Jeri Westerson - Troubled Bones

“Aye, sir, I know. I am heartily sorry for that. I did not have all the facts. Someone clearly snatched Master Chaucer’s dagger from him and did the deed. But who, Master? Sir Philip?”

His mind snagged on one word: facts. Did they have all the facts? It wasn’t for the bones. He knew that . Then if not the bones, why? “We don’t have all the facts. The sword, Jack. We don’t know who it belonged to.”

“I just assumed it was Sir Philip’s.”

“He has his own sword. But Master Harper was researching that blazon for us. Perhaps we had best revisit him to see what facts he has uncovered.”

It was not much, but it was something. Crispin turned on his heel to head back to the cathedral. He went straight to the priory gates and rang the bell before his impatience made him slam his fist repeatedly to the door. “Open up, I say!”

A monk drew the door open a crack. “Why do you disturb the peace of this priory, sir? It is late.”

“Get out of my way.” He pushed the door open and the monk fell back. He had no time for apologies and stomped forward. Jack scurried in quickly behind.

Crispin paid no heed to the monks he shouldered out of his way, nor the angry words and gestures they invoked toward him as the monks threaded in the direction of the chapel for Vespers.

His eyes were fixed on the arched colonnade ahead and to the little door that led to the courtyard where the pensioners lived. No one said anything more to him as he passed through the cloister. He thought about sending up a prayer for forgiveness as he trespassed but swallowed it back. There would be time later for shriving. He trusted that Dom Thomas was doing his part. Crispin would do his.

They reached the courtyard at last but Harper was not out hoeing his garden. Of course not. It was Vespers already. Crispin had barely registered the sounds of bells chiming above him and the line of monks heading to the chapel to perform the Divine Office. He hoped Harper was in his cottage with his books and not with the monks.

He stalked up to the door and knocked. The door immediately opened and Harper greeted Crispin with a grim expression. “You’re back. Good. I have the answer you are seeking.”

“God be praised.” Entering, he stepped right up to Harper’s table. The old herald was directly behind him and reached forward to open a parchment. He moved a candle forward, its light casting a warm glow over the piece.

“You see, Master Guest,” he said, pointing to the parchment.

Before Harper could speak, he pressed his hand to the man’s arm, silencing him. He didn’t know what to say. His mind raced like a stallion in a meadow. He could not have fathomed this, but slowly, it began to make sense to him.

“Master Harper,” he said, his strained voice strange to his ears. “May I borrow this?”

Harper looked over the paper and frowned. Clearly, he did not like to part with his Ordinaries, but when he looked up, Crispin could see the conviction in his pale eyes. “Yes, of course. If it will help.”

“It will. And Master Harper, I thank you. You have saved a man’s life.” The herald bowed. Crispin folded it up, carefully following the creases, and stuffed it in his belt. “Come along, Jack.”

Jack waved his farewells to Harper and ran after his master’s long strides. Crispin didn’t want it to be true, but he didn’t see how it couldn’t be. It all fell into place. Except for Wilfrid. But he’d have to ask …

When he got to the transept door, he entered the church. The masons had given up their work for the day and Crispin’s troubled soul fell into the quiet and solitude of the lonely spaces of vault and column. He walked up the nave, stopped before the rood screen, and turned on his heel to face Jack.

“What is it, sir? Do you know who owned the sword? Did Master Harper-?”

“Yes, Jack.” He couldn’t help it. His eyes fell from the boy’s. How was he to say? He tugged the parchment from his belt and opened it. He pointed to the red shield with the muzzled bear head. Then his finger traced downwards from the shield. “This was the Fitz-Urse line. The murderer Reginald had no issue, but his brother Richard did; a daughter named Mabel and a son Warine. Then Warine had an issue named Gilbert. But as you see here, by the fourth generation, they changed their name.”

He took a breath and glanced up at Jack.

Jack looked back at him, puzzled. “And what is that surname sir?”

Crispin lowered the paper to his thigh. “Bereham.”

It took a moment, but Jack’s face slowly changed from puzzlement to pale incredulity, and finally to reddened outrage. “That’s a lie! That’s a filthy lie! Let me see that paper!” He snatched it from Crispin’s hand. He gazed over Jack’s shoulder, following his finger tracing over the stiff paper, resting here and there on a name until he reached the sixth generation. Margaret de Bereham was Crispin’s age and there was a line struck through her carefully penned inscription. A note was written to the side probably by Master Harper some years ago. Crispin recognized the look of such slightly browned ink. It read: Gave birth to bastard daughter and was banished from the family. May God have mercy.

Jack dropped the parchment and walked like an old man to the rood screen, dragging the sword behind him. His fingers curled around the rood’s carved wood and he stood a long time facing it. Crispin didn’t know whether he should go to the boy or better to stay away. “Jack,” he said softly.

Tucker slowly shook his head from side to side, but he did not turn to Crispin. His voice sounded wrung from him, taut, fighting back tears. “Why did it have to be her ? Of all people. Why, Master Crispin, did it have to be her?”

Crispin licked his suddenly dry lips. “I do not know, Jack. But this sword most certainly belonged to Dame Marguerite. She … she must have known the nature of Prioress Eglantine’s name and bided her time. Or…” He shook his head. “I know not why. But it explains the broken rosary. An errant sword swipe could not have cut through it without harming her. But if she had lifted the sword herself and caught the crossguard on her own rosary in her belt, it would have snapped it.”

“That is so clever of you,” said Marguerite.

Crispin and Jack both spun. Dame Marguerite stood behind them in the darkening church. She cocked her head and looked at Jack. “He is a clever man, isn’t he?” she said to Tucker.

“Dame Marguerite,” whispered Jack, anguish breaking his voice.

Footsteps. From around a pillar, Chaucer and Dom Thomas trotted and suddenly stopped.

“Cris! This monk-”

“Master Crispin?” asked Dom Thomas, taking in the tableau.

“Silence! Both of you!” Crispin swept his hand up, gesturing for them to stay as they were.

“I have decided something,” said Marguerite, face white within her surrounding veil. She seemed little put off by the presence of two more, and in fact took little notice of them. “I shall leave the Church and go with you, Master Tucker. Yes, I think this is best.”

“Marguerite.” He took a step closer to her.

Crispin clasped Jack’s shoulder and pulled him back, stepping forward in his place. “Dame Marguerite. That sword.” He gestured to the one in Jack’s hand. “Did it belong to you?”

“Of course. I am of the family Fitz-Urse.”

Chaucer and Dom Thomas gasped but wisely stayed silent.

“It is Bereham now. Fortis et Patientia . The Bereham motto. ‘Strong and Enduring.’ So foolish a thing, truly. Strength and endurance, aye. My mother had it in abundance. She was a Bereham but she was shunned from the family. They gave the sword to her. I do not know if it was a jest or whether she was supposed to use it on herself for disgracing the family so. Or perhaps they simply wished to rid themselves of the reminder of their dreaded past.”