Jeri Westerson - Troubled Bones

Platters on the table were filled with dried fish, cooked leaks, and hunks of cheese. A small wooden bowl of pottage and a round loaf of barley bread just for him sat before his place. A leather beaker and a jug of ale also stood at the head of his place setting. At least these monks ate well, he thought, and took out his eating knife to stab a fish. He scooped up a handful of leeks and placed it on his plate and took them up in his fingers to chew them down like a rabbit.

He glanced sidelong at Cyril, wishing he could ask a question or two, but plainly, speaking was forbidden during meals. While he ate, he looked at the other diners. Dom Thomas had turned his attention to the prior and sub prior, but when Jack swept his gaze across the hall, a monk sitting close to the head table seemed to be staring at him. Brother Martin. He scrutinized Jack with narrowed eyes, and Jack worried the monk might recognize him. The monk squinted at him a bit longer, and then turned to his meal.

Jack concentrated on eating slowly. He wished the monk would stop reading. His low drone was annoying, like the buzz of an insect. He tried to ignore it, and when he did, surrounded by all these silent diners in their cassocks, his mind unbidden lit on the young nun, Dame Marguerite.

Never had he met a more refined and gentle lady. And so beautiful. Her hands were delicate and her face had the look of a stone saint. He reckoned she was his age or a few years older. When she talked to him, she used a soft voice with demure eyes always aimed downward. He wished she would look up more often because those eyes were very dark and sympathetic. Crispin didn’t like his talking to her, but he didn’t care. Didn’t Master Crispin say Jack had a choice to obey him or not? Though probably not in all things. Still, the saying of it was easier than the doing of it. He still felt obligated to the man who rescued him from Newgate Prison and gave him a decent life.

He sighed, thinking of Dame Marguerite. Marguerite . When he got out of this monastery, he vowed to speak to her, tell her how he felt. Perhaps she really didn’t want to be a nun anymore. His brow wrinkled. Was a body allowed to stop being a nun? He wasn’t certain. He could make her forget the horror of the murder, take her back to London, and then … Then what? Crispin paid him a wage but it wasn’t very much. He sipped his beer and rested his arm on the table. Wasn’t he getting ahead of himself? First things first. He’d have to talk to her.

Benches scraped back and Jack looked up alarmed. The meal was over and the monks were standing for their benediction. Jack scrambled to his feet and bowed his head, looking up through his fringe at the others. The monks filed out and Jack followed, staying close to Cyril. He stood outside the hall and Brother Martin skirted past him, eyeing Jack the whole time.

Cyril, too, watched Martin go. “Oaf,” murmured Cyril under his breath. Jack whipped his head around to stare at the man, who shrugged. “So he is.”

The monk moved on back to the cloister and Jack followed. “I thought fellow monks always spoke well of each other.”

Cyril exhaled a snorting laugh. “We live in close proximity for all the years of our lives. There’s only so much forgiveness to share. As Benedictines we are not allowed to traipse all over the countryside as you and your Franciscan brothers do.” He looked at Jack’s expression and patted his shoulder. “Don’t vex yourself, Little Friar. We live in relative harmony. It’s just that some of us are more harmonious than others.”

The monks seemed to mill about and Jack guessed this was the time of day for leisure, since the rest of the monk’s day was devoted to prayer and work. “Father Cyril,” Jack ventured. “I have heard the rumors-”

“Bless me, but I brace myself.”

“Well, that there is something amiss with the martyr’s bones.”

Cyril stopped and suddenly grabbed Jack and dragged him into the shadows. “Best not to say these rumors too loud, Friar.”

“Brother John,” muttered Jack.

The monk nodded disinterestedly. “As you will.”

“But I heard that they may no longer be in the shrine. Is this true?”

Cyril sighed and kept an eye peeled for anyone who might overhear them. “I fear it is.”

“How can we find them?”

“His Excellency has hired a man from London. A sour-looking fellow named Crispin Guest. Though I do not know why the archbishop should put his trust in a traitor.”

Jack clenched his fists and kept them at his sides. “Traitor, Brother?”

“That’s what I hear. I do not know much about him. The other monks do not trust him.”

“Because he is a traitor?” Jack sputtered on the word.

“No, because he used to be the duke of Lancaster’s man. The duke is said to be a Lollard sympathizer. For the most part, my fellow brothers would have great objections to helping such a man. But there may be one or two … well. Perhaps I have spoken too much already. I think the ale has gone to my head. I should go to the privy.”

“I will go with you.” Jack walked alongside him, occasionally passing other monks along the way. “If the monks do not trust this man Guest, why did the archbishop hire him?”

Cyril gave another snorting laugh. “Why indeed!”

“I do not get your meaning, Brother.”

“Well, it’s just a curiosity, isn’t it, that he hired this fellow to guard the bones and the moment he arrived they disappeared. And then the murders.”

“Do you think it the curse?”

They reached the privy stalls and Cyril hitched up his cassock. Jack did likewise beside him. “Oh ho! You’ve been talking to Edward Harper.”

“Who?”

“Our pensioner.”

“Oh. Is that his name?”

“He holds great store by family curses. I fear certain monks have given him notions.” He finished his business and washed his hands in a nearby bucket, shaking them out.

“Who was the monk who was killed?”

Cyril took a deep breath and his face fell to a solemn configuration. “Young Wilfrid. The horror of it.” He crossed himself. “He was the treasurer’s assistant. You might have met the treasurer in the prior’s lodge.”

“Aye, we’ve met.”

He gauged Jack’s expression. “Yes, I see you have. Wilfrid was Dom Thomas’s assistant. They had many secrets, those two. But I do not think poor Wilfrid was up to the task. Perhaps in time and with more experience. But alas.”

“Not up to what task, Brother?”

Cyril smiled and continued through the cloister. “You are a very curious fellow. It does not do well to ask too many questions here. My brothers keep a closed lip.”

Jack put on a merrier face. “I am a traveling friar, Father Cyril. I am more used to a loosened tongue, I fear. You must pardon me if I seem to ask too much.”

He patted Jack’s shoulder again. “I do not fear your questions. It is good to talk to someone new.”

“I wonder, Brother, if you can direct me to my quarters. Dom Thomas neglected to tell me where they are.”

“I’ll show you.” He took Jack through a door and down a long, dark corridor lined with many cell doors. He went to the last one and opened the door. Jack peered in at the dismal surroundings, not much better than a cell in Newgate. A bare cot, a fireplace, a tiny window, a shelf, a table with a stool, and a crucifix on the wall.

Jack brought up a smile. “It’s wonderful,” he said weakly.

Cyril’s drooping lids rose only momentarily. “Is it? You must come from a very poor place indeed.”

“Father Cyril-”

“Sorry, Friar, but I must return to my work now. Sit next to me at the Divine Office at None. That place is empty now. It belonged to Brother Wilfrid.”

He bowed to Jack, stuffed his hands within his scapular, and trudged away. Jack turned to the cold little room and shuffled to the stool. He sat and stared into the dead hearth. So far, he’d found out a few things. One: No one there trusted Crispin, and in fact, all wondered why he was even called to Canterbury. Two: There was still some hidden secret among the brothers. And three: Brother Martin might prove to be a problem. Tricky business, this tracking.