Jeri Westerson - Troubled Bones

“Spoken like a Lollard.”

“And what if I am? I follow the dictates of my liege lord who is also a Lollard.”

“Lancaster.” He scowled.

“For a man whose life was purportedly saved by him, your opinion of Lancaster seems unnaturally low.”

He bared his teeth. “Saved my life. And would that life have needed saving if he had not schemed and plotted?”

“I don’t understand you. He raised you. He knighted you. He made you-”

“What I am today? Indeed, yes.” Chaucer, in all his finery, stood with his fist at his waist, a courtly posture. It annoyed Crispin. “Our liege lord, the man to whom we both swore oaths of allegiance, the man for whom I would have gladly laid down my life … this man betrayed me! I was used. To discover his enemies he engineered the treasonous plot. And I, the loyal servant that I was, fell into the web.”

Chaucer’s face blanched. “No! It is a lie!”

“I heard it from his own lips.”

Geoffrey paced in stunned silence. He looked once at Jack huddled on the stone steps clutching the wrapped sword to his bosom. “Are you telling me that my Lord of Gaunt tricked you into committing treason? Do you actually have the temerity to say that?”

“Temerity? I not only say it, I avow it. It happened. Jack is my witness.”

Chaucer looked at Jack again who suddenly shrunk under their scrutiny. “ This is your witness?” he cried, raising his arm and pointing toward Jack. “This … this beggar ? This pathetic excuse for a protégé ?” He laughed unpleasantly. “You may very well blame Lancaster for your misfortunes. God knows the great Crispin Guest would never blame himself!”

“I have blamed myself. Over and over in my mind. Don’t you think I do? Don’t you think I would rather have died for Lancaster than smear his name? If he had but told me before it all happened, explained it! But no.” Geoffrey’s expression infuriated him. “Fie! It’s wasted breath on you. I’ll never make you see that I have paid my penance. But has he?”

“You speak of payment and penance as if they are owed you.”

“They are owed me! Look at me, Geoffrey. Look at me! Do you have any idea what my stinking lodgings on the Shambles are like?”

“You chose your lot, Guest. You chose to throw in with traitors. You swore your life to Lancaster, and suddenly you forget that he may do as he wishes with it. Even throw it away. He owes you nothing.” Geoffrey straightened his gown and climbed the steps, skirting Crispin and Jack. “I have business within. Go back to your inquiries. Find your murderer and your bones. That’s where it seems to suit you best. Amongst the dead.”

Chaucer’s footsteps receded.

Crispin lowered his head and panted. What was the matter with him? Why was he suddenly fighting with Geoffrey?

All this for one scrap of cloth that may not be a clue at all. He dug into his pouch and pulled out the bit of fabric, rubbing it between his calloused fingers.

“He won’t stay angry,” said Jack quietly. He had crept up beside Crispin without notice. “You haven’t seen each other in years. There are bound to be misunderstandings.”

“You don’t have to mollify me,” he grumbled, but he was grateful that Jack tried.

“What’s that, Master Crispin?” He switched the sword to the crook of his arm and took the cloth scrap out of Crispin’s hand.

“A clue. I found it stuck in the door of the Corona tower last night.”

Dawn broke on Jack’s face. “Is that why you asked about the archbishop’s robe? Master Crispin! You don’t think-”

“I don’t know what to think. His robe might have been used as a disguise by any monk here. Remember, the archbishop suspects one of his own.”

“But he ain’t the only one with a scarlet robe.”

“My friend Chaucer.”

“Aye. But I was thinking of Sir Philip Bonefey.”

Crispin stared at Jack. “So he does.”

“And Rafe Maufesour the Summoner, for good measure.”

Crispin chuffed a breath. “Perhaps we had best make a list of those who do not have a scarlet gown. It’s a smaller roll.”

“Now Master, it’s not so difficult. We will examine their robes one by one to see how this scrap may fit. That will eliminate the innocent.”

Crispin smiled in spite of himself. “That is very orderly thinking, Jack.”

“Well, I was taught by the best, now wasn’t I?” His pale cheeks flushed. “Now then. You’ve got this key, do you? Shouldn’t we use it?”

“Let’s begin with that tower stair.” He took the cloth scrap from Jack’s fingers and led the way back into the church. Pilgrims had already gathered with other faithful who came into the disorderly dust and work of the church to pray. Crispin shook his head and mouthed a few choice words describing the archbishop. Why had he not closed the church? A murder certainly required reconsecration. But the archbishop flouted canon law. Why? Greed? How much did they take in from the martyr’s shrine? He guessed it was a goodly sum, possibly half of their income for the year. If that coin flow should be cut off for a year or more…? He glanced up at the masons hammering, mortaring, pulling up stones by ropes and pulleys. The master mason said their payments were overdue. Was there a possibility of a shortfall in the cathedral books? If that were the case then the treasurer had some answering to do. Crispin wondered vaguely if Dom Thomas had a scarlet cloak as well.

A monk was giving a tour to the pilgrims on their slow progression toward the shrine. Crispin avoided them by taking the south aisle and climbing the steps opposite, near Prince Edward’s shrine.

“It was here, Jack, that I found the scrap of cloth. Let us see what lies beyond this door.”

He pulled the key from his pouch, fit it in the lock, and turned it twice. The door pushed open and Crispin stepped in. He expected a narrow spiraling stair and found it much wider, enough for two men side by side. It did spiral upward and was made of stone with carved niches along the curved walls. He looked down at the door and found only a few red threads.

“No blood,” he said.

Jack nodded. “So he didn’t come here after the murder but before.”

“Very good, Jack. Hiding and waiting for the moment. Except-” Crispin looked up the tower. Slit windows slanted golden light down the tower and revealed another door near the top. “If he hid in here he would first have encountered me by the shrine. Why wasn’t I attacked, then? Why go directly to the Prioress?”

“Well, he might have seen you and thought to create a distraction- No, that sounds poor even to me.”

“ If Madam Eglantine was the intended target.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that perhaps the bones were merely a distraction.”

“So he stole the bones as an afterthought ?” He stared hard. Crispin was making his way up the stairs. “That’s cruel work getting that canopy off the casket. And more work to move the lid.”

“Not as an afterthought,” Crispin confirmed.

“No, eh?” He followed up the stairs. “I’m stumped, then. If he did not mean to kill you and take the bones first, but he meant to kill the Prioress, then I do not understand his intentions.”

“Perhaps the murder was a distraction to keep our eyes away from the bones.”

“Blind me! That’s … that’s … horrible!”

Crispin nodded, climbed, and made it to the door at the top. It had no lock, so he grasped the ring and pulled the door open and stepped out onto the wide, round tower. The wind whipped at his hair, sending it stinging into his eyes. He looked out past the battlements across plowed fields to the east bordered by dark hedges and more meadows. Sheep grazed, looking like little white pods far below. Moving along the edge and peering between the merlons, Crispin gazed southwest toward Canterbury and its many red-tiled roofs. Smoke lingered above the rooftops, embracing chimneys and spires. Jack stood beside him, drew up his fretted hood, and fell silent. His cloak flapped against his flanks as he, too, assessed the church and abbey grounds.