Jeri Westerson - Troubled Bones

“Aye. But the names. You’ve got me vexed about this curse, sure enough, master. It’s got me to thinking.”

“Well, don’t let it distract you too much from your duties. Wilfrid was also fond of spending time with me, much to the consternation of Dom Thomas. I would not see you in similar straights.”

“Never fear for me, master. I owe no allegiance to Dom Thomas.”

He nodded. “Will I see you tomorrow, Little Friar?”

“No, good sir. I think this will be our farewell. I hope to leave this afternoon.”

“So soon?”

“Well, with no relics to see it is hardly worth the stay. You see, I am no Lollard.”

“Nor am I. I have seen for myself the power of relics.”

“As have I. If only my former master were as convinced.”

“He is not a Lollard sympathizer by any chance?”

“Oh no, sir. But he has had his fair share of relics and they are sore trying to him. Er…” Jack realized too late that he’d spoken too much yet again. “Well, I must take my leave. God be with you, master.”

“And with you.”

Jack made his way back to the main cloister and saw Cyril across the greensward. He hurried to him with a greeting.

“Brother John.”

“Father Cyril. Where might I find Dom Thomas?”

Dom Thomas Chillenden refused to look up from his books, taking his time carefully scrawling numbers into columns. Jack rocked on his feet, staring at the monk’s bushy brows, his fringe of hair, his gnarled fingers curled around the goose quill. The treasurer had him standing there a long time. Jack wondered how much longer. He didn’t feel it his place to confront the monk, and indeed, if he were a murderer, he’d rather Crispin do the honors. But he must complete his duty so that he could report back to his master. “There are important matters I would discuss with you, Dom Thomas,” he said tightly.

The monk’s eyes looked up. Slowly, he laid his quill aside, folded his hands before him, and raised his chin. “Very well, then. Go on.”

Flustered suddenly at the attention, Jack adjusted his cincture and pulled at the yoke of his cassock. “First of all, I think I have discovered the identity of your Lollard.”

The brows rose. “Have you? That was quick work, Brother John .”

“There’s no need for that,” said Jack with a scowl. “We know who I am. I’d ’a thought you’d be interested to know who the heretic was amongst you. Makes me think that maybe he ain’t the only one.”

Dom Thomas snapped to his feet. Jack cringed back. “You insolent cur! If you did not have the protection of the archbishop I should strike you down!”

“Now that ain’t very Christian, is it?” Jack strained to get his breath under control and pasted on a confident sneer. “What makes you so angry?”

Thomas pushed at his books so violently they skidded across the table. He tramped forward and came to rest a foot from Jack, his nostrils flaring, fists tight to his sides. “Because I have known of these difficulties for quite some time and my pleas for help have gone unanswered. Until now. Now suddenly the archbishop acquiesces to my wishes. Why? I can only speculate and none of it bodes well.”

Jack drew back. He expected an outburst, just not one with those sentiments. “So … you knew there was a Lollard here undermining the shrine?”

“Yes,” he hissed. He eyed Jack with a deepening scowl. “And I don’t need the lackey of the likes of Crispin Guest telling me my job.”

“I ain’t-I’m not telling you your job. I am merely doing mine. Do you wish to know or not?”

Dom Thomas sighed deeply and lowered his head. “Yes.”

Jack moved closer and spoke in a conspiratorial murmur, “It is Brother Martin.”

The monk’s face blotched with fury. “I know that! Do you think I’m a complete fool?”

Jack’s jaw dropped several inches. “If you knew that then why didn’t you do anything about it?”

“What could I do? He is a good worker. He makes no trouble. For the most part, he has kept his opinions to himself, though lately I have noticed his becoming more vocal on … certain topics.”

“Like the martyr’s bones, perchance? And his stealing them away? What about murder? Does that warrant your attention?” Jack hoped to provoke a reaction and kept his hand on his dagger just in case.

The fury on the monk’s face subsided and in fact drained of color. His eyes drew on a sunken, forlorn appearance. He collapsed on the edge of his table, arms hanging limply. “No,” he whispered. “I refuse to believe he had anything to do with these deaths. Least of all for Brother Wilfrid’s.” He raked his hand over his eyes.

Again, Dom Thomas did not react as Jack expected. If speaking of murder did not make Dom Thomas wrought with denials, then what was behind that scene in the church?

Jack lowered his hand from his knife and softly offered, “I have learned through these last two years with my master that anyone can be under suspicion. Perhaps something has changed in Brother Martin to force his hand.”

Thomas shook his head and then stopped. “There was something last year. He was one of several monks to accompany the archbishop.”

“Where?”

“To oversee a trial.”

“God blind me!” Jack straightened. “I’ll wager my last farthing I know which trial that was!” He ran to the door, grabbed the ring and paused. “Oh! I almost forgot. Why is it the monks here don’t trust my master?”

Dom Thomas seemed to have recovered himself and his half-closed lids and customary snarl returned. “Because he is a Lollard sympathizer.”

“Where’d you get that fool notion? He isn’t. He’s just a … a thoughtful man. Likes to ponder new ideas. It was the duke that was the Lollard and my master ain’t- isn’t in the duke’s retinue no more. But my master is a friend of Saint Thomas, of that you can be certain. He came here to root out the evil, not sanction it.”

Something flickered in Dom Thomas’s eyes and then disappeared again. “That has yet to be proved.”

Jack started to make a gesture, but dropped his hand. He shook his head, trying to keep his anger in check. “You’re the fool. He’s not the one harboring secrets. What was it anyway that got Wilfrid so upset that he wanted to come to my master and tell him?”

The monk lurched forward. “ What ?”

Jack’s hand was on his scabbard again. “Before he died, Wilfrid was frightened. Not just of-” He almost said “Geoffrey Chaucer” but decided against it. “He was frightened of something in the monastery. Something Edward Harper said was too much for him to keep secret. What did you have him do?”

“I think it time you leave.”

“Answer the question!”

He drew himself up. “I am not required to answer to you ! Begone, I say.”

“Very well. I leave this monastery still suspicious of certain persons,” and he screwed his eye and aimed it at the monk.

“Wait! You can’t leave in the middle of the day like this. Mass is in an hour. You must stay for the sacrament or it will appear suspicious.”

Jack stopped at the doorway. “Mass?”

“Yes.” A thought seemed to have occurred to the monk that lightened his mood. Jack was instantly wary. “And to properly receive the communion bread,” Thomas continued, “you must be shriven.”

Jack blanched. “Sh-shriven?”

Dom Thomas smiled. The bit was in the other’s mouth now. “Yes. I suggest you go to Father Cyril since you seem so keen on him.”

“Now wait-”

“Will you take the Host with the sin of deception on your heart? Surely damnation is not your preference.”

Jack wobbled on the balls of his feet. “I-” It had been a while since he’d received the holy bread. And longer since he went to confession. But with Dom Thomas suddenly looking more authoritative-even for a criminal-Jack did not feel he was at liberty to argue. He shuffled out of the treasurer’s office and wandered down the breezy cloister. He asked a monk where he might find Father Cyril and was informed that he was shriving in the sacristy, and after finding out where that was, Jack made a reluctant trudge toward the church.