Troubled Bones

23

They met, all of them-Crispin, Jack, Chaucer, Dom Thomas-in Courtenay’s study. The archbishop was not pleased to be summoned out of Vespers, but Crispin insisted, and with the sheriff and his men nearby, it was easy to persuade him.

“What is he doing out of his cell?” Courtenay pointed at Chaucer. Geoffrey, mustering his dignity even with several days of beard growth on his cheeks and a dirty gown, spoke for himself.

“Your Excellency, God Himself has released me.”

“Is that so? I think, rather, it is a disobedient monk.” He swiveled his glare and landed it squarely on Dom Thomas.

The monk did not cower, and for that Crispin held a new respect for him.

“Your Excellency,” said Dom Thomas, “I did what was right and proper. Master Chaucer was not guilty. We have seen the proof of it this night.”

“Proof? I see only another death. A suicide, you say? I should lock you up, Crispin Guest. You have brought nothing but trouble to us.”

“I have brought you truth, Excellency. A quality this parish has sorely lacked.”

“You dare-”

“Enough!” Crispin’s voice stilled the others. He brought his scowl all the way to the foot of Courtenay’s chair. “I have had enough of your lies and trickery. You didn’t bring me here to guard the bones of Saint Thomas. You called me here to discredit the duke of Lancaster! And when Geoffrey’s dagger was found in Brother Wilfrid’s throat, you found a better revenge. You thought to execute Lancaster’s pet, never thinking, never dreaming that lives were in peril. What sort of shepherd are you?”

Courtenay said nothing. He squirmed on his chair.

Crispin straightened his coat. “I will explain events here as I reckoned them, and then I will be leaving this place. Canterbury does not feel as welcoming as it once did.” He turned to Geoffrey. “Master Chaucer lost his dagger by mischance. He left it in his room where Dame Marguerite easily found it and took it.”

“The poor soul,” said Dom Thomas. “We heard her confession,” he said to Sheriff Brokhull. “There is no question she was the killer of both her prioress and our brother monk. But why did she kill her prioress?”

“Cruelty,” said Crispin. “She lived under the Prioress’s roof and witnessed every day the cruelty the Prioress inflicted against her mother. Every word of scorn, every touch of the rod, must have chipped away at Dame Marguerite’s sanity until she became the sad and confused woman we encountered today. I am certain Prioress Eglantine thought she was serving God’s will by treating the sinful woman as she did. But after penance, there must be a time of reconciliation and healing. Surely that is what God intended.”

“You speak with your own authority, Master Guest,” said Courtenay. “You know nothing of the hardships that one endures in the confines of a monastery. Discipline must be maintained.”

“Indeed. Saint Benet devised the rule under which your own monks as well as Prioress Eglantine’s nuns live. But even he cautioned that those who have power over other souls must make a reckoning on Judgment Day. Prioress Eglantine’s day … came early.”

Courtenay scowled. “You walk very close to the line, Master Guest. But let us put an end to this discussion. Our poor daughter Marguerite was insane when she committed these crimes and died by her own will. We will pray for her soul, but she may not be buried in consecrated soil. The matter is at an end. Your duty has been discharged.”

“Then I am a free man,” said Chaucer, smiling at the sheriff.

“There is still a matter of heresy,” said the archbishop.

Geoffrey scowled. “My lord! I am a loyal son of Mother Church. But I am sworn to serve in his grace the duke’s household. If Lollard he is, it does not make it so for me.”

Courtenay glared at him, chin burled. “Very well, Master Chaucer. The charge of heresy is dismissed. But mark me, should you set foot on Canterbury soil again, the eye of the Church shall be upon you.”

“Your Excellency, should I ever be fool enough to venture to Canterbury while you live, I will be in sore need of the Church’s benefit.” He smiled at Courtenay’s expression and rushed to take Crispin’s hand, shaking it vigorously. “Cris! By God! Tracker? No indeed! You are a Miracle Worker!”

“Nothing of the kind,” he said with a rush of heat to his cheeks. He stepped away from Geoffrey, stamping down the pleasure he felt in his chest.

“My treasurer will fetch you the remainder of your fees, Master Guest. If you will, Dom Thomas?”

“One moment, Excellency,” said Crispin, stopping Dom Thomas as he turned. “There is still the matter of Saint Thomas’s bones.”

“Oh, er … that is a matter we will content ourselves to solve on our own, Master Guest.”

“There’s no need,” said Crispin. “I know where the bones are.” He hooked his thumbs in his belt and stepped forward. Amid all the horrors of this inquiry, he felt an uncommon satisfaction at the expression on the archbishop’s face. “Shall we repair to the Chapel of Saint Thomas?”

He could tell Courtenay was about to say no, but Brokhull spoke up. “I for one would be pleased to see an end to this. Lead on, Master Crispin.”

Crispin bowed to him. He didn’t wait for anyone to follow.

