Troubled Bones Page 8

  “That your barony, lands, and knighthood be stripped from you.”

  He looked at Geoffrey’s solemn expression. “Were I a Franciscan I would have been utterly ecstatic.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I took to the streets. And then I starved.” He nodded to himself, remembering. “I became good at that. You see, I couldn’t quite believe my predicament at first. It wasn’t until I was on my last legs that I begged food at the alms doors of many of London’s churches.”

  Chaucer kicked at a stone and they both watched it bounce along the avenue. “Why did you not take to the highways and become an outlaw? You would not have starved.”

  “Some men are made for that. Not me. I preferred to earn my keep honestly. And I did so. My first job was as a gong farmer.” Chaucer grimaced in sympathy. Crispin said it with relish, almost enjoying the slap of the pronouncement. “Mucking a privy isn’t so bad. It’s mucking hundreds that makes it unbearable.”

  Chaucer checked behind him again. “But what of your other skills? Could you not have gained employment as a scribe?”

  “I did. Eventually. And an accounting clerk. But I did so for merchants. Court was closed to me.”

  “Then how did you fall into … into…”

  “My present occupation? It began as a simple challenge and then evolved. And now it is my sole means of employment. It does not pay well, but I find it intellectually stimulating. And I am my own man.” He glanced up at the cathedral. “Most of the time.”

  Chaucer smiled and stroked his beard. “This is a finer tale than I could ever weave even from my fertile imagination.”

  “Just keep me out of your writings.” He stopped and looked up at the church ahead. “I have my work to do. Have I satisfied your curiosity?”

  “Satisfied? You’ve only piqued it.” He grinned, his old self again. “May I go with you? I’ve never watched a murder inquiry before.”

  Crispin shut his eyes. He didn’t see how he could divert Chaucer. Besides, a small part of him wanted his old friend in his company.

  They walked in silence up the long pathway to the cathedral where Jack stood at the foot of the stair to the archbishop’s lodge and waited for them.

  7

  BEHIND THE QUIET JACK Tucker, Chaucer followed at his heels, an annoying smile on his face. They were led to Courtenay’s apartments and when Courtenay saw all of them, his face darkened.

  “Master Guest,” he said. The tone in his voice asked many questions. Crispin tried to answer some of them.

  “Master Geoffrey Chaucer, my lord,” he said by way of introduction.

  Chaucer bowed, stepped forward, and kissed the ring on Courtenay’s hand. “Your Excellency.”

  Courtenay’s hand hung limply for a moment as if the archbishop were wondering what to do with such an honor. Courtenay’s heavy red cloak hung about his shoulders, making his larger-than-life figure that much larger. He angled his shoulder, dismissing the presence of Chaucer. “Have you anything to report to me, Master Guest?”

  “Yes, Excellency.”

  Chaucer looked amused. It irked.

  Crispin reached into the pouch at his belt and drew out the bone. “I have recovered only a small portion of Saint Thomas.” He dropped the bone into Courtenay’s open hand just as Chaucer gasped. “I found this by the tomb,” Crispin went on. “Obviously left by hasty thieves.”

  “God blind me!” whispered Jack before he slapped his hand to his mouth.

  Courtenay did not move but stared into his palm. A fire crackled in the hearth, but no other noise disturbed the archbishop’s reverie. He muttered something. A prayer? A curse? Finally the archbishop closed his hand into a fist, capturing the bone. “I thank you for this at least, Master Guest.”

  Crispin bowed. “Your Excellency.” He wondered whether to bring up the red scrap of cloth, his only real clue besides the sword. He couldn’t be certain, of course, if the cloth had been left behind earlier and thus had no relation to the murder and theft, but it was all he had. He reached into his pouch and his fingers eased over one leftover rosary bead before they closed on the scrap. He lifted it just as Courtenay turned, his cloak sweeping across the wooden floor. And there, near the hem, a jagged tear.

  Crispin paused and withdrew an empty hand from his pouch. “Excellency, your cloak appears to be torn.”

