Jeri Westerson - Troubled Bones

“Nonsense. A sheep looks happier.”

Turpin returned, a brown gown draped over his arm. “This will do, I think. I can sew on a hood and provide a belt. Er-”

Crispin stepped forward. “I can pay you, Master Turpin.” His pouch bulged with the archbishop’s reluctant generosity.

“Oh no, think nothing of it. I owe you after all, Master Guest. But-”

“We will return it when we are finished. Will that suffice?”

Turpin’s pointed face did its impression of a grin. “Oh indeed! Indeed!” Crispin flashed Jack a quick, reassuring smile. “Now, young man, if you will … will…” He urged the gown on Jack. Jack took it in both hands and meekly lifted it over his head. “Other way, other way,” chirped Turpin. He grabbed the material wrapped around Jack’s head and twisted. Jack released a muffled curse and his head finally popped through. Turpin pulled it down over his torso and lifted Jack’s arms into the sleeves. Jack stared at him as if he were mad. He took Jack’s shoulders and turned him around pulling up the collar of the robe and measuring across his shoulders with a string. He turned Jack around again to face him and ticked his head at the hem. “The hem seems fine but the sleeves are a bit long.”

“That’s fine the way it is,” said Crispin. “But it needs the cowl.”

“Yes, I have something. Very well, young man. Off with it.”

Jack gave a pleading look before Turpin whisked it up his body, obscuring his face.

The tailor disappeared once more and left Jack standing in his shirt and stockings again. His sorrowful expression caused Crispin to chuckle. At least it made him forget the circumstances for an instant or two. But then he thought again about Chaucer’s dagger back in Courtenay’s lodgings and the mysterious and secretive monks of Christchurch Priory. What was it they wanted to hide? Did Dame Marguerite see a cassock on the assailant as she thought? Though by her own admission she wasn’t certain. If not the archbishop-and it truly seemed an outlandish supposition-then perhaps one of the monks. Any one of them could have used the archbishop’s cloak to hide themselves. But what was the reason for killing the Prioress? Was it merely a distraction to hide the theft of the bones? And what did Chaucer’s dagger have to do with it? No, something was amiss. The only certainty was the missing bones. He only hoped they hadn’t been destroyed.

Turpin returned and showed his handiwork. Crispin smiled and nodded appropriately and Turpin proceeded to entangle Jack in the cassock again. He tied the laces at the yoke of his neck, adjusted the belt, threw the hood up over his head and opened his hands. “And there. One young Franciscan, Master Crispin.”

“Excellent, Master Turpin. I thank you for your time. And one more thing.” Crispin whispered in his ear and Turpin withdrew from him with a wide smile. “I would be most pleased, Master Guest.”

“Good. Take your time. Fare you well.”

“God protect you, Master Guest. And you, too, young man.”

“And you, sir,” mumbled Jack. He walked out of the shop and stood in the street, head down. “I feel like the proper fool.”

“But you look most convincing.” He handed Jack the wrapped sword again as they walked back to the cathedral.

Jack pulled uncomfortably at the gown, loosening the leather belt. “I can’t do it, master.”

“Yes, you can. You disguised yourself so once before to steal into court.”

“But that was different! I didn’t have to talk to nobody!”

“Stop sniveling and listen. When you greet someone you say, ‘ Benedicte. ’ And they say ‘ Deo gratias .’ Got it?”

“Aye. Benedicte. Deo gratias . Christ’s toes.”

“And no oaths. You don’t want them to flog you, do you?”

“What!”

Crispin hid his smile by glancing ahead. “At meals there are considerably more prayers before you may eat. Never touch your food until the prior touches his, and don’t eat as if you will never get another scrap.”

“I don’t eat like that.”

“Yes, you do. A slower pace, Jack, remember.”

“What if they ask me to say a prayer?”

“Then say one.”

“I don’t know no prayers.”

“You don’t know any prayers. And yes, you do. Pater Noster, Ave Maria, Gloria Patri -”

“Very well! I know them. But the chanting. I don’t know that.”

“Feign it.”

He glared. “ Feign it? That’s your great advice? Feign it ?”

“You’d be surprised how often that advice works … in all circumstances.”

“How can I feign-”

“Then feign a cold.”

Jack blinked. “Oh aye. I can do that.”

He shook his head. “For a boy who made his living stealing men’s purses you seem to have an awfully weak stomach.”

“I knew what I was doing there, didn’t I? I was quick.”

“And you’ll be quick at this. Don’t do much talking. Listen. Discover if you can why they needed to keep secrets from Dom Thomas and if they know anything about Becket’s bones. I’ve told you the Lollard philosophy. Listen for any signs of that. And don’t make yourself obvious. Blend in.”

“If I’m to blend in, then why am I dressed as a Franciscan in a Benedictine priory?”

“Because a monk visiting a monastery who comes from a traveling order like the Franciscans is more easily explained. We must keep our lies to a minimum in order to keep your story straight.”

“One lie at a time, eh?”

He patted Jack’s shoulder. “That’s right, Jack. One lie at a time. Now you are gaining understanding.”

Crispin continued his tuition, telling Jack what he could expect as a monk. When the shadow of the cathedral draped across their path, Crispin stopped. “Here’s where I leave you, Jack.”

“What? I thought you would go to the priory with me.” His eyes were bright.

“No, Jack. They mustn’t see you with me.” He took the wrapped sword out of Jack’s hands once more. “Only a few monks might have caught a glimpse of you in the church, but it was dark and your hood was up. So keep your eyes down. You are Brother John now. Answer to nothing else.”

“I’m Brother John. Holy Christ Jesus’ toes.” He took a step and then stopped. “Oh wait! How will I know when I’m done inquiring?”

“When you find out something. Good luck, Jack.”

“ Pax vobiscum, ” he answered, making the sign of the cross over Crispin that quickly turned to a rude forking of his fingers.

Crispin dragged himself back to the inn. What if Geoffrey was there? There had to be a reasonable explanation why Geoffrey’s dagger was used to kill Wilfrid. He racked his brain, but he could not recall if Geoffrey was wearing the dagger when they went to the cathedral or not. If he had left it behind or lost it, anyone could have retrieved it and used it. But why? Who would have cause to kill Wilfrid? The monk was a puzzle, but the Prioress’s death less so. He needed to talk to Bonefey. Of all the pilgrims, he was the one with the biggest grudge against the Prioress. He was anxious to corner him and maybe have a look at his red gown.

He turned the street corner and spied Maufesour and Chaunticleer creeping back to the inn. Maufesour looked over his shoulder and gripped the door when he spied Crispin. He ducked hurriedly inside and Crispin mouthed a few choice oaths.

He reached the door and yanked it open and merely stood in the doorway surveying the subdued company. Even Harry Bailey’s usual cheerful exterior was showing signs of wear. Crispin cut his glance to Maufesour and grinned maliciously at him before he greeted the Miller, who stumped forward, bagpipe in one hand, beaker in the other. “Master Guest, what is the word? We have since heard terrible tidings at the cathedral. It seems the devil has come to roost in Canterbury.”