Jeri Westerson - Troubled Bones

“Naturally. And their loyalty.”

“Their loyalty. Indeed. The battle cannot be won without it.”

“My lord, I am at a loss as to your meaning.”

He turned. His blue eyes were deep sapphires. “You asked about my monks.”

“Yes. The monks of the priory. This is their church.” He sensed Courtenay’s hesitation. “They are faithful monks, my lord, are they not?”

“They call you the Tracker.” Courtenay moved from the crucifix and returned to his table. He trailed his fingers along the documents piled there. He picked one up, glanced at it, and set it down again. “My treasurer and his assistant do much of the task of guarding the relics, but I must tell you an unpleasant truth.” His hand dropped away from the desk and fell against his robe. He raised those sapphire eyes to Crispin again. They burned with a cold fire. Crispin suddenly had a feeling of raw power emanating from those eyes, reflecting the true heart and soul of the man who owned them. “I believe one of my monks to be a Lollard heretic, Master Guest. I want you to root him out and bring him to me.”

Crispin grumbled to himself all the way back to the inn. Tombs, relics, heretical monks. Sixpence a day wasn’t enough compensation.

Always better to talk out the problem. Where the hell was Tucker?

He pushed open the inn’s door and was stopped short by the press of pilgrims talking, laughing, shouting. The season had most definitely begun.

Crispin recognized most of them as the pilgrims he’d seen at the shrine. There were the two nuns, one older in a black habit and one much younger in a brown veil and gown. They were talking to a priest, the round fellow in prosperous garb. Beside them but not with them was the well-shaped female of the merchant class he recalled from the shrine, talking animatedly to a short, stout fellow hoisting a beaker of ale, who looked to be a tradesman of some sort. He nodded his head and listened to her speech but his shuffling feet seemed to indicate he would rather be skirting away.

The other that Crispin had taken for a tradesman was a tall, lank fellow dressed like a middling merchant. He stood by the shorter man, but on closer examination he appeared to be alone and merely listening to the conversations of the others. He kept a surreptitious eye on two skulking men from the shrine who were still talking secretly to each other in a far corner. One was a tall blond man and the other his shorter, squatter companion.

And there, the wealthy Franklin from Becket’s tomb, replete with gold chains over his scarlet robes. He stood before the fire as if he owned it, warming his bejeweled fingers.

“Master Crispin!” Jack rushed forward, a beaker of ale in one hand. His normally pale complexion flushed red from spirits. “Look at the merry folk who are here! All pilgrims, and they have just lately come from London, too!”

Jack had probably never been this far from home, he realized, and he allowed himself a momentary pang of empathy for the boy.

“Cris! What kept you?”

He flinched. He couldn’t help it. He turned to see Chaucer bearing down on him. Chaucer clapped him on the back and then left his arm draped lazily over his shoulder. Ears warming, Crispin did his best to shrug him off by pulling Jack forward. “This is Jack Tucker,” he said curtly. “My protégé.”

Chaucer focused skeptical eyes on Jack. “Protégé?”

“He helps me solve puzzles. Catch criminals. Surely you must have heard-”

“Oh yes! The celebrated ‘Tracker.’ There’s a poem in that, I’ll warrant. Like a modern-day Robin Hood.”

“Put me in one of your poems and you’re a dead man,” he growled.

“Now, now Cris. Mustn’t lose that famous temper of yours. It does get you into trouble, doesn’t it?” He smiled, but not sincerely. He turned from Crispin to study Jack. “And so, Young Jack. Where do you hail from?”

“From London, good sir.”

“And pray, what family?” His gaze traveled well over Jack’s threadbare tunic with its worn laces.

“No family, sir. Master Crispin took me in from the street. I was little better than a beggar. Taught me to read and write, he did.”

“Taught you to read and write?” Chaucer stroked his light brown beard and aimed his eye at Crispin. “How democratic of him.”

Crispin put his hands on Jack’s shoulders and began to steer him away. “If you’ll pardon us, Geoffrey. I have business to attend to.” He didn’t wait for Chaucer to answer.

“What is it, Master Crispin?” Jack asked softly when they’d moved to a quiet corner. “What have you discovered?”

Near Jack’s ear, he said, “The archbishop fears the bones of Saint Thomas are in danger of theft or damage. He wants me to guard them.”

“Blind me! What does he take you for? A mastiff?”

“I wondered that myself.”

“What will you do?”

“I don’t know. There is more-”

“The dinner will be ready anon. Can’t it wait till after we’ve eaten?”

Crispin scanned the room of chattering pilgrims, the warm fire, the inviting aroma drifting in from the kitchens, and considered. Maybe a quick bite would do him good. He could think better on a full stomach.

Just then the innkeeper called for the guests to be seated at a long table in the center of the room. There was a general sound of affirmation before shoes scuffed and garments rustled as they made their way around the table, seating themselves. The pleasant-faced innkeeper scurried from cup to cup, pouring wine from one jug and ale from another.

Crispin sat slightly away from the others while Jack stood behind him, trying for the appearance of a proper servant.

The priest scanned the room before his gaze landed on Crispin and he shuffled into place beside him, scooting closer with his cup in hand. “I am Father Gelfridus le Britton,” he said cheerfully. “You seem familiar with our Master Chaucer. He accompanied us from London, you know. Just a pilgrim like the rest of us.” He chuckled. “A noteworthy gentleman. A man of wit and good humor. The stories he told! He reminds me fondly of my days as a schoolboy. I read many a tale in those days. The poetry, the histories, the philosophers. Seldom do I get an opportunity to read such like anymore.”

“Nor do I,” answered Crispin. “Those books are long gone.”

“Owned them, did you? What I would not give for a fine library.”

“Your parish has no library?”

The priest cut a glance back at the tall nun and then brought up a guilty expression as if he had not meant to look at her. “Well, no. I am the nun’s priest, sir. Though the prioress’s tastes tend toward the classical, she finds it impractical to own books.”

“Perhaps she simply has no stomach for overindulgence. ‘A priory in a humble state can only boast in Christ, not in its riches,’ so the saying goes.”

The priest, a man of Crispin’s age though a little shorter and broader, adjusted the collar of his blue robe and straightened his cap. “That sounds dangerously like the opinion of a Lollard, sir.”

Jack leaned between them to pour wine. He offered some to the priest. Crispin noticed the boy’s cheek bulging with bread, which he was trying to chew quickly. “Not at all, Father Gelfridus. I am no Lollard.”

“What’s a Lollard?” Jack whispered, mouth still full.

Gelfridus turned toward Jack and tapped the boy’s crumb-dusted chest with a finger. “Don’t concern yourself with that lot, young man. You just follow your priests as you should.”

“Now, now, Father,” said Crispin. “‘All men by nature desire knowledge.’ And Jack is as hungry as the next man.”

Jack had managed to down his mouthful. He crooked his thumb in Crispin’s direction. “That was Aristotle, that.”