Jeri Westerson - Troubled Bones

“I cannot bring charges. He is the Archbishop of Canterbury. If he wishes to relocate the relics in his own cathedral there is nothing for me to say to it. As for his calling his own Episcopal trial, well … That is a matter I do not wish to trouble the king with. Or Rome. The cathedral is being re-consecrated. There has been no mention of a theft but the bones will be paraded about Canterbury tomorrow in celebration.”

“I shall be gone by then.”

“Indeed,” said Bailey. “So should we all. We must return to London. We have tarried here long enough.” He set down his beaker and rose. “I’m certain the others would agree with me. Come with us, Master Crispin. Verily, you could do with the company.”

Crispin felt the abrupt weariness of the week’s events and agreed with Bailey. To return to London with an assembly was certainly more companionable. And it might be better for Jack as well. He was about to say just that, when a man burst through the inn’s door, shouting at the top of his lungs.

Everyone jumped to their feet. All Crispin could think was, What is it now?

“There’s murder, Lord Sheriff!” cried the man, little older than Jack, and more ragged. “We have a man cornered. There are witnesses! Come, please!”

The sheriff was almost out the door the moment the man mentioned “murder.” The others followed. Crispin cursed Canterbury. It seemed they simply could not escape death this trip.

Brokhull led the way to the crowd of shouting townsfolk who had seized someone. When the sheriff arrived the people parted for him and Crispin saw what the trouble was.

He wasn’t much surprised.

Peter Chanticleer was being held tight by two men while the others shouted at him. His long gown was covered in blood.

“What is this?” the sheriff demanded.

“I killed him,” said Chanticleer, chin thrust proudly. “He cheated me! He was a foul, loathsome churl and I killed him. And I shall not repent of it, though I know I will hang.” His lips trembled. “God will find forgiveness for me for ridding the world of that vile Summoner.”

Crispin nodded to himself as Brokhull took his leave of him to lead Chanticleer and the others away.

A fitting end for two wicked men.

The Miller was right, though. The Devil had come to roost in Canterbury. Crispin was glad to leave it.

The road snaking away from Canterbury was a ribbon of mud. The solemn troupe left the city behind and good riddance to it, but they hadn’t left it very far when they encountered mud-splattered riders with the livery of the duke of Lancaster. With all the emotional turmoil of Dame Marguerite and Becket’s bones, Crispin had quite forgotten he had requested the duke’s help.

Chaucer rode forth to meet them. Crispin wasn’t close enough to hear their exchange but with emphatic gestures and, Crispin suspected, rosy embellishments, the tale was told. Geoffrey gestured once toward Crispin and the two men fixed their eyes on him for a long moment. They spoke to Geoffrey a few moments more before turning their mounts. The horses kicked up a cockerel’s tail of mud as they galloped away back toward London.

Chaucer rejoined Crispin with a smile. There was a spot of mud on his cheek but Crispin did not tell him of it. “That was my rescue. Cris, I’m touched.”

Crispin rolled his eyes at Geoffrey’s expression. But he was relieved he had not needed Lancaster’s men.

For the rest of the long two days back to London, spring rains continued to drizzle over their quiet company, and often the weary travelers had to dismount and walk their horses through the worst of the mire. Crispin had led Alyson’s horse over the stickiest of muddy places and she smiled that gat-toothed grin at him in gratitude, the first smile in at least a day after the terrible events in Canterbury.

It was two days of watching Jack sitting straight-backed on his horse, sinking into a dull and unfamiliar quietude that worried Crispin.

But it was also two days of reacquainting himself with his friend Chaucer, and he was glad of it.

Geoffrey regaled him with stories of court and of his own adventures as the king’s spy, though he kept those stories close for their ears alone. They laughed together. Crispin laughed, and he felt the sharp pang of regret rasping behind it, because he knew this renewed camaraderie could not last. So he clutched at it like a cherished object, keeping it in his heart for now, a heart almost as broken as Jack’s.

London’s spires and rooftops came into view, masked by thin layers of smoke and mist. They reached the Tabard Inn and dismounted their horses in the courtyard, the remaining company of Thomas Clarke, Alyson, Father Gelfridus-who had stayed by himself for the ride back-Edwin Gough, Harry Bailey, Geoffrey Chaucer, and finally Crispin and Jack. They were certainly not the jovial party that had set out from this little inn a sennight ago. All had been sorely tested and they entered the inn for a last beaker of ale and to bid their farewells.

“Drink, my friends,” said Bailey, lifting his own horn. “We will drink to the grace of God for delivering us safely home, to the souls that did not return with us, and to a brighter morrow.”

Everyone lifted their cups in solemn silence. Bailey’s wife watched curiously from a doorway.

Jack turned slowly toward Crispin. “Can we go home now, Master Crispin?”

“Yes, Jack. Let us say our farewells.”

He shook Clarke’s hand and thanked him for his candidness. He gripped the Miller’s strong arm and wished him well. Father Gelfridus glanced up at him with guilty eyes but Crispin clutched his shoulder reassuringly. “Father priest, do not look so saddened. I knew full well you could not divulge what you heard confessed under the sacramental seal.”

“I know I have fulfilled my office.” He rubbed his hands and clutched at the crucifix dangling from his neck. “But I prayed for guidance. I failed that lost soul.”

“She was lost far too long ago, Father. You might have been her next victim.”

He shook his head. “And such would have been a blessing compared to the feelings I must carry with me now.”

He nodded to the priest. There was little left to say to that. He watched the priest move away, shutting himself within his rich cloak. Crispin wondered what the man would tell the priory when he returned to it. Crispin didn’t envy him.

A touch. He turned and gazed into the glowing countenance of Alyson. She smiled. The grin was frayed by the sadness of recent events. “Ah, Crispin,” she said. Her fingers slid down his arm and entangled with his own. “You are a fine man and a clever one. You and I, eh? We are a pair of mules, are we not? Stubborn to the last.”

He chuckled in spite of himself. He regretted very much that they had not had one more night together.

“I tell you what you must do,” she said, her smile broadening. “Marry me.”

Crispin jerked with surprise. “What?”

“Marry me, man. You’d be number six. And you’d be happy, too.”

He sorted through his shock and tried to form words. “I … it’s a generous offer.”

Instead of being insulted by his hesitation, Alyson gave a full-bodied laugh. “All my husbands, young and old, died before me. I’ll warrant that you do not eagerly rush to that! Aye, it’s a genuine gospel puzzle, that is. Whose wife would I be in heaven? And you don’t relish standing next to those fellows. Well, bless me, I don’t blame you. I tell you, Crispin. You are a lusty and vigorous bedmate!” She said the last a little too loudly and the Miller, Edwin Gough, chortled. Crispin glanced guiltily at Jack who was doing his best to pretend he hadn’t heard.

“I have never been presented with so magnanimous a suit,” he said. “But … I regret to say that I am not ready for such a commitment.”