Jeri Westerson - Troubled Bones

“ No! ” Crispin leapt and slammed hard against the tower floor, grasping at air.

Her gown fluttered in the wind, lifting her for only a moment, before she fell into the blackness of the night. She made no sound in her descent.

He strained his neck looking up at the empty place where the nun had stood, feeling the uneven paving dig into his chest. He gradually drew himself up, dragged his feet to the edge, and looked down, but the tower’s foundations were lost in darkness.

There was a scramble at the stairs and Jack’s white face appeared. “Where is she?”

“Jack…”

The boy looked quickly around and made an abrupt run for the edge. Crispin grabbed him and held him tightly. “It’s too late, Jack. It’s too late.”

Jack gripped Crispin’s coat. He struggled, but it was only for a moment. All at once he slumped and sobbed into Crispin’s chest. He held the boy tighter, hoping to make it better, knowing he could not.

They met, all of them-Crispin, Jack, Chaucer, Dom Thomas-in Courtenay’s study. The archbishop was not pleased to be summoned out of Vespers, but Crispin insisted, and with the sheriff and his men nearby, it was easy to persuade him.

“What is he doing out of his cell?” Courtenay pointed at Chaucer. Geoffrey, mustering his dignity even with several days of beard growth on his cheeks and a dirty gown, spoke for himself.

“Your Excellency, God Himself has released me.”

“Is that so? I think, rather, it is a disobedient monk.” He swiveled his glare and landed it squarely on Dom Thomas.

The monk did not cower, and for that Crispin held a new respect for him.

“Your Excellency,” said Dom Thomas, “I did what was right and proper. Master Chaucer was not guilty. We have seen the proof of it this night.”

“Proof? I see only another death. A suicide, you say? I should lock you up, Crispin Guest. You have brought nothing but trouble to us.”

“I have brought you truth, Excellency. A quality this parish has sorely lacked.”

“You dare-”

“ Enough! ” Crispin’s voice stilled the others. He brought his scowl all the way to the foot of Courtenay’s chair. “I have had enough of your lies and trickery. You didn’t bring me here to guard the bones of Saint Thomas. You called me here to discredit the duke of Lancaster! And when Geoffrey’s dagger was found in Brother Wilfrid’s throat, you found a better revenge. You thought to execute Lancaster’s pet, never thinking, never dreaming that lives were in peril. What sort of shepherd are you?”

Courtenay said nothing. He squirmed on his chair.

Crispin straightened his coat. “I will explain events here as I reckoned them, and then I will be leaving this place. Canterbury does not feel as welcoming as it once did.” He turned to Geoffrey. “Master Chaucer lost his dagger by mischance. He left it in his room where Dame Marguerite easily found it and took it.”

“The poor soul,” said Dom Thomas. “We heard her confession,” he said to Sheriff Brokhull. “There is no question she was the killer of both her prioress and our brother monk. But why did she kill her prioress?”

“Cruelty,” said Crispin. “She lived under the Prioress’s roof and witnessed every day the cruelty the Prioress inflicted against her mother. Every word of scorn, every touch of the rod, must have chipped away at Dame Marguerite’s sanity until she became the sad and confused woman we encountered today. I am certain Prioress Eglantine thought she was serving God’s will by treating the sinful woman as she did. But after penance, there must be a time of reconciliation and healing. Surely that is what God intended.”

“You speak with your own authority, Master Guest,” said Courtenay. “You know nothing of the hardships that one endures in the confines of a monastery. Discipline must be maintained.”

“Indeed. Saint Benet devised the rule under which your own monks as well as Prioress Eglantine’s nuns live. But even he cautioned that those who have power over other souls must make a reckoning on Judgment Day. Prioress Eglantine’s day … came early.”

Courtenay scowled. “You walk very close to the line, Master Guest. But let us put an end to this discussion. Our poor daughter Marguerite was insane when she committed these crimes and died by her own will. We will pray for her soul, but she may not be buried in consecrated soil. The matter is at an end. Your duty has been discharged.”

“Then I am a free man,” said Chaucer, smiling at the sheriff.

“There is still a matter of heresy,” said the archbishop.

Geoffrey scowled. “My lord! I am a loyal son of Mother Church. But I am sworn to serve in his grace the duke’s household. If Lollard he is, it does not make it so for me.”

Courtenay glared at him, chin burled. “Very well, Master Chaucer. The charge of heresy is dismissed. But mark me, should you set foot on Canterbury soil again, the eye of the Church shall be upon you.”

“Your Excellency, should I ever be fool enough to venture to Canterbury while you live, I will be in sore need of the Church’s benefit.” He smiled at Courtenay’s expression and rushed to take Crispin’s hand, shaking it vigorously. “Cris! By God! Tracker? No indeed! You are a Miracle Worker!”

“Nothing of the kind,” he said with a rush of heat to his cheeks. He stepped away from Geoffrey, stamping down the pleasure he felt in his chest.

“My treasurer will fetch you the remainder of your fees, Master Guest. If you will, Dom Thomas?”

“One moment, Excellency,” said Crispin, stopping Dom Thomas as he turned. “There is still the matter of Saint Thomas’s bones.”

“Oh, er … that is a matter we will content ourselves to solve on our own, Master Guest.”

“There’s no need,” said Crispin. “I know where the bones are.” He hooked his thumbs in his belt and stepped forward. Amid all the horrors of this inquiry, he felt an uncommon satisfaction at the expression on the archbishop’s face. “Shall we repair to the Chapel of Saint Thomas?”

He could tell Courtenay was about to say no, but Brokhull spoke up. “I for one would be pleased to see an end to this. Lead on, Master Crispin.”

Crispin bowed to him. He didn’t wait for anyone to follow.

It was quite late now. Dame Marguerite’s body had been recovered and the monks had taken her to their infirmary. Crispin had suggested calling upon the help of Alyson again and she had come, exchanging with Crispin the saddest look he had yet seen her jovial face wear. She said she would keep vigil with the nun’s remains until dawn and Crispin left her to it. He had asked Jack if he wished to join her, but Jack had silently shaken his head. No doubt there was much on Jack’s mind, and Crispin did not wish to interfere with the labyrinth of emotions the boy had to face on his own. Jack had chosen instead to accompany Crispin, strangely holding the unwrapped sword tight to his chest yet again.

Crispin situated himself by Saint Thomas’s empty shrine and waited while the others gathered, carrying candles. But Crispin was only interested in Courtenay’s face. The man was angry but there was something more. He had seen that expression many a time on countless culprits. The man was caught. And he knew it.

“I know it is late, but I shan’t keep you long,” said Crispin. “I worried over many things when I began to make my inquiries. I worried that a murderer and thief had escaped and absconded with these most precious relics. But I soon came to understand that the one had little to do with the other.

“Dom Thomas was seen paying extortion money to a master mason who had seen something. Was it murder? I was soon disabused of that notion when I put together the facts. No, what the mason saw and what Dom Thomas was no doubt ordered to do, was remove the bones of Saint Thomas before I ever arrived. I do not blame your loyal monk, Archbishop. A man is only at the power of his superiors. Had he the presence of mind, the fortitude at the time, he would have refused to follow your orders as petty and small-minded.”