Jeri Westerson - Troubled Bones

He left the shrine and found the pulley system that lifted the canopy. Releasing the lock he pulled on the wheel. “Tucker. Come help me.”

Jack trotted over and set the candle upright on the floor. He took hold of the wheel and pulled in rhythm with Crispin.

The rope groaned. With a great, creaking sigh, the canopy rose, bells tinkling. When it rose a foot above the casket, he told Jack to halt. The brake held the wheel in position as he walked back to the shrine, running his hand along its top edge.

He offered a half smile to Jack. “Jack Tucker, meet Thomas à Becket.”

Jack swallowed. “He’s in there?” he whispered.

“Yes. What remains of him.”

Jack’s gaze roved over the casket. “Blind me. It’s like a palace.”

“Very much so.”

“That ain’t real gold, is it?”

“Gold and precious stones. Pearls, carnelian, sapphires.”

“’Slud! That’s a fortune, that is!”

“Indeed.” He ran a finger over a polished red gemstone. Knife marks. “Someone tried to pry out this one.”

Jack came closer and brought the candle’s light over the spot. He wiped his hand down his tunic before he stretched out his trembling fingers to touch the many scratches.

“A knife blade,” said Crispin. “But they are old. See how the polishing compound has accumulated within the scratches?”

“Aye. I do see.” He looked up at his master’s face.

Crispin worked his way around the shrine, inspecting all its precious stones. None were missing. “This is not the work of Lollard sympathizers. The archbishop called it ‘petty thievery.’ I’m certain he was referring to something else, though he was less than forthcoming on the point.”

“You said the archbishop is suspicious of his own monks. I thought they was supposed to be obedient.”

“A man’s conscience cannot be suppressed, no matter the circumstances.” His eyes were drawn to Prince Edward’s tomb over his shoulder.

“But to be a holy brother and threaten the relics themselves! That’s evil, that.”

“Perhaps.”

He left the tomb of Saint Thomas for the smaller tomb of Prince Edward and stood before it. He grasped the edge of the sepulcher’s lid and lowered himself to his knees. His eyes scanned the prince’s tomb and he smiled as he gazed at the latten knight, only the edge of which he could see from his kneeling position.

Jack followed him and carefully read the inscriptions, his eyes screwed up tight with the effort. “This is Prince Edward, Master Crispin.”

“Yes. I know.”

“You knew him, too, I suppose.”

“Yes. He was a fine warrior. He and his brother Lancaster spent much time in each other’s company.”

Jack ran his hand along the solid stone base with shields decorating its length. “If he’d but lived and been king,” he said softly, “you’d still be a knight.”

“I might have been many things. But I would not have met you. Leastways … not below a gibbet.”

Jack shivered. “That’s true enough. God keep you,” he muttered to the latten corpus, then crossed himself before he lowered to his knees beside Crispin and drew silent.

Yes, had you but lived … But it was a fruitless thought. He hadn’t, and his son had succeeded him to the throne. King Richard was certainly no Prince Edward. Crispin raised his hand and caressed the uneven lid entombing the former heir to the throne, when a shout made him snatch his hand back.

Crispin and Jack rose and turned.

“What are you doing? Come away from there!” Out of the shadows, two dark forms appeared and molded themselves into the shapes of monks. They ran forward, sandals slapping the stone floor, staffs waving in their hands. Jack moved in front of Crispin and drew his short knife. Crispin reached for his sword-an old habit, even though a sword hadn’t been there for years.

The monks postured with their weapons. Crispin held up his hands to show they were empty. “I am here under orders from the archbishop.”

One monk, the older one, lowered his staff. “You are Crispin Guest.”

“Yes.”

He tapped the other monk who reluctantly lowered his staff. The older monk’s tonsure stopped across his brow, his natural baldness blending with the barber’s work.

Crispin gently maneuvered Jack out of the way and the boy backed away into the shadows. “Why is the shrine left alone? Why is no one seeing after it? I walked in here completely unchallenged.”

The monk exchanged glances with the younger cleric, a red-nosed boy only a few years older than Jack. “The treasurer is supposed to be here, sir,” said the younger. “Look. Here he comes.”

The monks bowed to the treasurer as he approached and he swept them all with an arched brow. “What goes on here?”

“I am Crispin Guest. The archbishop-”

“I know what his excellency has done as concerns you, Master Guest. Is it not permitted a man to accede to a call of nature?”

Crispin rubbed the back of his neck. “Of course, Dom.”

“Brother Wilfrid,” snapped the treasurer, addressing the younger monk. “Where have you been?”

The young monk bowed again to the treasurer. “Dom Martin wished for me to help him with-”

“I remind you that you are my assistant, Brother Wilfrid. Not Martin’s.” He gave Martin a scathing glower.

Martin’s face froze and he bowed to the treasurer. “In all obedience,” he said stiffly.

“Never mind. Cover that casket, Brother. And take your post. Friend Guest here trusts us not.”

“You know my task, my Lord Treasurer.”

“Yes, yes. We know it.”

Crispin gave the monk a cursory look and made a slow circuit of the chapel, noting windows, archways. He peered far into the dimness, looking for passages. “Brother Wilfrid, will you please stay a moment with my man Jack here?”

Brother Wilfrid’s small, dark eyes darted and found Jack in the shadows. He bowed to Crispin while still looking at Jack.

“My lord, will you show me the surrounds?”

The treasurer glared at Martin, who bowed and took his leave. Once his footsteps died and the shadows swallowed him, it was as if he’d never been there.

The treasurer gestured curtly and stomped toward the north ambulatory, not waiting for Crispin to follow. “The pilgrims enter here by this staircase,” he said, sweeping his arm out. “They must come through the nave past the quire gate. When the hours are devoted to the Divine Office, we lock the gate.”

“The quire is barred, but what of the aisles?”

They walked back the other way to the steps where the pilgrims exit. “The aisles remain unimpeded. There is a staircase to the roof of the Corona. The northeast transept has a passage, as does the northwest and southwest transepts. Of course there are two entrances for townsfolk, the west door and the southwest porch. After Compline, that way is also barred.”

“What of the cloister?”

“A locked door, near Becket’s martyrdom at the northwest transept, but only after Compline.”

“So the cloister door is open all day?”

“Of course. The monks must have ready access to the church. But it is impossible to get into the cloister from the outside without encountering three locked gates-locked at all times.”

“Sounds secure,” he muttered. The monk continued to glare at him. “Forgive me, Dom-I do not know your name.”

“Thomas Chillenden.”

“Dom Thomas.” He gave a slight bow. “Since I came at the command of his excellency I wonder why my presence vexes you so.”

“He does not need you. We are his monks. We can do his bidding.”

“Plainly, that is not so.” He didn’t know why he took such pleasure in saying it to the lugubrious monk, and he enjoyed the man’s enraged reaction kept under careful control. “Tell me,” he went on, “why is the priory treasurer assigned to keep guard of the martyr’s shrine?”