Jeri Westerson - Troubled Bones

“Fine. I will collect my key when they are done.”

“Your key?”

“And I will need an old key now. I need to examine the environs.”

Dom Thomas’s jowled face paled. “I do not know that I can give you any keys-”

“Come, come, man. The archbishop already gave me permission. You’re wasting his time now, not mine.” He held out his hand, wiggling his fingers.

The monk stared at Crispin’s outstretched hand for a long moment. He reached for the key ring on his cincture and pulled a long silver key from its brothers on the ring. “I give you the means to all places public and private, Master Guest. Have a care with it.”

He took it solemnly and placed it in his money pouch. “You can trust me, Dom. I am fully aware of my responsibility.”

Chillenden glared from one face to another before looking back over his shoulder toward the shrine with its long line of pilgrims. “The archbishop has given me no instructions as concerns the shrine. I do not know if I am permitted to allow the pilgrims to come forth. I understand that the news that the bones were taken was not made public.”

“Indeed not. Then I suppose you may permit pilgrims to enter.”

“But … there will be nothing there to pray to.”

“Alas, Brother. Yet if the pilgrims are ignorant of that, do you truly think God will mind?”

“But the fees?”

Crispin’s scowl darkened. “Perhaps the fees can be waived.”

“Waive the fees?”

Bless me, but I think I might be siding with these Lollards. “Do what you will, Dom. It is not my affair.” He brushed past the monk and up the aisle before slowing to a stop. “Isn’t the church to be closed?” Dom Thomas stood mutely. He fumbled with his keys. Crispin swiveled toward him. “Well?”

“I have had no instructions on this,” said the monk carefully.

Crispin drew back as if slapped. “Not close the church! But surely it needs to be reconsecrated after a murder-”

Dom Thomas clenched his hands and thrust them into his scapular. “There has been no instructions from the archbishop. I suggest you keep out of it, Master Guest.”

He stared hard at the monk whose apparent frustration colored his face in blotchy red. “I see. This murder is then to be kept very secret.” He tried to inhale a cleansing breath but instead took in stale incense and dust. “Brother Wilfrid needed to speak to me,” he said. “Send him to the Chapel of Saint Thomas.”

Chillenden did not acknowledge this when he spun on his heel, but his progress was halted by the mason yelling down to him. “Oi! Brother monk! Wait a bit.” The large muscled man grabbed a rope and descended the side of the scaffold. It shook with his weight and dusted the floor with particles of stone.

“I ask again, Good Brother, when I and my men may receive their payment. You are overdue.”

The monk glanced hastily at Crispin and set his chin high. “The archbishop must approve all payments from the treasury, Master, and I am sorry to say, he has not yet done so.”

“We have been delayed too long, Brother. If you do not wish to pay-”

“Payment will come to you anon. I suggest you and your men practice patience.”

“We may practice more than that. On the morrow, we may find it difficult indeed to locate the church.”

“Do you threaten me? I can get any number of masons here to do this work.”

“They’d have to traffic with the guild … and get past us to do it,” he said, laying his considerable hammer over his shoulder.

Dom Thomas pressed his lips tightly together and gave one more look toward Crispin. “I’ll see what I can do,” he muttered and hurried away.

The mason watched the monk leave and offered Crispin a curt bow and a smirk before he hoisted himself up the scaffold again.

Over his shoulder, Crispin watched the man climb while his feet took him to the shrine to await Wilfrid. Though he made no motion to Jack or Chaucer, they followed him anyway, silent as shadows, to Saint Thomas’s chapel. Thousands of pairs of feet had passed this same way for two hundred years, hollowing each worn step, all to venerate a saint, an archbishop of Canterbury.

“You’ll find those bones, won’t you, Master?” said Jack at Crispin’s elbow.

He nodded. “I want them back almost as badly as the archbishop does.” He glanced at Geoffrey who remained mercifully silent. “Saint Thomas was martyred because he would not allow crimes against the clergy to be tried in any other than an ecclesiastical court. To King Henry’s mind, this meant treason.” Jack nodded. This much he knew. Treason, thought Crispin . How easy it is to commit. How hard to endure the consequences.

“‘Will no one free me of this troublesome priest?’ was King Henry’s cry,” Crispin went on. “And four barons took their king at his word.”

“And then the king humbled himself at the martyr’s tomb,” said Jack. “A humbled king. I would like to have seen that.”

“As would I.” He walked up to the shrine. “Such grandeur. Yet with all its gold, jewels, and magnificence of the craftsmen’s art, the tomb lies empty.”

“What will they do now, Master Crispin?” Jack’s voice was quiet.

“Do?”

“What if … what if you never find them bones?”

He squared his jaw. “I will find them.”

He heard Chaucer’s step along the chapel’s perimeter. “But they are only the bones of a man, after all,” Geoffrey said, his voice echoing hollowly.

“A holy man, sir,” corrected Jack. “A holy saint.”

“A stubborn archbishop who would not accede to the demands of his king.”

Crispin slowly pivoted. “Do you suggest a bishop of the Church should accede to the wishes of his king over the pope?”

“The king is his sovereign lord.”

“And the pope?”

“A foreign prince.”

“Why Geoffrey. You sound like a Lollard.”

The poet made a half smile. “Perhaps I am more parrot than Lollard. I repeat what I hear my master say.”

“Say it too often and you may be summoned by the Church to repeat it. I do not know you can plead that your master says and thus so say you. Torture is not pleasant.”

Geoffrey’s smile faded and he looked at Crispin with a renewal of something he had not wished to elicit: pity.

Crispin turned away and stared up at the many miracle windows instead. The light shone through them and their glorious colors glowed brightly. He stood thus for a long time until he heard, amid the hammers and shouts of masons and artists, the hurried steps of an approaching monk.

Brother Wilfrid, his shiny-tonsured head bobbing over his rumpled cowl, trotted forward, lifting the hem of his cassock to trundle up the stairs. His face opened when he saw Crispin. It wasn’t exactly relief, but something akin to it. “Master Crispin! Praise God. I must tell you-”

Geoffrey stepped out of the shadows and Wilfrid turned at the sound. His eyes rounded and he took a step back. When his eyes turned back to Crispin there was a veil of fear over them. “I thought we were alone,” he said breathlessly.

Crispin looked toward Chaucer. “I think the mummery is over.” He did not mean to have such a sneer of finality to his voice, but this time Geoffrey was visibly taken aback. He flicked his gaze toward the monk and then to Crispin. He merely bowed and turned away. His heavy steps echoed and he soon disappeared down the stairs.

Wilfrid didn’t seem satisfied and trotted to the top of the stair to see where he’d gone. He waited, listening, until there was no more sign of Chaucer. The monk looked at Jack but he seemed unruffled by the boy’s presence. Wilfrid, his back to Crispin, gave a great sigh. At last, he returned and gathered his hands under his scapular. His face was pale and tight. “I could not talk in front of him. You see, I saw him here last night.”