Jeri Westerson - Troubled Bones

Courtenay shook his head. “They’ve already seen you. They know what you look like and who you are.”

Crispin nodded. “Yes. Curse it. But it’s still a good idea. What I need is someone they have not yet seen.” He walked to the far wall, wishing the monks hadn’t seen his face. There were so many questions he wanted to ask. He paced, wondering just how he was going to interrogate them when the idea hit him square in the forehead. He stopped and slowly pivoted toward Jack.

Courtenay turned his eyes to Jack, too, and Jack looked from Crispin to Courtenay, suddenly nervous. He pulled at his collar and asked a meek “What?” with a wince as if he already knew the answer.

“Your Latin is good. Good enough for a young man in a monastery.” Crispin ushered Jack hurriedly through the street, but Jack resisted each step.

“I won’t do it, Master Crispin. Why won’t you listen to me?”

“I’m serving justice, remember?”

Jack crossed himself. Crispin shoved him forward. “Curse them words for ever leaving me mouth.”

“‘ Those words for ever leaving my mouth,’” he corrected.

“What difference does it make? No one will ever believe that I am a m-monk.”

“People will believe anything you tell them as long as it is dressed in the proper form. A beggar can be a king … and vice versa. That’s why we seek a tailor. Ah!”

A wooden sign painted with a golden scissors wobbled in the breeze under a thatched eave. He tried to push Jack forward but the boy dug in his heels.

“Master Crispin! Wait! Now have a care. I’ll foul it up, you know I will. I haven’t got the sense you’ve got. Someone will find me out and then all will be lost. Don’t force me to it, sir, I beg you!”

Crispin rested an arm on the shop’s doorframe and leaned over Jack. “You are the one who spoke of justice.”

“Aye, I know it. But justice for you!”

“Justice is justice-for me, for you. For those poor souls who lost their lives in the cathedral. They must have it. I personally do not believe Geoffrey is guilty, but … My good sense in these matters of former friends and lords…” He sighed. “I must admit to a certain lapse in judgment of late. I need this information if only to eliminate the wrong path. I know you can do it. Don’t you remember telling me only last year you could never learn to read or write? How many languages can you read now?”

“Three, sir. Almost four.”

“True, your Greek is rusty, but you will improve. You’ve a head for it. Faith, Jack, with your learning you may be the most highly educated monk there.”

Jack considered, his mouth drawn down in a frown. “Do you truly think so?”

“Only one way to find out.”

Jack glanced at the tailor’s sign, then at the ground. “You are my master. Do I have a choice?”

“Yes.”

The freckles nearly disappeared as Jack’s eyes widened and his brows leaped upward. “I do?” he whispered.

“You’ve always had a choice. I have no bond with you. You owe me no fealty. We have sworn no oaths to each other. You are free to leave me at any time.”

Jack swallowed hard. His ginger brows knitted. “I never said I wanted to leave you, sir.”

“And I’ve never asked you to stay. Well”-he fit his thumb in his belt-“now I am.”

“Oh for Christ’s bones! So now you would!”

“I don’t know how much clearer I have to be. Didn’t I declare my intentions on the Corona tower?”

“You want this that bad?”

“No. But it is clear you must know exactly where you stand with me.” Crispin pushed back from the wall and took a step into the muddy street, the air filled with the smells of wet thatch, stone, and horse droppings. “It grieves me to see that most of my former life has been a lie. Lancaster, Geoffrey. I didn’t realize the level of deceit. Perhaps they are merely the symptom of a greater disease. A disease I was never aware of, foolish, naïve man that I am.” He gazed at Jack fondly. “But I will not have that with us. There are to be no lies, no secrets. My ‘yes’ means ‘yes’ and my ‘no’ means ‘no.’ And thus it will always be between you and me.” He thrust out his open hand but Jack only stared at it.

“Master Crispin, you shouldn’t aught to do so much. I’m … I’m no one.”

“And so am I.” He smiled. “What say you, Jack Tucker? Shall you be in league with the scoundrel and traitor Crispin Guest once and for all, forsaking your soul and your peace of mind?”

“I done that already,” he muttered. He eyed Crispin’s hand as if it were a snake. “You want me to do this, don’t you? I don’t think you truly know what you are asking.”

“But I do.” He cracked a lopsided grin. “Must I foster you to show you my sincerity?”

“No, Master! I … I believe you. Very well, then.” He reached a trembling hand forward and grasped Crispin’s, guardedly at first then stronger as Crispin shook it once and released him.

“Good. Now, can we please go inside?”

“Aye, master.” He grabbed the door handle and stopped. “But I ain’t calling you by your Christian name. That I will not do!”

“Of course not. I am your master. That would be improper.” He gestured for Jack to pull open the door.

Inside, the cold of April succumbed to the golden tones of the warm room. It smelled of a toasty fire, cloth and pungent wool, acrid dyes, and habitation. A man scuttled down the ladder of a loft and turned his head once to spy the customers. “Bless my soul! It’s Crispin Guest!”

“Greetings, Master Turpin.”

“My, my,” said Turpin, reaching the ground level and turning round. His frame was similar to Crispin’s, though his hair was sandy and thin, unlike Crispin’s own thick, dark locks. “It has been a long time, hasn’t it?”

“Indeed.”

“As I’ve told you before, any favor I can render, any at all. I am your man.”

Jack eyed Crispin and muttered, “Is there no one that don’t owe you a favor?”

He ignored him. “This is something of an urgent nature, master.” He stood behind Jack and dropped his hands on the boy’s shoulders. Quietly, he said, “I need to style this young lad as a Franciscan friar.”

Turpin’s eyes enlarged but he never asked. “I may have something that will suit. I’d merely need to hem the bottom and the sleeves. I take it you need it right away.”

“If we can wait for it?”

“That urgently? Of course, Master Guest. When was ‘leisure’ ever part of your lexis.”

“Once, Master Turpin, a long time ago.”

“Very well, then. Young man,” he said to Jack. “Please remove your cloak and tunic.”

Crispin took the wrapped sword from Jack’s hands and set it aside.

Jack looked from one to the other and slowly peeled his chaperon hood off his head and shoulders. He made as if to drop it on the floor but Turpin took it tenderly between his fingers. Except that Jack would not let it go. “What will you do with that, sir?”

“I’m merely putting it aside.”

“Tell him, Master Crispin. Tell him that’s all I got in the world.”

“He knows it, Jack. Do as Master Turpin tells you.”

Reluctantly, Jack released the hood and unbuttoned his cloak, which Turpin also took. He unbuckled his belt with a reddened face. He unlaced his tunic and pulled it over his head, leaving him in his stockings and shirt.

“Dear me,” muttered Turpin, examining Jack’s threadbare clothes. He folded them into a neat pile without further comment and placed them on a shelf. “If you will excuse me.” He disappeared through a curtained doorway.

Jack rubbed his arm self-consciously. “I feel like a sheep being sheared,” he muttered.