  Courtenay looked down. He dismissed it with a careless brush of his hand. “I am always getting it caught in doorways. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.” He sat and curled one hand around the chair’s arm. The other holding the bone remained tightly closed. His eyes flicked to Jack and Chaucer. “Have you come to any conclusions about the horrific murder of the Prioress?”

  “No.” Crispin edged toward the fire and stared into it. His mind ran ahead, working independently of his mouth. “Only that if the Lollards are behind the murder and theft, their peaceful methods have changed.” He looked at Jack clutching the wrapped sword. Tucker’s face turned toward the window and the burgeoning sunlight. “You did not by any chance personally know the Prioress, my lord, did you?”

  The archbishop blinked slowly. “As it happens, I was acquainted with Madam Eglantine.”

  “Indeed. And may I know the nature of this acquaintance?”

  Courtenay’s eyes were a remarkable shade of blue and they fixed on Crispin like gems. He’d seen the like before on necklaces and crowns, but those gems had no more animation than did the archbishop’s suddenly cold glare. “A year ago,” he said stiffly. “I presided over a judgment. The priory’s lands encroached on the land of a Franklin.”

  “And that was when you met her?”

  Courtenay said nothing. His hand tightened on the chair arm.

  “Did you exchange words with her, my lord? Then, or more recently?”

  Courtenay’s countenance grew stonier. His mouth curved into a frown.

  Chaucer moved hastily in front of Crispin. “I must apologize for my friend,” he said jovially, looking back over his shoulder. “So long from court, he is unused to civilized conversation. Come to think of it, even at court he never proved himself all that well versed in polite discourse.”

  What the hell was Geoffrey doing? Crispin had the urge to throw him aside, but he knew the man well enough to recognize the cautionary note in Chaucer’s voice.

  “And you are master of polite conversation, are you, Sir Geoffrey?” said Courtenay. “I remember you, too, good sir. Poet to the king. Lapdog of Lancaster.”

  Chaucer drew his cloak about him and shivered melodramatically. “Fie! It’s chilly here of a sudden. The mere mention of Lancaster has blown an ill wind through the hall. Pray, your Excellency, why so cold when the discussion turns to talk of my master? He is the king’s uncle, his most trusted counselor, a patron of the arts—”

  “You neglected to mention advocate of the Church, Master Chaucer. With good reason. For he is not. I have little trust for his grace’s intentions. Or that of his servants.”

  “Oh dear.” Chaucer released his cloak with a flourish. “Is it because my master supported John Wycliffe—”

  “The heretical Lollard,” Courtenay injected.

  Chaucer raised his hands in a shrug. “I am not a theologian, Excellency. Only a poet. Everything is grist for my mill. Heretics, kings … clerics.”

  “Much like a jester does, eh Master Chaucer?”

  Geoffrey smiled and bowed in such a way that Crispin could well imagine him in motley. “As you will, Excellency.”

  Crispin sidestepped Chaucer and motioned for Jack to come forward. He took the sword from the boy’s hands and unwrapped the pommel. “My lord, have you seen these arms before?”

  Courtenay leaned forward. “Is that the weapon that committed this most foul deed?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  His spine seemed to conform to the straight back of his chair and his voice fell to a deadly tone. “And you bring it here?”

  “My lord, the arms—”

  “Have
you no delicacy at all, Master Guest? Faith! I should have known better than to go to London’s streets for help and contented myself with the king’s sheriff. Look what has happened under your watch, Guest. A horrible murder. A great theft; a theft you were supposed to prevent!” He snapped from the chair. “This is outrageous. Take your foul weapon from my chamber and never bring it again!”

  Trembling, Crispin wrapped the bundle and tossed it across the room to Tucker. The boy barely caught it. “Do you free me from my obligation, then?” Crispin asked tightly.

  “Free you? Out of the question. I want you to find those bones!” He thrust his hand forward and displayed the tiny finger bone lying on his reddened palm. “Do you think this will satisfy? I want Becket back! All of him. And I want that murderer to hang. Consider Canterbury your new home.”

  “Then I will need the keys to the church.”

  The archbishop’s face reddened with new outrage. “What?”

