Jeri Westerson - Troubled Bones

“Indeed. You may be right, Master Miller.”

“It is Edwin Gough, good sir. At your service. Anything that you need, I will aid you.”

“Thank you, Master Gough.” He shouldered his way through the others and sat heavily on a bench, laying the sword across his thighs. “But what I need is Master Chaucer’s whereabouts.”

“We haven’t seen him,” said Clarke, the Manciple. He sat almost apologetically next to Crispin and rested his long pale fingers on the table before him. He made a sharp glance over his shoulder at the Summoner and Pardoner. “But his whereabouts aren’t the only mystery of late.”

“I see I have been disobeyed again.”

“There is nothing you can do with those two, Master Guest.”

“Call me Crispin.”

“And you may call me Thomas.” The Manciple edged closer and spoke quietly. “While it is true that my occupation only involves ordering provisions for the law students under my care, I have come to view the law with fascination. I sit in on the trials, you see. A Manciple I may be, but a man can show his worth by acquiring a wider sphere of knowledge.” Crispin nodded approvingly. “A particular law student makes me aware of unusual cases. For his trouble, I make certain he receives an extra measure of ale. Would it surprise you to know that I am aware of the trial of Madame Eglantine and Sir Bonefey?” Crispin was taken aback but tried not to show it. “I myself was not at that trial,” he went on, “but I studied the transcripts.” He answered Crispin’s quizzical expression. “The trial was curious and contentious.”

“Had the Prioress a legitimate claim?”

Clarke made loops on the table with his fingertips as if scribing his parchments. “I read the notes thoroughly, Master Crispin. I am no lawyer. But I have immersed myself in enough law to be a fine apprentice of it, I can tell you. Better than some of the students I have encountered.” He flushed from his own presumption. “But from what I could make of it, Sir Bonefey should have been the clear winner.”

“Then why wasn’t he, I wonder?”

Clarke opened his mouth and then closed it again. He made his imaginary scribing on the table and eyed Father Gelfridus talking quietly to Harry Bailey. “He challenged the Church,” he whispered.

“I understand Master Chaucer testified on behalf of Sir Philip.”

Clarke’s nervous fingers twitched on the wood. It began to irritate. “That is what I read, Master Crispin. I know he is a friend of yours, but-”

An icy hand clutched his heart. He knew he didn’t want to hear what the Manciple had to say, but hear it he must. “Master Clarke. Thomas. I should like to know.”

“Well, he … he spoke on behalf of what he called the common man faced with the … the…” His voice fell to a whisper again. “The tyranny of the Church.”

Crispin sat back. He could easily see how that would not sit well with the archbishop. He could imagine the rest. Did Geoffrey have to paint “Lollard” on his forehead?

“Thank you, Master Clarke. Is Sir Philip here?”

“I thought he was in his room.”

“And Dame Marguerite? Is she better?”

“She has been out walking in the garden.”

He nodded and inquired which room was Bonefey’s. He rose and then leaned down close to Clarke. “Do me the favor of keeping an eye skinned on these two,” and he gestured toward Maufesour and Chaunticleer. “I’d hate for them to nip off again without my having a talk with them.”

Crispin climbed the stairs. When he reached the landing he went to his chamber to discard the sword and quickly left before the call of the soft bed became too great to bear. He walked along the gallery to the last door and knocked.

He heard shuffling. A chair skidded across the floor. Then, “Who is there?”

“It is Crispin Guest, Sir Philip. May I enter?”

A pause. “If you must.” The bolt grated and the door flung open. “Well then?” Bonefey planted himself in the doorway. “Do you have good news to report?”

“I would rather not stand in the gallery, Sir Philip. If I may?” He advanced and Bonefey was forced to retreat. Making a cursory inspection of the room Crispin turned to his host. “There has been another murder.”

“God preserve us! Who?”

“A monk. Another innocent. In the church.”

“Absolutely monstrous. What has become of this town?”

“Gough the Miller says the devil has come to roost.”

“I think he is right. Do you insist we continue to stay?”

“I do.”

“To what end? It must be clear to you by now that we have nothing to do with these murders.”

Crispin glanced out Bonefey’s open window. It overlooked the courtyard and the stables. A lone stableman pitched hay into a stall and a shaggy horse bent its head to nuzzle the golden fodder. “I wonder about your disagreement with the Prioress.”

Silence. Crispin turned, making certain Bonefey was still in the room.

“Why?”

“Because she’s dead. And because you were the only one to have a motive to kill her.”

Bonefey drew his sword. His reddened features twisted with rage. “How dare you!”

He merely looked at the naked blade gleaming in the firelight. “You like your sword, do you?”

“You insult me, sir! You accuse me of a most foul deed!”

“And you have drawn your blade on a man who owns no sword. Yes, you are brave indeed, Sir Philip. And what weapon do I use to defend myself? My fist?”

Bonefey’s sword wavered. His murderous eyes never flinched from Crispin’s, but his face lost its initial dark hue. Finally he lowered the sword but did not sheath it. “That is a foul charge.”

“Merely an observation.” He studied Bonefey’s sword. “By the way, what are your family arms?”

“What?”

“Your blazon, sir. What manner is it?”

“It’s a black shield with five feathers. Why?”

The hearth belched a spiral of black smoke and Crispin looked, eyes suddenly widening. Three steps took him to the fire and the gown smoldering in its midst. He grabbed the poker and yanked the garment from the coals, but the red gown was too burned to make much of it. He threw the poker down and glared at Bonefey. “An unusual laundering method.”

Sir Philip still held his sword at the ready. “It was an old gown. It was of no further use to me.”

“No further use, eh? Did it by any chance have a rip in its hem? Or was it covered in too much blood?”

Crispin felt the sword whistling toward him. He grabbed the chair and met the blade with it. The sword clattered against the wooden legs and with a twist, he sent the weapon flying free from the Franklin’s hands. Lunging forward he pinned Bonefey to the wall with the chair. “Come at me with a sword, will you?” he hissed between clenched teeth. “I’ll have your head, Bonefey. I’ll see it hewn off.”

“You’re mad! Get off me!”

“You are as guilty as they come. And I’ll not rest until I see justice for the innocent you slaughtered.”

“I did not kill the Prioress. And you are making the biggest mistake of your life. If you do not unhand me now, I’ll see you on a gibbet!”

It was a stand-off. Crispin snapped back and tossed the chair across the floor. The sword lay on the other side of the room. He sneered at the Franklin when he reached the door. “My eye is on you, Bonefey. Don’t try to leave this inn or you’ll spend the rest of your time in a Canterbury prison.”

He slammed the door and stomped across the gallery. Should he get the sheriff now? Crispin swore. He needed far more proof before he could accuse such a wealthy man. The sheriff would never take his word over a Franklin’s. Besides, he couldn’t call in the sheriff without mentioning Chaucer. God’s blood! He was too pent up now to go to his room, and wine sounded like a better option.