Jeri Westerson - Troubled Bones

Gelfridus seemed surprised and rested an arm on the table.

Jack was proving to be a resilient pupil, but had yet to learn when it was appropriate for him to join a conversation. Still, it was a good excuse to bring the subject into the open. “Lollards, Jack, are those followers of John Wycliffe, a philosopher and theologian at Oxford-”

Gelfridus made a disgusted sound. “So you call him, sir. He does not deserve your charity.”

“Nevertheless,” he continued, aiming his remarks toward Jack, who had somehow secured an onion and was eating it with relish. “He denounces the influence of clerics and even the pope’s authority. He claims that Christ is the only pope and he further argues that the Church owns too much land, too many riches, and has too much power.”

Jack eyed Gelfridus in his new robes and rings but said nothing.

“Wycliffe found many supporters,” muttered the priest. “His staunchest is his grace the duke of Lancaster.”

“Lancaster?” cried Jack.

Crispin kept his eyes on Gelfridus. “Any man may take a long, hard look at the vastness of Church property and perhaps invent philosophies of his own.”

“Yes,” said the priest. “With one hand these great men pay lip service to the Church and at the same time plot its destruction. All for greed.”

“Not all,” said another voice.

Crispin turned his head and recognized the wealthy Franklin he’d noticed earlier.

“Master Crispin, may I present Sir Philip Bonefey.”

Crispin inclined his head.

“You have something to say, Sir Philip?” asked Gelfridus.

“Only that a man of property may have a better sense of excess, good Father,” he said taking a seat. “The Franciscans, for instance, preach poverty. They do not wear fine robes and ride fine horses, for the most part.”

Gelfridus rose in his seat. “Sir Philip! Do you presume to ascribe temporal laws to priests and clerics?”

“I presume nothing. I merely state-”

“Gentlemen”-Crispin opened his hands-“I am instructing this lad here on the finer points of Lollardism. Any notes you care to add should be done with a civil tongue. How is he to learn if all questions come to blows?”

Sir Philip looked at Gelfridus, and then they both looked at Jack. The Franklin’s face broke into a smile, and he clapped his hand on the table. “Bless me, Master Crispin. But you are right. Instruct!”

“Don’t forget pilgrimages,” put in Father Gelfridus. “These damnable Lollards declare that pilgrimages are idolatrous.”

Jack turned to Crispin.

“That is so.”

Frowning, Jack edged forward. “But if his grace the duke was a Lollard supporter, then why aren’t you, Master?”

“I was not always in agreement with everything his grace professed. Though I find some of the Lollard doctrine intriguing.”

“And Eve found the fruit from the forbidden tree just as ‘intriguing,’ Master Guest,” said Gelfridus. “Remember, only a hairsbreadth lies between rhetoric and heresy.”

“I do remember, Father.”

They all fell silent. The dinner arrived and the pilgrims readied their eating knives. The prioress and her young chaplain sat opposite Crispin, while Sir Philip Bonefey found a place beside the priest. The round woman with the gat-toothed smile sat beside Crispin to his right.

Jack remained behind Crispin, clutching the wine jug.

One last traveler arrived and fit himself into the bench. “God’s wounds,” said Crispin, smiling at the round-faced man with the rosy nose. “And what brings you, good sir?”

The man smiled. “Master Crispin!” He leaned over the table and gave the offered hand a hearty shake. “It has been many a day, sir.” He gestured toward the rest of the company. “I saw these good pilgrims on their way to Canterbury from my inn and I told the wife it was time I ventured there again myself. And so you see me now.”

Crispin turned to Tucker. “Jack. This is Harry Bailey, proprietor of the Tabard Inn in Southwark.”

Jack ducked his head in a bow. “A pleasure, good sir. God keep you.”

Servants came from the kitchens bearing platters of roasted pullets and haunches of lamb, onions in an almond milk broth, cheese, and loaves stuffed with nuts and meats.

He felt Jack tense behind him. This was possibly the grandest feast Jack had ever partaken of. But Jack appeared determined to play his role, and he served and cut slices of meat for Crispin as Crispin had instructed him-as he had done himself for Lancaster when he started as a page in his household.

With his knife, Crispin jabbed the meat and fed himself the generous slices. The spices and herbs blended together in his mouth. A full bowl of wine sat before him. For the moment, he was content.

The prioress picked delicately at her food, eating as daintily as a bird. The nun beside her did not quite have the same aplomb, but tried to mirror her prioress’s table manners. She lifted her horn cup to her lips and reddened upon discovering it empty.

Jack scrambled around the table and quickly offered to pour her beer. She took it without looking up at him. Crispin watched Jack detachedly until he noted the woeful expression on the boy’s face when the young nun would not acknowledge him. Jack put down the jug and offered her bread. She shook her head and still would not raise her eyes. Jack lowered himself to the bench beside her and slowly reached for the meat.

Crispin thumbed his wine bowl and edged forward. “Madam Prioress.”

The Prioress raised her eyes but kept them carefully shadowed under a canopy of dark lids. “Prioress Eglantine de Mooreville,” she announced. “This is my chaplain, Marguerite de Bereham.”

“God keep you,” he said with a smooth nod of his head. “From which priory do you hail?”

“A small and humble one, Master Guest, not far from London.”

“Then you, your nun, and your priest have traveled some distance like the rest of us.”

She held a haunch of pullet vertically and sawed down at the flesh as she talked. “Though we have traveled far, it is well worth the journey and expense. I was most impressed by the martyr’s shrine today.” She sighed. “Such magnificence. Saint Thomas was such a brave and noble man. To stand up as he did against a king, his friend. Such a chivalrous man.”

“You speak of him most strangely,” said Crispin. “Not as a saint, but as a romantic figure in a minstrel song.”

“And why not?” she said, cocking her head. “We love our saints, we cloistered women. And we have no lover but God. ‘Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth; for thy love is better than wine.’ There is no need for outward passion of two vulgar bodies. Let man love from afar and look upward. To Heaven. We must be blind to all else but the love of God.”

He flicked his gaze toward Jack whose eyes were glued to the young nun.

“I intend to make a special vigil at the church tonight, later after supper,” said the Prioress. “One must make the most of one’s outlay.”

“The Prioress is very thrifty,” said Sir Philip brusquely.

Crispin turned to him but the Prioress went on.

“Thrift is an important trait in a priory. I have my hounds and my garden. What more would I need? Abuses of discipline and money are for the world without. Is that not correct, Dame Marguerite?”

The quiet nun raised her face. Jack no longer appeared to be his table servant but the nun’s. The boy was quick to drop the food from his hand and fill her cup lest it be empty the next time she touched it.

She lowered her eyes. “My Lady Prioress is correct. I myself was raised under the careful guidance of my lady.”

“You were brought to the priory as a child?” asked Crispin.