  “I want the keys. I must have free rein to explore the cathedral grounds. Has a locksmith been called to change the locks as I instructed? I spoke of this to Dom Thomas Chillenden yestereve.”

  “I do not know. You will have to discuss it with him. Go to the church and I will have him sent to you. And Master Guest.” He grasped the edge of his cloak. “Have you made any progress on the … other matter?”

  Crispin racked his brain and then remembered. The archbishop was certain one of his monks was a Lollard. This was still within the realm of possibility and it would have to be dealt with soon, but the murder quite drove it out of Crispin’s mind. “No, Excellency. But you can be assured—”

  “So far, Master Guest, you have assured me of very little.”

  “Excellency, ‘It is possible to fail in many ways, while to succeed is possible only in one way.’”

  “Then in future, Master Guest, see that your successes exceed your failures. We’ve had quite enough of those.” He raised a shaky hand and signed a hasty benediction over them, though Crispin thought the man would rather be waving a sword.

  Crispin bowed low, mostly to shield from view the angry trembling of his hands. He spun on his heel and took long, swift strides to the exit. Not waiting for Chaucer or Jack, Crispin took the stairs two at a time and made his way into the church.

  Hard steps conveyed Crispin almost all the way up the north aisle before Jack, out of breath, caught up to him. He held the sword over his shoulder like a shepherds crook. “Master. Please. Master Chaucer is coming, too—”

  “Well, where is he, then?” he growled.

  “Here!” said Chaucer. He trotted forward and stopped next to Jack. He, too, was short of breath. “Good Christ, Guest. Is that how you conduct an inquiry? It’s a wonder you do not get yourself arrested. Or excommunicated.”

  “Aren’t you bored yet, Geoffrey?” he snarled.

  Chaucer postured. “Is the mummery over?”

  Crispin mumbled a curse and glanced at Saint Benet’s chapel. All trace of the Prioress’s blood had been washed away. No one would ever know that two murders had been committed on the same spot divided by the span of two hundred years. A pang of guilt warmed his chest, but he pressed on before he decided he didn’t know where he was going. He’d have to wait for Dom Thomas to arrive and there was little he could do but wander through the nave, looking like a lost pilgrim.

  “Crispin.” Chaucer was suddenly at his side. “What have Lollards to do with the bones of Saint Thomas?”

  “Leave it, Geoffrey,” he snapped.

  Masons were perched on the scaffolding again. Their interminable hammering echoed throughout the church and stone dust showered in rhythm to their strokes. “Oi!” cried one mason to another on a far scaffold. “Have you spoken to the treasurer, Master?”

  The stout man on the far scaffold lowered his hammer and moved to the edge of the platform. “I’m waiting for him,” he said, gesturing with his chisel. “It’s time for another talk.”

  The man—a journeyman, most likely—nodded knowingly and went back to his business.

  Crispin watched them at their tasks for a span, watched the artists paint the stone, and then pounded a fist impatiently into his palm, pacing. He hated waiting.

  Chaucer and Jack stood nearby. Jack hugged the sword, trying not to look at Chaucer. Geoffrey leaned against a pillar but Crispin felt their eyes on him and scowled deeper. Stare, then, if you must. He hadn’t actually accused the archbishop, though he’d seen enough guilty noblemen to know that crimes were committed by the lowest to the highest member of society. Not that he could possibly accuse Courtenay. And if the young nun did see him commit the crime, was she truly at liberty to say so? Her archbishop? It might as well be the pope. It could be that the scrap in his pouch was from the archbishop’s cloak, and it also could be that it was an entirely innocent accident. But in this business, accidents were seldom innocent and coincidences almost unheard of. It would certainly be impossible for him to get the archbishop’s cloak and test it.

  He glanced at his young thief, Jack, with a smirk. Well, almost impossible.

  A figure hurried through the church from the south aisle but slowed when spotting Chaucer and Tucker. Chaucer smiled and bowed to the man and Tucker belatedly bent his head.

  “Master Guest,” said Dom Thomas, his face skewed as if he smelled something unpleasant. “The locksmiths are here. It will take the better part of the day for them to change the locks.”

  “Fine. I will collect my key when they are done.”

  “Your key?”

