spoken to the treasurer, Master?”

The stout man on the far scaffold lowered his hammer and moved to the edge of the platform. “I’m waiting for him,” he said, gesturing with his chisel. “It’s time for another talk.”

The man-a journeyman, most likely-nodded knowingly and went back to his business.

Crispin watched them at their tasks for a span, watched the artists paint the stone, and then pounded a fist impatiently into his palm, pacing. He hated waiting.

Chaucer and Jack stood nearby. Jack hugged the sword, trying not to look at Chaucer. Geoffrey leaned against a pillar but Crispin felt their eyes on him and scowled deeper. Stare, then, if you must. He hadn’t actually accused the archbishop, though he’d seen enough guilty noblemen to know that crimes were committed by the lowest to the highest member of society. Not that he could possibly accuse Courtenay. And if the young nun did see him commit the crime, was she truly at liberty to say so? Her archbishop? It might as well be the pope. It could be that the scrap in his pouch was from the archbishop’s cloak, and it also could be that it was an entirely innocent accident. But in this business, accidents were seldom innocent and coincidences almost unheard of. It would certainly be impossible for him to get the archbishop’s cloak and test it.

He glanced at his young thief, Jack, with a smirk. Well, almost impossible.

A figure hurried through the church from the south aisle but slowed when spotting Chaucer and Tucker. Chaucer smiled and bowed to the man and Tucker belatedly bent his head.

“Master Guest,” said Dom Thomas, his face skewed as if he smelled something unpleasant. “The locksmiths are here. It will take the better part of the day for them to change the locks.”