Jeri Westerson - Troubled Bones

“Oh yes. See,” and he raised Jack’s flaccid arm. “Plenty of room here. Also the waist. His belt should conceal the small amount of extra material.”

“Good. Good. I am pleased. And where is mine?”

“Right here, sir.”

The tailor scurried to the back room leaving them alone. Jack raised his eyes slowly to Crispin. “You bought me a new coat,” he whispered. “You … you-”

“That old tunic of yours was an embarrassment. And if you are going to be a Tracker you’d best look the part.”

He turned at Turpin’s approach but he was thrown nearly to the ground when Jack’s arms flung around him. Jack burst into tears, and though he tried to tell him his heartfelt thanks Crispin couldn’t understand a word he said. He peeled the boy off of him and held him at arm’s length. “Enough!” He stiffened. “The archbishop may be a bastard, but he at least pays me decently.”

He unbuttoned his cotehardie and flung it to the ground and gratefully shrugged into the new cotehardie Turpin held out for him. The tailor buttoned it for him while Crispin buckled his belt over it and turned to Jack. “Well?”

Jack sniffed and wiped his eyes with his new sleeve before he assessed Crispin’s coat with a perplexed expression. “It … looks just like your old coat, sir. It’s even the same scarlet color.”

Crispin adjusted his old leather chaperon hood over his shoulders. “Of course. I like scarlet.”

Jack shrugged and grabbed his own hood, seeming to remember he needed it to cover his shaved head.

With new stockings and new shirts for the both of them slung over Jack’s arm, they left the tailor’s just as dusk softened the streets of Canterbury. Out of the corner of his eye, Crispin noticed Jack stroking his new coat as if it were a pelt of ermine. He supposed Jack couldn’t remember a time when anyone bought him anything. The notion sobered Crispin like none other. He stared straight ahead, doing his best to clear his mind of familial thoughts he’d rather not have.

“I told the sheriff about Bonefey,” he said conversationally to the boy.

Jack perked up and nodded like a judge. “Will he arrest him, then?”

“No, I told him not to.”

“Why ever not? He sounds like a churl of the worst kind.”

“He is. But if he has anything to do with the missing bones, I would prefer to watch him to see if he may lead us to them.”

“Is that likely, sir? I mean, it’s not as if he’d sell them or even need to. If he had them and was a true Lollard, would he not destroy them?”

Crispin blinked. “Sell them?”

“I said ‘destroy them,’ sir, not sell them.”

“No. But I can think of a pair who might sell them. If they had them.”

“That Pardoner and Summoner. Thick as thieves, them two.”

“Thick as thieves.”

“You don’t mean they might have stolen the bones?”

“Since it isn’t exactly clear when the bones disappeared, it is difficult to say. I wish I knew when they went missing.”

“Perhaps you should call on Master Edward. He’s a pensioner in the monastery. He has his theories.”

“Perhaps later. My concern is to talk again with Dame Marguerite. I must fix these circumstances in my mind and quickly in order to clear Geoffrey of all charges.”

“What will you speak with Dame Marguerite about, sir?”

“To see if she is any clearer on Madam Eglantine’s assailant. With some time past she might be more lucid.”

“May I … may I go with you when you do? So’s I can, er, see how you do it.”

“I suppose so.”

They reached the inn when the shadows had fallen completely and entered into the golden warmth. Harry Bailey greeted Crispin with a salute from his perch by the stairs. Obviously he had taken to heart Crispin’s admonition to watch Bonefey. “Master Bailey. Is all well?”

“Indeed, Crispin, it is. Sir Philip expressed an interest in leaving the inn and Canterbury once he knew you were gone. Our friend Gough disabused him of that notion. Rather heartily, I think.”

“Oh? Where is Master Gough now?”

“Edwin is sitting on Sir Philip.”

“Not literally?”

Bailey’s face broke into a wide smile. “Yes. Quite literally.”

He beamed. “Well then. There is no fear that he bolted or will any time soon. Is Dame Marguerite about?”

Bailey’s face fell. “Poor soul. She wanders in the back garden or stays in her room. I feel quite aggrieved for her.”

He measured the time. She was probably in her room. Maybe tomorrow would be better. He looked at Jack and decided. “It has been a long day. I think I will retire.”

“What of food?” said Bailey. “Shall I have the innkeeper send victuals to you?”

“Yes. Thank you, Master Harry.”

He trudged up the stairs with Jack in tow and entered his room. He realized he had scarce spent any time there in all the days he’d been in Canterbury.

Jack sat hard onto his cot. “I miss our London lodgings.”

“I never thought I’d say it, but so do I.” He sat on his own bed and wondered if he wanted to bother undressing.

In the morning, Crispin stared at the sword. He had spent the early hours cleaning it with an oiled cloth, taking all the blood and bits of bone from the blade. Still scratched and worn, the sword at least looked more presentable. He studied the pommel, wondering how on earth he was going to find the owner.

Jack was up, making a wide path around the sword and straightening the room and clearing away last night’s supper things.

He reluctantly set the blade aside and stood. “Come, Jack. It is time to ask our questions.” They left the room and he was about to head toward Dame Marguerite’s room when he heard raised voices below. Crispin leaned down over the stair rail to see what the matter was and sprinted down the steps.

Like dogs in an alley, Maufesour and Chanticleer were at each other’s throats, brandishing their knives.

“What goes on here?” bellowed Crispin above their voices.

They turned, but neither lowered their daggers. “He’s a thief!” cried Chanticleer, gesturing with his blade at the Summoner.

“Ha!” the Summoner rejoined. “Look who speaks! A master thief if ever there was one.”

Chanticleer lunged for him, but Crispin grabbed his arm and spun him about. “Now, now. Is there no honor amongst thieves? Keep it civil.”

Even with mouths poised to speak, they both seemed to realize something at the same time and fell silent, eyeing each other.

Crispin smirked. “Will you not speak of your troubles, gentlemen? There was an accusation of thievery.…”

But neither would say a word. They shared a look again and even offered artificial smiles. “A, er, minor disagreement over the sharing of funds,” said Maufesour. He urged Chanticleer to respond with a waggling of his brows.

Chanticleer got the hint. “Oh yes! A disagreement. To be sure.”

Crispin slid his arms over both sets of shoulders. “See how much better it is when two talk it out rather than fight? Sheath your daggers, gentlemen. And sit. I would speak with you two.”

“Oh, but we have more business to conduct in the city, Master Guest,” sputtered Maufesour. “We must attend to that.”

“Oh yes,” Chanticleer agreed, trying to edge out from under Crispin’s grasp. “You would have no argument to that, certainly.”

Crispin strong-armed them to a bench and forced them down. “We’ll see. After I speak to you.”

Both men stared sourly at the table. The other tavern patrons moved guardedly away to their own tables.

Crispin drew his knife and toyed with the sharp blade. “It is interesting that I have repeatedly enjoined the pilgrims to remain at the inn, yet time and time again, you two have flouted my orders.”