Jeri Westerson - Troubled Bones

He peered into the dark sacristy lit only by a tall window. “Father Cyril? Father Cyril?”

Cyril poked his head from behind a screen. “Brother John? Have you come to be shriven?”

“Aye. It- Aye.” He shuffled forward and took a seat opposite the screen, pulling the scratchy yoke of his cassock away from his throat. He sat a long time in silence, looking up at the dusky vaulted ceiling and waiting for doom to descend. Couldn’t he just leave or would it draw too much suspicion on an already jittery monastery?

“Brother?” ventured Cyril after a pause. “Of what sins would you be shriven?”

Jack dug his fingers into his thighs. How could he confess that he was living a lie for the past two days, deceiving everyone he met? But how could he receive the sacrament if he lied in confession? Hell for certain . He shook his head and even jerked up from his seat to leave, but stopped and eased back down.

“Well, I have been lying, Father.”

“Oh? In what way?”

“In every way. But I can’t … I can’t tell you.”

Cyril sighed heavily through the screen. “If you cannot tell me I cannot absolve you.”

“I know. That is a problem. But if it is any solace, I am lying for a good reason.”

“One cannot sin to do good. It is against God’s law.”

“It is, is it?” Jack bit his lip. He slid to the edge of his seat and bent over. “If only I could tell you and you couldn’t tell no one.”

“But of course, Brother John. You of all people must very well know that the sacramental seal binds me. I can never tell a living soul, or suffer great consequences.”

“Oh. I … forgot.” Jack swallowed hard. “Well then, you’re certain I can tell you anything and you can’t say aught?”

“Yes. Quite certain.”

“Not even to the archbishop?”

“Certainly not the archbishop. No one. No matter what you confessed.” He peered around the screen again. “Are things done differently in Suffolk?”

“No, Brother. Father.” Hell . “Right, then.” Cyril withdrew again, his shadow bobbing slightly on the wooden screen. “I’ve … I’ve been lying … about who I am. I ain’t truly a monk at all. I’m the apprentice of Crispin Guest who’s investigating the murders and theft of the saint’s bones. He sent me here to spy on the lot of you.”

Cyril’s head slowly emerged from behind the screen again. His eyes were as wide as they could go. Jack glared at him. “Ain’t you supposed to be behind the screen?” he whispered.

Cyril ducked back and made some sounds until he finally asked in a hoarse voice. “Are you quite certain?”

“Of course I’m certain! I’m no sarding monk! Beggin’ your pardon. I didn’t mean to lie but me master begged me do it and it was to discover a murderer and thief and all. I reckon God could forgive that. Can’t He?”

Cyril was silent. Jack shifted on his chair and stretched his neck trying to peer over the screen. “Cyril … Father?”

“Just wait a moment.” Cyril made some more sounds as if he were praying. Finally he intoned, “You … you must perform an act of Christian charity, remain on only bread and water for three days, and, er, make a donation to the monastery for your deceit.”

“Aye, sir.”

Cyril muttered under his breath before he said in something of a flurry, “ Et ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti .”

Jack crossed himself. “Amen.”

The monk peered around the screen again. “How long do you plan to stay?”

“Only till after Mass. I am sorry for deceiving you, Father Cyril. Truly.”

“Hmph! You don’t suspect me, do you?” said Cyril

“Oh no! You don’t seem guilty of aught to me.” He tried to smile.

Cyril made a hasty cross over Jack and ducked away again.

Jack rose and walked uncertainly toward the door. He reached the sacristy’s entrance and paused. “Well, farewell, then.”

All he saw was Cyril’s hand waving from the edge of the screen. “Yes, yes. God be with you. Now go.”

“I’m going,” he muttered.

When the bells were rung again ( too many sarding bells ) Jack took his place in the chapter house, the church no longer being fit for Mass. He sat next to Cyril’s place but the monk was singing the Mass with the old prior, who, with trembling hands, consecrated the Hosts along with the other priest monks. Jack partook with a relatively clear conscience. He slipped a glance at Dom Thomas silently praying in his stall before Cyril returned to his own seat by Jack, eyeing him fitfully.

After Mass he said his good-byes and had almost reached the door when Dom Thomas, approaching in great rolling strides, stopped him. “Why, Brother John. You must have been long on the road. For shame. You have neglected your tonsure.”

“My what?” His hand grabbed for the scalp of his head. The crowns of all the monks’ heads were shaved bald, denoting their purity. Jack’s was still vigorous with ginger curls.

“But we can help you.” He took hold of Jack’s arm and grasped it tightly. “How hospitable would we appear if we did not barber you before you depart?”

“Oh, don’t trouble yourself, Brother,” he said, trying to pull away, but the monk’s iron grip of his arm made that impossible. “I’ll attend to it as soon as I might.”

“No trouble. Brother Matthew here can do the job. Bring a bowl and razor, won’t you, Brother Matthew?”

Jack turned a scathing glare on Dom Thomas, but the monk’s lips only curled up into a triumphant smile.

Crispin could think of nowhere to take Chaucer but to the archbishop’s lodge where a monk was dispatched to bring the sheriff. Chaucer scowled and said nothing, but Crispin was grateful his friend had gone with him without protest. He truly didn’t think he knew what he would have done had Chaucer fought the situation.

The sheriff of county Kent, Thomas Brokhull, happened to be in Canterbury, and he would arrive in an hour. But the archbishop urged Crispin to question Chaucer. Refusing, Crispin stared into the hearth, listening only to the crackling flames, the logs snap, and the sticks sizzle. How could he even look at Geoffrey! Did he think his friend was guilty? He didn’t know anymore, nauseated by the whole affair.

Chaucer followed him with his eyes around the room. Crispin stabbed a look at him and quickly turned away.

Finally, Geoffrey spoke. “I’m to submit to the sheriff without so much as an explanation?”

Crispin turned. “I’d rather have the sheriff here. A neutral party. For your sake, it is best.”

“For my sake? Now we are concerned with my affairs?” He faced the archbishop. “If my friend Crispin will say nothing, perhaps his Excellency will indulge me? I take it I am being accused of a murder. Master Guest intimated that Brother Wilfrid was killed.”

“If you plead guilty now your soul will have mercy,” said Courtenay evenly.

“Right now, I am most concerned with my neck,” and he eased his hand across his throat.

“Just keep still, Geoffrey, until the sheriff arrives!” hissed Crispin.

“I’m not particularly anxious to wait,” said Chaucer. “I demand leave to send a message to his grace the duke, who will no doubt get a message to the king.”

Courtenay eased back in his chair. “In good time.”

“Now!”

Courtenay rose and pressed his hands to the table. “Do not threaten me, Master Chaucer. Your life balances on a thread. A good wind might just hack it in half.”

Crispin clenched and unclenched his fists. Why couldn’t the two of them just keep their mouths shut!

A knock on the door. Crispin sighed with his entire body. It couldn’t have come soon enough. He went himself and opened the door and looked into the face of a stocky man with sandy brown hair that wisped over tiny eyes. The man measured Crispin and gave a brief and polite smile. “You must be Crispin Guest. I am Thomas Brokhull.”