Jeri Westerson - Troubled Bones

“Lord Sheriff,” said Crispin and stepped aside with a bow.

Brokhull strode into the room and bowed to the archbishop. “Excellency.” The archbishop nodded in reply. The sheriff turned to Chaucer. “Why was I summoned?”

“There have been two murders in the cathedral,” said Crispin. “And this man, Geoffrey Chaucer, is being accused of one of them.”

“Both,” said the archbishop.

Crispin spun and glared at him but restrained from speaking.

Brokhull addressed Chaucer. “You are Geoffrey Chaucer ? The duke of Lancaster’s poet?” Chaucer bowed graciously as if he were at court. “By Saint Thomas! What goes on here?”

“Murder,” said Crispin.

“Lord Sheriff,” said Geoffrey. “I demand to send a message to my Lord of Gaunt. He should be informed that his servant is in peril of his life.”

“Surely it isn’t that,” said Brokhull, noticeably nervous.

Chaucer strolled a circle around Crispin. “Apparently so, Lord Sheriff. My very dear friend here thinks me guilty of murdering one of these monks.”

The sheriff looked from Chaucer to Crispin and his expression changed. Crispin knew exactly what he was thinking: Should Brokhull take the word of the court’s poet or that of a traitor?

He closed his eyes in consternation. “I have only done what Archbishop Courtenay commanded of me. I have discharged Master Chaucer into the care of the Lord Sheriff. Now, am I free to go so that I may find the true killer?”

Brokhull bristled. “True killer? If you do not think Master Chaucer guilty then why must I arrest him?”

Courtenay lifted the dagger from his table. Chaucer saw it for the first time and his face went white. “This was recovered from the throat of our dear Brother Wilfrid,” said Courtenay tightly. “Is this your dagger, Master Chaucer?”

Chaucer stiffened. “It … is.” He darted a desperate look at Crispin. “But I do not know how it was used so foully. It has been missing from my room for days. Someone must have stolen it.”

Courtenay gathered the red gown rolled into a bundle, also on his desk where Crispin deposited it. “And this gown with the tear?”

“That … is also mine.”

“Be so kind as to tell us about the tear, Master Guest,” said Courtenay in an inappropriately jovial tenor.

Crispin stood against the far wall in the shadows. “When I examined the locked Corona tower after the first murder-”

Brokhull moved closer. “What first murder?”

“One of the pilgrims. The prioress Madam Eglantine de Mooreville. Two nights ago.”

Brokhull stomped toward the archbishop. “I have heard nothing of this crime, Excellency. When were you planning on informing me?”

“It is an ecclesiastical matter. She was a prioress-”

“And the other victim your monk. What is the difference?”

“The difference is Geoffrey Chaucer!” His arm shot up and stabbed a finger at him. “This heretic’s knife was found in the throat of my monk. There is a greater conspiracy afoot. More than heresy. More than the Church can root out.”

Silently, Brokhull regarded all in the room. “Have you searched this man?” he asked of Crispin. He shook his head. Brokhull strode up to Chaucer and stood toe to toe with him. “Sir, surrender your scrip.”

Chaucer took a deep breath and shot another desperate glance at Crispin. He unbuttoned the pouch’s straps and handed it to the sheriff. Brokhull dipped his hand in and removed coins, a pouch of more coins, a pilgrim’s badge, and a key.

“Wait!” Crispin hurried across the room and pulled his Church key from his own pouch and snatched up the other.

They were identical.

His stomach churned. He turned a deadly glare on Chaucer.

Geoffrey’s face paled to a sickly gray. “I would like to confess,” he said suddenly, voice strained.

Crispin’s heart leapt to his throat. “ What? ”

Courtenay’s face lit with triumph. Geoffrey turned to the sheriff. “I would like to confess … but only to Crispin Guest.”

Brokhull, already up to his ears in confusion, shook his head. “This is all highly irregular.”

“I will only give my confession to Crispin Guest. Alone.”

Crispin shook his head. “Don’t do this, Geoffrey.”

“Well, Lord Sheriff?” said Chaucer. “Surely there is a place…”

“The Westgate tower is not yet complete. There is another prison across town. But”-he raised his face to the archbishop-“my lord, are there not cells in the monastery? Cells that lock from the outside?”

“Yes, yes.” His mouth curved. “And I would be pleased to house such a prisoner here. He deserves our undivided attention.”

“No doubt,” muttered Chaucer. “Then we may use a cell here. Agreed?” He looked at the sheriff for confirmation.

The sheriff nodded. “If you don’t mind, I will accompany you.”

The archbishop called for his clerk who escorted the sheriff, Crispin, and Chaucer to the monastery door. They took corridors and stairs to the monks’ quarters and found the last cell unoccupied. The sheriff asked the clerk for a key and was given the one on the monk’s belt. Brokhull gestured for Chaucer and Crispin to enter, and when they had, he locked them in. “Give a shout when you are finished, Master Guest,” said the sheriff.

They heard his steps recede and finally raised their eyes to one another. “What addlepated idea have you hatched, Chaucer?”

At last, Chaucer was visibly shaken. Alone with Crispin, he could drop his façade. “Lord have mercy. What have I gotten myself into?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.”

“First of all-” Geoffrey drew back his fist and swung. Crispin’s face exploded with pain and he staggered back, holding his chin.

“What the hell was that for!”

“That’s for accusing me in the first place. And second”-he nodded-“I can certainly see why you did.”

“Then why strike me?” He held his chin, hoping his double vision would soon clear.

“I had to do something.” Sitting heavily on the straw cot, Geoffrey rested his cheeks in his hands. “For the love of Christ, what am I to do?”

“You can start by explaining yourself. Why do you have this key?”

He looked up with his hands still cradling his face, mashing his cheeks together. His mustache wept over his fingers. “Well, I suppose that is in order.” He breathed raggedly. “You see, his grace the duke was worried about Becket’s relics. He knew there was a plot afoot to steal or destroy them, and so … so he sent me, well, to fetch them.”

“ Fetch them? Indeed. His new lapdog would do so.”

“Don’t, Cris. I haven’t the wits to match barbs with you now.”

“So go on. You arrived a fortnight ago and stole the keys in order to make a copy.”

He froze. “How did you know?” Crispin rolled his eyes. “Never mind. You’re the Tracker. I concede it.”

“Why didn’t you steal the bones then and there?”

“No opportunity. And I needed to measure the circumstances. I thought it best to return and travel with another group of pilgrims to mask the deed.”

“Very well. You hid in the Corona tower until all were gone and you caught your gown in the door.”

“I’d forgotten that until I found you in my room. You are very good at what you do.”

“Save it for later, Chaucer. Explain what happened. Did you kill the Prioress?”

“No, damn you! Of course I didn’t. Nor did I kill poor little Wilfrid.”

“Poor little Wilfrid was frightened of you. Did you threaten him earlier?”

“No.”

“This isn’t much of a confession.”

“I’m getting to that. I had no intentions toward the Prioress. Are we clear on that?”