It was quite late now. Dame Marguerite’s body had been recovered and the monks had taken her to their infirmary. Crispin had suggested calling upon the help of Alyson again and she had come, exchanging with Crispin the saddest look he had yet seen her jovial face wear. She said she would keep vigil with the nun’s remains until dawn and Crispin left her to it. He had asked Jack if he wished to join her, but Jack had silently shaken his head. No doubt there was much on Jack’s mind, and Crispin did not wish to interfere with the labyrinth of emotions the boy had to face on his own. Jack had chosen instead to accompany Crispin, strangely holding the unwrapped sword tight to his chest yet again.

Crispin situated himself by Saint Thomas’s empty shrine and waited while the others gathered, carrying candles. But Crispin was only interested in Courtenay’s face. The man was angry but there was something more. He had seen that expression many a time on countless culprits. The man was caught. And he knew it.

“I know it is late, but I shan’t keep you long,” said Crispin. “I worried over many things when I began to make my inquiries. I worried that a murderer and thief had escaped and absconded with these most precious relics. But I soon came to understand that the one had little to do with the other.

“Dom Thomas was seen paying extortion money to a master mason who had seen something. Was it murder? I was soon disabused of that notion when I put together the facts. No, what the mason saw and what Dom Thomas was no doubt ordered to do, was remove the bones of Saint Thomas before I ever arrived. I do not blame your loyal monk, Archbishop. A man is only at the power of his superiors. Had he the presence of mind, the fortitude at the time, he would have refused to follow your orders as petty and small-minded.”

“Now see here-”

“Protest if you will, Excellency. It does not change the facts! He was ordered to remove the bones before my arrival.”

Brokhull shook his head in amazement. “If that is true, Master Guest, then where are they now?”

Crispin walked several strides to the tomb of Prince Edward. “I regret to say, that the bones of the sainted martyr are housed in the late Prince Edward’s tomb.”

“How could you have possibly known?” gasped Dom Thomas.

“Only later. I recalled being shooed away unceremoniously from his tomb not once but twice. The lid of the casket is slightly askew. And I found the finger bone of Saint Thomas between his own shrine and Prince Edward’s tomb. Obfuscation notwithstanding, this is the only possible answer.” He looked sharply at Courtenay. “Am I right, Excellency?”

Courtenay sucked in his lips but said nothing.

“It is true,” sighed Dom Thomas. “Poor Wilfrid. It was too great a burden to lay upon his young shoulders. To keep such a secret! He was greatly troubled by the deception. I should have taken my conscience from him. Too late.”

“You talk too much,” growled Courtenay.

Thomas raised his head. “I should have spoken earlier. I am ashamed at how I used all of you. You can be assured I shall do much penance in recompense.”

Crispin nodded. But he saved his iciest glare for Courtenay. “Have you nothing to say?”

The archbishop remained his aristocratic self. “Well, naturally I moved the bones.”

Silence followed this pronouncement. Crispin snorted. He’s playing it that way, is he?

“I feared a Lollard threat,” Courtenay said, red-faced. “I felt it the wisest course to protect the bones.”

Still no one spoke. Crispin doubted anyone believed the archbishop.

“At any rate,” said Crispin after a long pause, “I have you to thank, your Excellency, for helping me find Dame Marguerite when she escaped from us.”

“Me? I do not know your meaning.”

“In the cathedral. You pointed out where she had gone. To the Corona tower.”

“Are you mad? I was at Vespers.”

Crispin shook his head. “But I saw you there. You were wearing a short miter and you pointed. From there.”

They all looked to the edge of Saint Thomas’s shrine where Crispin indicated.

“But I tell you I was at Vespers with my monks. They can all attest to that.”

“But then … what bishop did I see?”

As soon as Crispin said it, coldness crept over him, starting at his temples and trickling downward.

Dom Thomas was the one to say it though Crispin well knew they were all thinking it. “It was Saint Thomas!”

“No,” said Crispin, the words coming to his lips without thinking them. He refused to believe it.

“What other explanation could there be? The saint himself, who witnessed all these terrible things. Oh my Lord and my God!” Dom Thomas fell to his knees. “Forgive me for this deception. Blessed Thomas. Forgive me!”

* * *

FAR TOO MUCH HAD happened that night. Crispin retired to his bed and Jack, as white as a ghost himself, settled on his own cot, though Crispin doubted the boy slept.

Brokhull came early to the inn the next morning. Crispin left Jack huddled by their fire to speak to the sheriff. He carried with him the sword of Fitz-Urse.

Crispin greeted him with a bow, but Brokhull’s greeting was more to Crispin’s liking: He offered a full jug of ale and two cups. They sat together by the hearth and downed a cup each before the sheriff spoke. “All is well, Master Crispin. At least, as well as can be with tidings such as these. Three religious dead.” He shook his head and his face was lost again behind his beaker. He wiped his mouth with his hand. “Saint Thomas’s relics have been restored to their rightful place, thanks to you. I do not know what the archbishop is paying you, but I am certain it is not enough.”

“My payment will be better served by leaving this place and returning to London, for I sorely miss it,” he said, even though such a thought had been foreign to him before.

“Are you certain? I could use a man with your talents. I would pay you well.”

“That is something to consider. Though London is my home.”

“Tracker, eh? Does it satisfy you?”

“In its way.”

“I can see that a man such as yourself would be better served with no master. Perhaps … I envy you.”

