Jeri Westerson - Troubled Bones

Jack turned to another monk in the room and met the eyes of Dom Thomas Chillenden. The monk’s eyes fixed on Jack’s for a long moment before they enlarged to round disks. Jack’s grew almost as large, pleading for the monk to say nothing. “Er … yes, my Lord Prior. I will … I will show this fine brother the precincts and explain it all to him.”

He took Jack’s arm roughly and steered him out the door. Two monks had gathered to talk furtively to Father Cyril, and Dom Thomas ushered Jack in the other direction until the monks were only distant shadows. “By all that is holy what are you doing here?” he hissed in Jack’s ear. “And dressed like that!”

Jack peeled the monk’s hands from him and stepped back, adjusting his collar. “There’s no need for that. My master sent me here on the word of the archbishop.”

“You were sent to spy on us!”

“Well, just a little.”

“Just a little ? God preserve us!”

“Do you not want to know who killed the Prioress and Brother Wilfrid? Or where the bones of the sainted martyr are?”

Dom Thomas’s face sobered. He wrung his hands. “Poor Brother Wilfrid. He did not deserve that. I shall do much penance for what I have wished upon his killer!”

“And so. Master Crispin thought this the best way to find out the doings, seeing that the monks most like would not talk to him.”

Dom Thomas swept his disdainful gaze over Jack. “So he made you a monk, damning your soul to this sham, this blasphemy.”

“He didn’t damn me to nought. It ain’t a sin to pose as a monk.” But then a grain of uncertainty crept in. “Is it?”

“Why didn’t the archbishop tell me himself?”

“Does he have to make all his decisions through you?”

He raised a brow. “Insolent. You had best watch yourself, Master Tucker.”

“It’s Brother John, if you don’t mind. Why don’t you help me if you’re so keen to see me leave? The sooner I find out something the sooner I can go. Are there any monks that you think might be suspicious?”

“It’s absurd. Of course not. All our brothers are trusted without question-” But as he spoke, a faraway expression intruded on his blushed countenance. He fell silent.

Jack placed his hands on his hips impatiently. “Looks like you ain’t all that trusting.”

Dom Thomas glared. “Find out what you will. I will not interfere.” And he turned on his heel.

“But you’ll not help?” Jack called after him.

The monk stopped and pivoted long enough to say, “You seem to have all well in hand … Brother John, ” and left him alone on the cloister walk.

Jack mumbled a very unclerical curse, and looked around. He didn’t know where anything was, where his room might be, even the privies, and he was feeling the need for the latter. He’d have to look about for himself and hope he didn’t get into trouble. If he was caught, he’d be able to tell them in all truth that he was lost. One lie at a time, indeed.

Jack made his way through the cloister and came to another door. He slowly pulled it open and saw that it led to another smaller courtyard with a set of huts, trees, grass, and foliage. An old man was hoeing his own little garden, the dark earth turning with his blade. Tall sticks were propped together into a cone shape in anticipation of the young bean tendrils to come.

Taking a swift glance, Jack didn’t notice any privies and turned to go when the man looked up. He smiled under a white beard and mustache and lifted an arm with a wave.

Jack turned back and approached. He reckoned the man was a caretaker. Perhaps he might know something.

“Good day to you, young friar,” the man said, and rested his hands on his hoe when Jack neared. He did not sound like a caretaker. He sounded more like a man in the manner of Crispin.

“Good day to you, sir.” Jack stood with his hands behind his back and surveyed the patch of cultivated ground. “You’ve been very diligent.”

The old man’s cheeks flushed. “Why yes. It is now a passion of mine. Such passions are allowed within a monastery.” He chuckled.

“Are you- Do you work here? You do not appear to be a monk.”

“No, I am no monk. This is my retirement. I live under the care of the good brothers here. I have given up my worldly goods, my estate, to pay to be cared for here under the wings of God.”

“I see,” said Jack. He looked at the old man with admiration.

“Would you like refreshment?” He leaned the hoe against the side of his rustic cottage wall and ducked as he entered under the low lintel. “Come in,” he called from the shadows.

Jack scanned the courtyard for other faces, saw none, and entered after the old man. The cottage was small, only one room, a little larger than Crispin’s lodgings in London. The air seemed to sparkle with motes of dust and hay. Shafts of sunlight angled toward the wooden floor, and though it was mean lodgings, it was clean. Shelves and tables lined one wall and Jack was surprised to see them filled with layer upon layer of scrolls and even a few books. He glanced casually at them, noting a few colorful drawings of shields and animals on one open scroll.

“This is far less than I was used to, I assure you,” said the old man, pouring ale from a chipped jug into a wooden beaker. “But I can equally assure you, I am content with what I now have.”

Jack took the offered beaker and drank hastily. He hadn’t realized how dry his throat was.

The old man poured a beaker for himself and drank thoughtfully, eyeing him. Jack lowered his cup. “Forgive me,” he bowed. “I am Brother John. I have come to visit Canterbury from the south. But-” He tried on a dramatic expression. “The monks all appear to be anxious about something. I’ve only just arrived and no one will say.”

“Oh.” The old man sat on the one chair and offered a stool for Jack. “Yes, great tragedy is here in Canterbury. The monks try to hide it but I see much.” He leaned toward Jack and said solemnly, “I do not wish to alarm you, but there have been two murders in the church within the span of two days.”

Jack did his best impression of horror. “No! God preserve us!” He crossed himself. “Who?”

The old man shook his head and ran his hand over his white beard. “A prioress, visiting as a pilgrim. And one of our very own monks. He was a young man. About your age.” His sincere expression of sorrow brought a lump to Jack’s throat.

“How can such a thing happen?”

The man sighed deeply and lifted his yellowed eyes to Jack. “Murder is a terrible thing. But there is something else. The monks have been acting like agitated bees in a skep. Though in truth, much of it began happening before the murders, if I am not mistaken. As an old man, I sometimes confuse recent events with older ones.” His eyes traveled and landed on Jack again. He smiled. “I don’t know why I am telling you.” He sat back and held his cup to his chest. “Perhaps because you remind me of Brother Wilfrid, who was kind to me. Or perhaps because, as a visitor, you have a right to be warned. There is something about the martyr’s relics. I am not certain exactly the circumstances, but I know that this mischief concerns them. The strange thing is, there seemed to be a flutter about the martyr’s remains well before these deaths. Or perhaps my mind is playing tricks on me.”

Jack leaned forward. “What kind of ‘flutter’?”

He shook his head and shrugged. “Talk of nothing but. And much whispering when others drew near. I gathered there had been rumors and threats against them.”

Jack nodded. “Who do you suppose did it? The murders, I mean.”

“Who can say? But I can tell you this; a rumor amongst the brothers owes these deaths to the curse of Becket’s bones.”