Jeri Westerson - Troubled Bones

Dom Thomas tucked his hands beneath his scapular. “You have seen it. It is a treasure in itself. Besides, I requested this duty years ago.”

“Indeed. Why so?”

His eyes narrowed. “Because it is an honor, Master Guest.”

“Of course. Dom Thomas, since you know why I am here, can you enlighten me as to why the archbishop should be so concerned for the shrine’s welfare?”

“Did he not tell you?”

“I should like you to tell me.”

“What can I add to his excellency’s fears?”

“Details, Dom. For instance, his excellency spoke of petty thievery.”

“His excellency is mistaken. That had nothing to do with the shrine.”

“Forgive me, but I’ll be the judge of that.”

Dom Thomas glared. His mouth twisted as if trying to suppress unpleasant words. The monk inhaled and blew out a foggy breath. “His excellency bade me be obedient in this,” he said with obvious resentment. Yet he said nothing more.

Crispin drummed his fingers on his dagger hilt. “Well?”

“It was foolish. I do not know why his excellency even needed to be told. Some overzealous monk trying to worm his way into his good graces, no doubt.”

Crispin huffed a breath. “I’m still waiting.”

Dom Thomas aimed his gaze directly into Crispin’s gray eyes. “I’m coming to it. The keys to the cloister. They went missing a little over a fortnight ago.”

“And you didn’t find this significant?”

“They were also found.” He held them up. “ Ecce signum .”

“I see only the proof that they were returned. Not to what purpose they were put.”

“What purpose? None. How could they be put to a purpose when they were returned and nothing was harmed while they were gone?”

“How long were they missing?”

“Two days. But as I said, nothing was disturbed, nothing was stolen, nothing is amiss at all.”

“You don’t seem to understand, Dom. Someone took them in order to make a copy.”

The monk’s lips parted. His eyes, so clear and sharp with accusation, suddenly glossed. “That … cannot be.”

“Such things are not unknown to me.” He turned back to look at the shrine. It was going to be a long night and he was already tired from the journey here. He released a sigh that blew a strand of fog into the cold chapel. “Does that key fit all three cloister gates?”

The monk was still lost in his thoughts. He handled the keys with a distant stare.

“Dom Thomas.”

The monk awoke, startled, and brought his gaze level with Crispin’s, though this time there was no mote of accusation in it. “Yes, all gates.”

“You shall have to call for a locksmith in the morning and have them changed. It is your only course. And then you must make certain that you do not let the new keys out of your sight.”

“No, of course not.” He worried at them, his fingers whitening over the metal.

“Tonight, I will stand guard at the shrine. Your monk will relieve me at midnight. Do you understand? When I mean stand guard, I mean directly at the foot of the shrine. And calls of nature are not allowed, I’m afraid. Bring a pot with you.”

The monk grabbed his arm. “You are serious?”

“Most serious, Dom Thomas, especially when sleep is concerned. I am weary, but I will take the first watch. By the time your monk relieves me, I hope I will have thought of a better plan, but for the moment, this is all I have.”

“I will have Brother Wilfrid come at midnight, then.”

“Very good. Make certain he understands he may not sleep.”

The irritation returned to Dom Thomas’s voice. “ I understand it, Master Guest.”

“Good.” He turned to the shadows. “Jack, you may go along back to the inn.” Jack stepped uncertainly across the chapel, casting a glance at Wilfrid when he reached the stairs. “And Dom Thomas,” said Crispin, “could you bring me a chair?”

Crispin kicked back, leaning the chair against the wooden base of the shrine. “Just you and me, Saint Thomas.” His voice, even as softly as he spoke the words, seemed far too loud. Its echoes rolled into the distant corners, and finally died.

The four candles about the shrine remained lit, and he looked up at the arched ceiling and the demon shadows frolicking there. How were the bones to be protected if the monks could not be relied upon to guard the place themselves? If Dom Thomas and Brother Wilfrid were the only ones to be trusted, they would soon be too exhausted to continue.

He set his jaw. He wasn’t about to leave Becket’s bones in the hands of scoundrel Lollards who had no respect for the man-

A sound.

He snapped to his feet and cocked his head. Definitely the sound of two people.

He drew his dagger, crept to the edge of the shrine, and peered around the corner.

Shadows. And they were moving. He squinted into the gloom. The echoes played games with his ears, and it was almost impossible to tell from which direction the sound was coming, but he thought the noise emanated from the quire area. Damn. He’d have to leave the shrine to investigate. He looked back at the tomb. Though, should anyone try to interfere with the bones, it would make enough racket to alert him.

He crept down the chapel steps and steeled down the north ambulatory. There were candles burning in the church at all times, but their scant light did little to illumine the vast space. In fact, their small flames did more to confuse the shadows with flickering ghosts of half light. He veered to his right into the northeast transept. The door was shut tight. He proceeded on past the pillars of the quire in the north aisle, shifted around the scaffolding, and saw the shadows thrown against the wall ahead. Someone was at Saint Benet’s chapel, the spot of Becket’s martyrdom.

He descended the stairs and adjusted his grip on the dagger. He slid his back along the wall toward the archway. Two small figures in black stood silhouetted against a single candle flame. He stepped into the light and the two figures whipped their heads around.

White faces stared at him from wimples and veils. He lowered his knife. He’d forgotten. “Damosel,” he said, a little embarrassed.

Prioress Eglantine glided toward him. Dame Marguerite did not move. Her eyes were large with alarm. She lowered her gaze and hid her quaking hands within her cloak.

The Prioress gazed at him with practiced serenity. “Master Crispin. Skulking in the dark?”

“Forgive me. I am here at the bidding of the archbishop. I did not expect anyone else here at this hour.” He glanced at the windows. The sky was still pink, ushering in the evening. The late-spring light was only a precursor to the long hours of daylight expected in the summer months.

He remembered the Prioress had said she would return to pray after supper.

“If you are here at the bidding of his excellency,” said Madam Eglantine, “then I have no reason to inquire. Pray, do as you are bid. We will remain here.”

“Not the shrine?” he asked, looking back, though he could not see it at this distance and around so many obstacles.

“Today I have seen the shrine. But now I wish to spend time here, the site of Saint Thomas’s martyrdom. Such a blessed place. A holy man who gave his life for the Church. Do you know that the attack was so vicious, that his murderers sliced off the top of his skull and spilled out his brains upon the floor? Monstrous.” She recited as if dictating a shopping list.

Dame Marguerite flinched.

“Of course I feel compelled to be here,” the Prioress went on. “Many do not know it, but my ancestor, much to the shame of my family, was one of the murderers.”

Crispin’s memory clicked into place like cogwheels. He ticked off the names in his head and said aloud, “Hugh de Morville. An ancestor of yours?”