  “And I will need an old key now. I need to examine the environs.”

  Dom Thomas’s jowled face paled. “I do not know that I can give you any keys—”

  “Come, come, man. The archbishop already gave me permission. You’re wasting his time now, not mine.” He held out his hand, wiggling his fingers.

  The monk stared at Crispin’s outstretched hand for a long moment. He reached for the key ring on his cincture and pulled a long silver key from its brothers on the ring. “I give you the means to all places public and private, Master Guest. Have a care with it.”

  He took it solemnly and placed it in his money pouch. “You can trust me, Dom. I am fully aware of my responsibility.”

  Chillenden glared from one face to another before looking back over his shoulder toward the shrine with its long line of pilgrims. “The archbishop has given me no instructions as concerns the shrine. I do not know if I am permitted to allow the pilgrims to come forth. I understand that the news that the bones were taken was not made public.”

  “Indeed not. Then I suppose you may permit pilgrims to enter.”

  “But … there will be nothing there to pray to.”

  “Alas, Brother. Yet if the pilgrims are ignorant of that, do you truly think God will mind?”

  “But the fees?”

  Crispin’s scowl darkened. “Perhaps the fees can be waived.”

  “Waive the fees?”

  Bless me, but I think I might be siding with these Lollards. “Do what you will, Dom. It is not my affair.” He brushed past the monk and up the aisle before slowing to a stop. “Isn’t the church to be closed?” Dom Thomas stood mutely. He fumbled with his keys. Crispin swiveled toward him. “Well?”

  “I have had no instructions on this,” said the monk carefully.

  Crispin drew back as if slapped. “Not close the church! But surely it needs to be reconsecrated after a murder—”

  Dom Thomas clenched his hands and thrust them into his scapular. “There has been no instructions from the archbishop. I suggest you keep out of it, Master Guest.”

  He stared hard at the monk whose apparent frustration colored his face in blotchy red. “I see. This murder is then to be kept very secret.” He tried to inhale a cleansing breath but instead took in stale incense and dust. “Brother Wilfrid needed to speak to me,” he said. “Send him to the Chapel of Saint Thomas.”

  Chillenden did not acknowledge this when he spun on his heel, but his progress wa
s halted by the mason yelling down to him. “Oi! Brother monk! Wait a bit.” The large muscled man grabbed a rope and descended the side of the scaffold. It shook with his weight and dusted the floor with particles of stone.

  “I ask again, Good Brother, when I and my men may receive their payment. You are overdue.”

  The monk glanced hastily at Crispin and set his chin high. “The archbishop must approve all payments from the treasury, Master, and I am sorry to say, he has not yet done so.”

  “We have been delayed too long, Brother. If you do not wish to pay—”

  “Payment will come to you anon. I suggest you and your men practice patience.”

  “We may practice more than that. On the morrow, we may find it difficult indeed to locate the church.”

  “Do you threaten me? I can get any number of masons here to do this work.”

  “They’d have to traffic with the guild … and get past us to do it,” he said, laying his considerable hammer over his shoulder.

  Dom Thomas pressed his lips tightly together and gave one more look toward Crispin. “I’ll see what I can do,” he muttered and hurried away.

  The mason watched the monk leave and offered Crispin a curt bow and a smirk before he hoisted himself up the scaffold again.

  Over his shoulder, Crispin watched the man climb while his feet took him to the shrine to await Wilfrid. Though he made no motion to Jack or Chaucer, they followed him anyway, silent as shadows, to Saint Thomas’s chapel. Thousands of pairs of feet had passed this same way for two hundred years, hollowing each worn step, all to venerate a saint, an archbishop of Canterbury.

  “You’ll find those bones, won’t you, Master?” said Jack at Crispin’s elbow.

  He nodded. “I want them back almost as badly as the archbishop does.” He glanced at Geoffrey who remained mercifully silent. “Saint Thomas was martyred because he would not allow crimes against the clergy to be tried in any other than an ecclesiastical court. To King Henry’s mind, this meant treason.” Jack nodded. This much he knew. Treason, thought Crispin. How easy it is to commit. How hard to endure the consequences.