Troubled Bones Page 3

  Crispin turned to Tucker. “Jack. This is Harry Bailey, proprietor of the Tabard Inn in Southwark.”

  Jack ducked his head in a bow. “A pleasure, good sir. God keep you.”

  Servants came from the kitchens bearing platters of roasted pullets and haunches of lamb, onions in an almond milk broth, cheese, and loaves stuffed with nuts and meats.

  He felt Jack tense behind him. This was possibly the grandest feast Jack had ever partaken of. But Jack appeared determined to play his role, and he served and cut slices of meat for Crispin as Crispin had instructed him—as he had done himself for Lancaster when he started as a page in his household.

  With his knife, Crispin jabbed the meat and fed himself the generous slices. The spices and herbs blended together in his mouth. A full bowl of wine sat before him. For the moment, he was content.

  The prioress picked delicately at her food, eating as daintily as a bird. The nun beside her did not quite have the same aplomb, but tried to mirror her prioress’s table manners. She lifted her horn cup to her lips and reddened upon discovering it empty.

  Jack scrambled around the table and quickly offered to pour her beer. She took it without looking up at him. Crispin watched Jack detachedly until he noted the woeful expression on the boy’s face when the young nun would not acknowledge him. Jack put down the jug and offered her bread. She shook her head and still would not raise her eyes. Jack lowered himself to the bench beside her and slowly reached for the meat.

  Crispin thumbed his wine bowl and edged forward. “Madam Prioress.”

  The Prioress raised her eyes but kept them carefully shadowed under a canopy of dark lids. “Prioress Eglantine de Mooreville,” she announced. “This is my chaplain, Marguerite de Bereham.”

  “God keep you,” he said with a smooth nod of his head. “From which priory do you hail?”

  “A small and humble one, Master Guest, not far from London.”

  “Then you, your nun, and your priest have traveled some distance like the rest of us.”

  She held a haunch of pullet vertically and sawed down at the flesh as she talked. “Though we have traveled far, it is well worth the journey and expense. I was most impressed by the martyr’s shrine today.” She sighed. “Such magnificence. Saint Thomas was such a brave and noble man. To stand up as he did against a king, his friend. Such a chivalrous man.”

  “You speak of him most strangely,” said Crispin. “Not as a saint, but as a romantic figure in a minstrel song.”

  “And why not?” she said, cocking her head. “We love our saints, we cloistered women. And we have no lover but God. ‘Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth; for thy love is better than wine.’ There is no need for outward passion of two vulgar bodies. Let man love from afar and look upward. To Heaven. We must be blind to all else but the love of God.”

  He flicked his gaze toward Jack whose eyes were glued to the young nun.

  “I intend to make a special vigil at the church tonight, later after supper,” said the Prioress. “One must make the most of one’s outlay.”

  “The Prioress is very thrifty,” said Sir Philip brusquely.

  Crispin turned to him but the Prioress went on.

  “Thrift is an important trait in a priory. I have my hounds and my garden. What more would I need? Abuses of discipline and money are for the world without. Is that not correct, Dame Marguerite?”

  The quiet nun raised her face. Jack no longer appeared to be his table servant but the nun’s. The boy was quick to drop the food from his hand and fill her cup lest it be empty the next time she touched it.

  She lowered her eyes. “My Lady Prioress is correct. I myself was raised under the careful guidance of my lady.”

  “You were brought to the priory as a child?” asked Crispin.

  “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 pa
le 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.

  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 sh
adows. “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.”