Jeri Westerson - Troubled Bones

“Now see here-”

“Protest if you will, Excellency. It does not change the facts! He was ordered to remove the bones before my arrival.”

Brokhull shook his head in amazement. “If that is true, Master Guest, then where are they now?”

Crispin walked several strides to the tomb of Prince Edward. “I regret to say, that the bones of the sainted martyr are housed in the late Prince Edward’s tomb.”

“How could you have possibly known?” gasped Dom Thomas.

“Only later. I recalled being shooed away unceremoniously from his tomb not once but twice. The lid of the casket is slightly askew. And I found the finger bone of Saint Thomas between his own shrine and Prince Edward’s tomb. Obfuscation notwithstanding, this is the only possible answer.” He looked sharply at Courtenay. “Am I right, Excellency?”

Courtenay sucked in his lips but said nothing.

“It is true,” sighed Dom Thomas. “Poor Wilfrid. It was too great a burden to lay upon his young shoulders. To keep such a secret! He was greatly troubled by the deception. I should have taken my conscience from him. Too late.”

“You talk too much,” growled Courtenay.

Thomas raised his head. “I should have spoken earlier. I am ashamed at how I used all of you. You can be assured I shall do much penance in recompense.”

Crispin nodded. But he saved his iciest glare for Courtenay. “Have you nothing to say?”

The archbishop remained his aristocratic self. “Well, naturally I moved the bones.”

Silence followed this pronouncement. Crispin snorted. He’s playing it that way, is he?

“I feared a Lollard threat,” Courtenay said, red-faced. “I felt it the wisest course to protect the bones.”

Still no one spoke. Crispin doubted anyone believed the archbishop.

“At any rate,” said Crispin after a long pause, “I have you to thank, your Excellency, for helping me find Dame Marguerite when she escaped from us.”

“Me? I do not know your meaning.”

“In the cathedral. You pointed out where she had gone. To the Corona tower.”

“Are you mad? I was at Vespers.”

Crispin shook his head. “But I saw you there. You were wearing a short miter and you pointed. From there.”

They all looked to the edge of Saint Thomas’s shrine where Crispin indicated.

“But I tell you I was at Vespers with my monks. They can all attest to that.”

“But then … what bishop did I see?”

As soon as Crispin said it, coldness crept over him, starting at his temples and trickling downward.

Dom Thomas was the one to say it though Crispin well knew they were all thinking it. “It was Saint Thomas!”

“No,” said Crispin, the words coming to his lips without thinking them. He refused to believe it.

“What other explanation could there be? The saint himself, who witnessed all these terrible things. Oh my Lord and my God!” Dom Thomas fell to his knees. “Forgive me for this deception. Blessed Thomas. Forgive me!”

* * *

FAR TOO MUCH HAD happened that night. Crispin retired to his bed and Jack, as white as a ghost himself, settled on his own cot, though Crispin doubted the boy slept.

Brokhull came early to the inn the next morning. Crispin left Jack huddled by their fire to speak to the sheriff. He carried with him the sword of Fitz-Urse.

Crispin greeted him with a bow, but Brokhull’s greeting was more to Crispin’s liking: He offered a full jug of ale and two cups. They sat together by the hearth and downed a cup each before the sheriff spoke. “All is well, Master Crispin. At least, as well as can be with tidings such as these. Three religious dead.” He shook his head and his face was lost again behind his beaker. He wiped his mouth with his hand. “Saint Thomas’s relics have been restored to their rightful place, thanks to you. I do not know what the archbishop is paying you, but I am certain it is not enough.”

“My payment will be better served by leaving this place and returning to London, for I sorely miss it,” he said, even though such a thought had been foreign to him before.

“Are you certain? I could use a man with your talents. I would pay you well.”

“That is something to consider. Though London is my home.”

“Tracker, eh? Does it satisfy you?”

“In its way.”

“I can see that a man such as yourself would be better served with no master. Perhaps … I envy you.”

“Me? Do not envy me, Lord Sheriff. What you see is the sum total of what I have.”

“Then what I see is a man well armed to take on the world.”

Surprised, Crispin merely drank another. He looked at the sword at his feet and handed it to the sheriff. “Lord Sheriff, I surrender the sword of Fitz-Urse to you.”

The sheriff sneered at the weapon. “You do not own a sword, Master Crispin. Why don’t you keep it?”

Crispin hefted the blade a moment, but then offered it hilt first to Brokhull. “True, I own no sword, but I fear this one would be a poor replacement. It has ill-luck attached to it, to be sure. And more ill-luck, I do not need.”

The sheriff nodded and reluctantly took it.

Harry Bailey thumped down the stairs and when he caught sight of Crispin he hurried down the last several steps and joined the men by the fire. “Master Crispin. Lord Sheriff.” He sat with a heavy sigh. “Bless me! I have never in my life experienced a pilgrimage such as this.”

“Nor, I hope, shall we ever again,” said Crispin darkly.

“I will drink to that,” and he poured himself a beaker and drank it down.

The innkeeper brought a platter with cold meats and bowls of steaming broth. They thanked him and partook of the food.

Crispin sipped at the broth. “By the way.” He set down the bowl and wiped his lips. “Have our friends the Summoner and Pardoner returned?”

Bailey shook his head. “No one has heard or seen a wisp of them.”

Crispin snorted into his beaker. “As I thought.”

The sheriff drew his bowl from his lips. “Were there others you would have me pursue, Master Crispin?”

“Not for the moment.”

Harry Bailey edged forward, an earnest look on his weary face. He seemed much older of a sudden, and Crispin realized what a great strain this whole affair was for all concerned.

“How is young Jack? It was apparent to me-to all of us-that he was enamored of the youthful nun.”

Crispin sighed. “He will recover. As must we all. He is young and resilient.”

They fell silent, no doubt reliving their own first loves. Crispin worried about Jack, but young men suffered disappointments and trials all the time. Jack was certainly no stranger to either. Of course one’s survival was easier to cope with than one’s passions. Dame Marguerite would be burned into his consciousness for years to come. It would help mold him into the man he was swiftly becoming. Crispin only hoped it would make him stronger and not tear him down.

“Whatever happened to our dear Franklin?” asked Crispin.

The sheriff harrumphed. “Sir Bonefey?” He waved with a pullet haunch. “My men apprehended him on his way back to London. Do you still want him?”

Crispin considered. As annoying as the man was, he had done no actual harm. “No. But I fear I must apologize to him. I treated him with little courtesy.”

“Never fear that. If he would not declare it to you, he certainly feared the king’s justice. He eagerly confessed his entire plot. To serve the Lollards, he conspired to steal the bones with the help of your Summoner and Pardoner. Of course, Dom Thomas ruined that plan with his own plot. Or rather, the archbishop’s.”

Crispin snorted at the machinations of the nobility. Had the archbishop simply left it alone … But alas, Prioress Eglantine and Wilfrid would still be dead. “And his Excellency. What of him?” Crispin sipped his ale and watched the sheriff with steely concentration.