Troubled Bones

24

The road snaking away from Canterbury was a ribbon of mud. The solemn troupe left the city behind and good riddance to it, but they hadn’t left it very far when they encountered mud-splattered riders with the livery of the duke of Lancaster. With all the emotional turmoil of Dame Marguerite and Becket’s bones, Crispin had quite forgotten he had requested the duke’s help.

Chaucer rode forth to meet them. Crispin wasn’t close enough to hear their exchange but with emphatic gestures and, Crispin suspected, rosy embellishments, the tale was told. Geoffrey gestured once toward Crispin and the two men fixed their eyes on him for a long moment. They spoke to Geoffrey a few moments more before turning their mounts. The horses kicked up a cockerel’s tail of mud as they galloped away back toward London.

Chaucer rejoined Crispin with a smile. There was a spot of mud on his cheek but Crispin did not tell him of it. “That was my rescue. Cris, I’m touched.”

Crispin rolled his eyes at Geoffrey’s expression. But he was relieved he had not needed Lancaster’s men.

For the rest of the long two days back to London, spring rains continued to drizzle over their quiet company, and often the weary travelers had to dismount and walk their horses through the worst of the mire. Crispin had led Alyson’s horse over the stickiest of muddy places and she smiled that gat-toothed grin at him in gratitude, the first smile in at least a day after the terrible events in Canterbury.

It was two days of watching Jack sitting straight-backed on his horse, sinking into a dull and unfamiliar quietude that worried Crispin.

But it was also two days of reacquainting himself with his friend Chaucer, and he was glad of it.

Geoffrey regaled him with stories of court and of his own adventures as the king’s spy, though he kept those stories close for their ears alone. They laughed together. Crispin laughed, and he felt the sharp pang of regret rasping behind it, because he knew this renewed camaraderie could not last. So he clutched at it like a cherished object, keeping it in his heart for now, a heart almost as broken as Jack’s.

London’s spires and rooftops came into view, masked by thin layers of smoke and mist. They reached the Tabard Inn and dismounted their horses in the courtyard, the remaining company of Thomas Clarke, Alyson, Father Gelfridus-who had stayed by himself for the ride back-Edwin Gough, Harry Bailey, Geoffrey Chaucer, and finally Crispin and Jack. They were certainly not the jovial party that had set out from this little inn a sennight ago. All had been sorely tested and they entered the inn for a last beaker of ale and to bid their farewells.

“Drink, my friends,” said Bailey, lifting his own horn. “We will drink to the grace of God for delivering us safely home, to the souls that did not return with us, and to a brighter morrow.”

Everyone lifted their cups in solemn silence. Bailey’s wife watched curiously from a doorway.

Jack turned slowly toward Crispin. “Can we go home now, Master Crispin?”

“Yes, Jack. Let us say our farewells.”

He shook Clarke’s hand and thanked him for his candidness. He gripped the Miller’s strong arm and wished him well. Father Gelfridus glanced up at him with guilty eyes but Crispin clutched his shoulder reassuringly. “Father priest, do not look so saddened. I knew full well you could not divulge what you heard confessed under the sacramental seal.”

“I know I have fulfilled my office.” He rubbed his hands and clutched at the crucifix dangling from his neck. “But I prayed for guidance. I failed that lost soul.”

“She was lost far too long ago, Father. You might have been her next victim.”

He shook his head. “And such would have been a blessing compared to the feelings I must carry with me now.”

He nodded to the priest. There was little left to say to that. He watched the priest move away, shutting himself within his rich cloak. Crispin wondered what the man would tell the priory when he returned to it. Crispin didn’t envy him.

A touch. He turned and gazed into the glowing countenance of Alyson. She smiled. The grin was frayed by the sadness of recent events. “Ah, Crispin,” she said. Her fingers slid down his arm and entangled with his own. “You are a fine man and a clever one. You and I, eh? We are a pair of mules, are we not? Stubborn to the last.”

He chuckled in spite of himself. He regretted very much that they had not had one more night together.

“I tell you what you must do,” she said, her smile broadening. “Marry me.”

Crispin jerked with surprise. “What?”

“Marry me, man. You’d be number six. And you’d be happy, too.”

He sorted through his shock and tried to form words. “I … it’s a generous offer.”

Instead of being insulted by his hesitation, Alyson gave a full-bodied laugh. “All my husbands, young and old, died before me. I’ll warrant that you do not eagerly rush to that! Aye, it’s a genuine gospel puzzle, that is. Whose wife would I be in heaven? And you don’t relish standing next to those fellows. Well, bless me, I don’t blame you. I tell you, Crispin. You are a lusty and vigorous bedmate!” She said the last a little too loudly and the Miller, Edwin Gough, chortled. Crispin glanced guiltily at Jack who was doing his best to pretend he hadn’t heard.

“I have never been presented with so magnanimous a suit,” he said. “But … I regret to say that I am not ready for such a commitment.”

“Alas! Such a loss. You would have liked it well, Crispin.” She reached up and planted a moist kiss to his cheek. “Then fare you well. God keep you. May the saints watch over you.” She patted the spot she had kissed, and swept from the inn, calling her good-byes and advice to the others.

