Jeri Westerson - Troubled Bones

He heard the soft slip of a shoe on the floor. Yes. There he was. Crispin was fond of telling Jack that whispers never boded well.

He slipped back behind the gates of the quire and made his way past it. He cocked an eye back and saw Martin several pillars down, listening. Jack hurried as quietly as he could, catching an occasional glance at Martin through the pillars and tall seats of the quire as he shot past. Finally, the whispers were closer and he slid his way forward. He crouched down behind a thick stone column abutting scaffolding.

Dom Thomas Chillenden was there and his exasperated whispers were directed to a burly man Jack recognized as one of the stone masons. Jack leaned against the column, trying to sift the echoes from the hushed voices.

Dom Thomas raised a small sack in his hand and reached in. He pulled out several gold pieces that made Jack nearly salivate, and the monk thrust them into the mason’s hands. “There!” said Chillenden with a sneer. “Is this not what you asked for?”

The mason looked at the gold in his hand and considered. “Aye. It is a goodly sum.”

“Is it enough for your silence? I have had enough of your innuendos.”

The mason closed his large hand over the coins and rocked his fist as if weighing them. “My silence, Brother? But of course.” There was more amusement in his voice than commitment.

“Master Nigel.” He moved closer to the man and looked as large and as threatening as he could, though he stood several inches shorter than the broad-shouldered mason. “I will make no more payments. I had your word that this was the final sum. The archbishop will become suspicious.”

The mason chuckled and tucked the gold into the money pouch hanging from his thick leather belt. “I gave you my word, sir, and it is my bond.”

“Your bond!” the monk sniffed. “Extortion comes with honor, does it?”

“I gave you my word,” the mason said loudly. The monk looked around worriedly. “But I’d like to know who’s the more dishonest, Brother : the man who committed the crime”-and he pointed a stubby finger at the monk’s chest-“or the man who witnessed it,” and he thumbed his own. “Fear not. I will not reveal your sins, for you have paid right well for my silence. You have only God to contend with you now.” He straightened his leather tunic, gave the monk a derisive snort, and turned his back on him.

Dom Thomas stood frozen and watched him leave before he seemed to snap out of his torpor and spun on his heel. His quick steps soon disappeared.

Jack slumped against the cold stone and slapped his hand over his mouth, for surely he’d blaspheme himself in the church if he allowed himself to speak. What had he just heard? Dom Thomas was guilty of something. Was it murder? “Jesus preserve us,” he whispered. A monk. Guilty of murder. Of Brother Wilfrid’s? It was almost too much to bear. How could he face him again? He had to get out of the monastery and soon!

He forgot all about Brother Martin as he left the church. He needed to get out and tell Crispin all he had heard. Preoccupied with his thoughts he never noticed Edward Harper until he smacked into him.

“Oh! Master Harper!”

Harper steadied Jack with a smile. But Jack’s thoughts were still of murder and he looked back anxiously over his shoulder toward the church. “You’re up early, Master Harper.”

“There is no reason not to rise with the sun. And sloth in a monastery is not to be borne.”

“But you are a pensioner.” He tried a smile in answer to Harper’s raised brows. “I talked to Father Cyril. It was he who told me your name.”

But Harper must have noticed Jack’s demeanor for he moved forward and touched his shoulder. “Brother John? You look ill. Come. Some refreshment may revive you.”

“I would be pleased,” he said distractedly. Reluctantly, Jack followed the man back to his mean lodgings and entered the little hut. Harper searched for a cup and Jack leaned against the table, fidgeting with the curled parchments and books. His eyes glanced lists of names, charts, long descriptions in French going on about something he didn’t quite understand, like a code. He snapped up his head when Harper brought him a cup.

“Now tell me,” said Harper. “What troubles you?”

Jack paused. Well, I think one of the monks here is a murderer. No, that would never do. He realized he would have to lie again. Harper was like Crispin. Maybe he could help Jack better understand the circumstances. “I have traveled far and wide, to many a monastery,” said Jack carefully. “But I have never been to a cloister where its monks had, well, heretical leanings.”

“Never? I find that hard to believe.”

“Well, some not so obvious. But here, well. To put it another way,” he whispered, “I think there is a fox in the henhouse.”

Harper pulled an indulgent smile and sat with his cup. “Indeed. And what heresy does this fox bark?”

He could think of a number of things, but the only one he could speak aloud he did. “I think he’s a Lollard.”

Harper’s smile froze and gradually faded. “Truly? What makes you say so?”

“Well then. He didn’t seem to think that the missing relics were all that bad a thing.”

He nodded and drank, measuring Jack over the rim of the cup. “Why do you suppose he said that to you?”

“Well, I don’t know. Perhaps because it is easier saying such to a stranger.”

“Perhaps. Still, I think I know of whom you speak.”

“You do?”

“Was this Brother Martin, by any chance?”

Jack rose in his seat. “Aye! You’ve heard him, then?”

“He is most indiscreet. I do not blame a man for a conscience, but a man who takes vows should show more loyalty.”

Jack nodded and wiped the beer froth from his lips with his sleeve. “To me, loyalty is a sacred thing.”

“Indeed? Then I wonder…” Harper glanced at his parchments and looked back at Jack. He seemed to be deciding something. “Never mind. I must be getting back to my garden, as you must be getting back to your prayers.”

Jack put down his empty cup and headed for the door before he slowed down. “Master. What would make a man … commit murder?”

Harper studied Jack a moment. “Surely it is the Devil that puts a man to such treachery. Ever since Cain slew Abel, Mankind has been so cursed. Who but God is ever certain what lies in a man’s heart.”

Jack remembered a similar discussion with Crispin. Slowly, he said, “But did not Cain kill Abel because of his heart’s sadness? Because the Almighty was not as pleased by his gifts as he was with Abel’s? A man’s heart, then, seems to be a fragile thing, not necessarily a thing of sin.”

Harper laid his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “That is a very compassionate assessment. Perhaps you should consider the priesthood, young man.”

Jack backed away. “Oh no! Not for me! I ain’t worthy of that!”

“Certainly men of less worth have taken vows.”

Jack scanned the planes of Harper’s face, the crags of wrinkles and lines, the ruddy windswept complexion, and considered that this man would have done well as a priest, too, except for all his dabbling in his books and strange parchments. Jack turned toward the colorful drawings and all the lines connecting them. He even raised his hand and ran a finger along the leaf of a book lying open. “Master Harper, I wonder if you can tell me again the names of Becket’s murderers.”

Harper raised his white brows. “Of course. Hugh de Morville, Reginald Fitz-Urse, William de Tracy, and Richard le Breton.”

Jack shook his head. “There’s something about them names. It’s all familiar to me.”

“Surely you have heard them many times before. Who does not know the story of the sainted martyr?”