Jeri Westerson - Troubled Bones

“No, Master. I was born there. My mother was a servant in the priory. My lady was kind enough to see to my schooling and sponsored me when I begged to take vows.” She raised a crust of bread to her lips and carefully took a small bite. Jack pushed another piece of bread toward her, but she shook her head. He munched a pullet leg absently and kept a furtive glance aimed at her beneath his shaded eyes. His lips murmured a sigh.

“By careful discipline tempered by the love of Christ,” said the Prioress, laying a hand gently on the nun’s, “we have built a family in proper order. All know their places, have their assignments, and find contentment to do so. We have just enough to sustain us. Fields, crops, animals. We are our own ark, if you will, floating on the seas of iniquity.”

“Your own lands, yes,” said Sir Philip tightly. He clutched his cup and leaned so far over the table toward the Prioress he was like to lose his balance. “Enough to sustain you, and that should have been quite enough!”

The Prioress showed no signs of distress when she raised her eyes. “Sir Philip and I are acquainted, as you may have supposed, Master Guest. Our dispute, however, has already passed the test of the courts.”

“It has not passed my test, madam,” said Bonefey.

“Verily, Sir Philip. Is there any point in discussing the matter further? The court decided in our favor. We had use of the lands, they were put to good service in our care, and they were henceforth deeded to the priory.”

“They were my lands! The Church poaching the land from a faithful man-”

“Faithful, sir, is in the eye of the beholder.”

“Do you infer that I am unfaithful merely because I will not willingly give ten acres of useful land to the Church?”

A strident female voice cut a blade between them. “‘For what shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul?’” All eyes turned to the lady at Crispin’s right. She smiled her crenulated teeth at him. “Greetings. We have not met. I am Alyson de Guernsey, from the great city of Bath. And you are Crispin Guest. A fine name for a fine figure of a man.” She punctuated her brisk discourse by eyeing him thoroughly up and down.

Crispin smiled and gave her a nod. “Mistress.”

“Oh, it is madam . But I’d rather you ‘mistressed’ me than ‘madamed’ me.” And she laughed heartily at her jest. “Five times a wife and five times a widow. Now that is discipline well earned,” she said, pointing a finger at the Prioress.

Madam Eglantine’s thin lips flattened to a line.

“You can have your celibacy,” Alyson declared loudly and stabbed her knife into a pullet, lifted it from the platter, and plopped it on her trencher. “But there are some meant for the marriage bed.” She winked at Crispin. “Though, back to my point-” She leaned over Crispin to aim her disarming finger at Bonefey. “My lesson is twofold. First, how much land does a rich man truly need? Recall the story of Dives and Lazarus and take heed. If the court gave it to the priory, then I’ll warrant it was land you had no use for. You did not even know that these lands were within your boundary. True?”

Bonefey said nothing. His mouth curled into a snarl.

“And two,” she went on, “that charitable use to which the priory no doubt puts this land will serve to send you to Heaven that much quicker, were you to have given it freely.”

“Instead,” said Bonefey, pushing both Gelfridus and Crispin back to lean closer to Alyson, “the Church stole the property from me like a thief in the night.”

“I daresay,” said Alyson, “with an attitude like that, there shall be adequate time in Purgatory for you. You’d best speak to Master Chaunticleer here. Bless me, but I believe it will content him to sell you your way out of the purging fires.”

“I do not sell, ” said the man identified as Chaunticleer from down the long plank table. He was one of the secretive men Crispin saw earlier. Crispin surmised by the exchange that the man must be a Pardoner, a purveyor of Indulgences. “An Indulgence is a serious matter.”

“And an expensive one, too,” she said, elbowing Crispin.

Crispin forced his amused glance away from Alyson and continued eating while the arguments raged around him.

A pale young man Crispin had taken for a merchant watched Bonefey with unconcealed concentration, chewing his food with mouth open. The Pardoner, Chaunticleer, and the man with him finished their meal quickly and left the inn. Bonefey’s face became increasingly reddened, only occasionally turning an eye toward Alyson and her pointing finger. The priest appeared ready to launch into a sermon. Chaucer, like Crispin, seemed fascinated by merely listening.

Harry Bailey stood up. “Friends! So much discord. Do we forget why we are here?”

A pause followed his statement, and then the noise began again as each one renewed his argument.

Crispin finally had enough of the food as well as the chatter and pushed away from the table. He made his farewells, wiped his knife on the linens, and sheathed it.

Jack finally recalled whose servant he was and scrambled to catch up to him just as Crispin passed over the inn’s threshold. Jack wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “What now, Master Crispin?”

“We’re going to the cathedral.”

He and Jack strode back up the avenue toward the stone edifice.

“So you’re to guard the martyr’s bones and seek out the heretic amongst the monks?” said Jack.

“One presumably might have to do with the other.”

“Ah. And then we can go home.”

“Jack, we just arrived.”

Tucker fell silent and trailed slightly behind. They passed under the gatehouse and made the long walk down Palace Street to the west door. Chaunticleer and his companion had already set up shop, the Pardoner with his scrolls of papal remissions and the other with his trinkets and pilgrim badges. His table was also spread with an array of relics: cloudy monstrances, curled hair in glass vials, small boxes supposedly containing bones.

The Pardoner, gesturing like a cockerel, admonished passersby with a thundering voice, “Repent and draw near! Do not put off your salvation for another day. For you do not know the day or the hour of His coming, that terrible day of judgment.” He aimed a finger at Crispin. “Repent, for ‘pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall!’”

Crispin gazed at him under drawn lids. “‘Even a fool, when he holdeth his peace, is counted wise.’” Chaunticleer snapped his jaw closed and Crispin smirked and ducked into the cathedral.

“Was that Aristotle?” asked Jack in a hushed tone.

“No. Proverbs.”

He chuckled. “I’ll have to remember that one.”

Crispin glanced into the falling shadows of the arches and columns. They walked down the long nave past the quire to the other end of the church, ascended the steps to the Chapel of Saint Thomas, and stood before Becket’s shrine.

Even after the archbishop’s admonitions, no monks stood guard.

“God’s blood,” Crispin swore softly. He searched in the dimming light but saw no one.

The wooden canopy again covered the casket. Crispin strode up to it unchallenged. Four candle sconces stood at each corner of the shrine. Fat beeswax candles cast a warm glow over the steps and floor. Crispin ran his hand along the carvings of the base, until he noticed Jack was nowhere behind him. “Jack?”

“Here, sir,” came the meek voice from behind a pillar.

“What are you doing there? Bring a candle from that chandler.”

Jack stretched up on his toes and plucked a candle as instructed. He crept forward and held the candle unsteadily, but the flame never flickered when he brought it up to the shrine. Crispin moved Jack’s arm closer so he could better view the wooden base. Nothing amiss. All intact.