“Me? Do not envy me, Lord Sheriff. What you see is the sum total of what I have.”

“Then what I see is a man well armed to take on the world.”

Surprised, Crispin merely drank another. He looked at the sword at his feet and handed it to the sheriff. “Lord Sheriff, I surrender the sword of Fitz-Urse to you.”

The sheriff sneered at the weapon. “You do not own a sword, Master Crispin. Why don’t you keep it?”

Crispin hefted the blade a moment, but then offered it hilt first to Brokhull. “True, I own no sword, but I fear this one would be a poor replacement. It has ill-luck attached to it, to be sure. And more ill-luck, I do not need.”

The sheriff nodded and reluctantly took it.

Harry Bailey thumped down the stairs and when he caught sight of Crispin he hurried down the last several steps and joined the men by the fire. “Master Crispin. Lord Sheriff.” He sat with a heavy sigh. “Bless me! I have never in my life experienced a pilgrimage such as this.”

“Nor, I hope, shall we ever again,” said Crispin darkly.

“I will drink to that,” and he poured himself a beaker and drank it down.

The innkeeper brought a platter with cold meats and bowls of steaming broth. They thanked him and partook of the food.

Crispin sipped at the broth. “By the way.” He set down the bowl and wiped his lips. “Have our friends the Summoner and Pardoner returned?”

Bailey shook his head. “No one has heard or seen a wisp of them.”

Crispin snorted into his beaker. “As I thought.”

The sheriff drew his bowl from his lips. “Were there others you would have me pursue, Master Crispin?”

“Not for the moment.”

Harry Bailey edged forward, an earnest look on his weary face. He seemed much older of a sudden, and Crispin realized what a great strain this whole affair was for all concerned.

“How is young Jack? It was apparent to me-to all of us-that he was enamored of the youthful nun.”

Crispin sighed. “He will recover. As must we all. He is young and resilient.”

They fell silent, no doubt reliving their own first loves. Crispin worried about Jack, but young men suffered disappointments and trials all the time. Jack was certainly no stranger to either. Of course one’s survival was easier to cope with than one’s passions. Dame Marguerite would be burned into his consciousness for years to come. It would help mold him into the man he was swiftly becoming. Crispin only hoped it would make him stronger and not tear him down.

“Whatever happened to our dear Franklin?” asked Crispin.

The sheriff harrumphed. “Sir Bonefey?” He waved with a pullet haunch. “My men apprehended him on his way back to London. Do you still want him?”

Crispin considered. As annoying as the man was, he had done no actual harm. “No. But I fear I must apologize to him. I treated him with little courtesy.”

“Never fear that. If he would not declare it to you, he certainly feared the king’s justice. He eagerly confessed his entire plot. To serve the Lollards, he conspired to steal the bones with the help of your Summoner and Pardoner. Of course, Dom Thomas ruined that plan with his own plot. Or rather, the archbishop’s.”

Crispin snorted at the machinations of the nobility. Had the archbishop simply left it alone … But alas, Prioress Eglantine and Wilfrid would still be dead. “And his Excellency. What of him?” Crispin sipped his ale and watched the sheriff with steely concentration.

“I cannot bring charges. He is the Archbishop of Canterbury. If he wishes to relocate the relics in his own cathedral there is nothing for me to say to it. As for his calling his own Episcopal trial, well … That is a matter I do not wish to trouble the king with. Or Rome. The cathedral is being re-consecrated. There has been no mention of a theft but the bones will be paraded about Canterbury tomorrow in celebration.”

“I shall be gone by then.”

“Indeed,” said Bailey. “So should we all. We must return to London. We have tarried here long enough.” He set down his beaker and rose. “I’m certain the others would agree with me. Come with us, Master Crispin. Verily, you could do with the company.”

Crispin felt the abrupt weariness of the week’s events and agreed with Bailey. To return to London with an assembly was certainly more companionable. And it might be better for Jack as well. He was about to say just that, when a man burst through the inn’s door, shouting at the top of his lungs.

Everyone jumped to their feet. All Crispin could think was, What is it now?

“There’s murder, Lord Sheriff!” cried the man, little older than Jack, and more ragged. “We have a man cornered. There are witnesses! Come, please!”

The sheriff was almost out the door the moment the man mentioned “murder.” The others followed. Crispin cursed Canterbury. It seemed they simply could not escape death this trip.

Brokhull led the way to the crowd of shouting townsfolk who had seized someone. When the sheriff arrived the people parted for him and Crispin saw what the trouble was.

He wasn’t much surprised.

Peter Chanticleer was being held tight by two men while the others shouted at him. His long gown was covered in blood.

“What is this?” the sheriff demanded.

“I killed him,” said Chanticleer, chin thrust proudly. “He cheated me! He was a foul, loathsome churl and I killed him. And I shall not repent of it, though I know I will hang.” His lips trembled. “God will find forgiveness for me for ridding the world of that vile Summoner.”

Crispin nodded to himself as Brokhull took his leave of him to lead Chanticleer and the others away.

A fitting end for two wicked men.

The Miller was right, though. The Devil had come to roost in Canterbury. Crispin was glad to leave it.