Finally, there was only Crispin and Chaucer left. They thanked Harry Bailey and left the inn together. Crispin’s heart felt heavy, for he knew that he and Geoffrey would now part, perhaps never to cross paths again. Geoffrey mounted alongside him and the three of them rode out of the courtyard together. Crispin said nothing as they traveled across London Bridge, but finally had to speak. “I must return these horses to Newgate. And then I’m returning to my lodgings. I suppose…” He sniffed the heavy air of London, feeling a strange pang of familiarity and regret that he was home at last. “I suppose that this is where we part.”

Chaucer stared at him forlornly. He wound his reins around his gloved hand. The horse shook out its head, jangling the bridle. “Oh.” He bit his lip and furrowed his brow. “Curse it, Cris. I have seen so little of you. And now I owe you my life.”

Crispin yanked his hood lower over his forehead, hiding his eyes. “You owe me nothing. We are friends, Geoffrey. Whether … whether we see each other again or not.”

Chaucer considered this and stared at his saddle pommel. “We will. You can be certain of that.” He wheeled his horse about and Crispin watched his mount saunter away into the dense crowds of Thames Street.

After they returned their horses, Crispin and Jack walked silently back from Newgate down the Shambles. Looking up, he caught sight of the pot hanging from a hook overlooking the tinker’s door. Home. He hailed the tinker Martin Kemp, who was showing a customer his work. The man smiled back in greeting.

Crispin trudged up the stairs, weary in body and spirit, and abruptly pulled up short when he saw his door ajar.

He motioned for Jack to step back, drew his dagger, and kicked the door open.

A figure turned from the cold hearth. He was shadowed at first, but when the door opened wider and shed new light, Crispin nearly dropped his knife.

“Your grace!” He dropped to his knee to the duke of Lancaster and hastily sheathed his knife. Rising, he stepped in, pulling Jack along, and quickly closed the door. “My lord, why are you here?” And suddenly, Crispin felt his face go scarlet. Lancaster was seeing for himself the conditions in which he lived. The incongruous spectacle of the velvet-gowned duke standing in his lowly residence made him cringe with shame. “Why are you here?” he asked again, desperately.

Lancaster looked Crispin over before his eyes settled on Jack. The duke pulled out the one chair and sat. He laid his gloved hands on the rough surface of the table. Ruddy spots tinged his cheeks over a dark beard. “Well? Have you no wine?”

Crispin blinked, woke himself, and went to fetch his jug, hoping it still contained something drinkable. His heart clenched when he saw there was very little left in the chipped clay jug. He raised it and must have looked so stricken that the duke waved him off. “It doesn’t matter. Sit with me.”

Crispin slowly extracted the stool from its place beneath the table and gingerly sat. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Jack making himself as small as possible in the corner.

The duke wasted no time. “I received your missive and dispatched a representative as soon as possible, but you had already left Canterbury.”

“Our business there was done. We encountered your riders and told them … told them…”

“Indeed. They arrived a day before you did and told me all.”

Crispin picked at the edge of the table with his fingernail. “I was only doing my job. It is what I do.”

“Yes.” Even though he would not look up he could tell the duke was studying him attentively. “You are still angry with me.”

Should he lie? It didn’t seem to matter. “Yes,” he answered.

Lancaster chuckled. “Subtle as always, I see.”

“You used to value my honesty.”

“So I did.”

“And I yours.”

“Now Crispin. I never professed to be honest. Honesty in a prince is not his most highly prized commodity. It can, in fact, be to his detriment. I suppose the last time a monarch was truly honest was our own Saint Edward the Confessor. And look where it got him? Invasion by William the Conqueror.”

He rolled his fists on his thighs beneath the table. “History lesson duly noted. Why are you here?”

“Very well.” He settled back. “You have saved the life of my very valuable servant and have recovered the honor of my house that would have been scandalously damaged by that cur Courtenay, had his plot succeeded. Secreting the bones of Saint Thomas in my own brother’s tomb! The gall of the man!”

Crispin said nothing. Why are you here? WHY ARE YOU HERE! he screamed in his head.

“Deeds such as these require more than mere compensation.”

What?

“Indeed, I could pay you in coins, but…” He looked around the shabby room. His brows said it all. “Instead, I wish to offer you a post in my household.”

Crispin’s fists whitened under the hiding shadows of the table. “But…” The king had been explicit about his orders. No one was to succor him. No one. True, he had saved the life of the king and Richard had offered him back his knighthood and riches … if he would ingratiate himself in front of all the court. He had naturally refused and this had set Richard off on another tirade. He had told Crispin-shouted at him-that he would never be trusted, never be allowed back at court. What was different now?

“I know what the king declared,” said Lancaster, seeming to read his mind. “But this is a humble post. We would rarely see you. Something similar to what Chaucer sometimes does for me. Small jobs requiring a man of your skills. The compensation would be quite a bit more than you expect now.”

“None of these jobs would have anything to do with treason, would they?”

Lancaster leapt to his feet. “By God, Guest! I should strike you down!”

Crispin slowly rose. It did not do to sit while his lord stood. “It has been tried before. But I am like a cat. Nine lives.”

“How many left, I wonder?”

He shrugged. “No doubt Geoffrey gains from such employment. Though I rather thought he was spying for the king.” Lancaster’s face revealed nothing. “Well,” said Crispin. “King, crown; uncle, nephew. Little difference it makes.”

“You tread too fine a line.”

“Between life and death? Yes, it seems I am always treading that line, my lord.” He moved to the hearth, retrieved the tinder box, lit the small bits of straw, and tucked them under the peat. It only smoldered at first before the dark chunks of dried peat caught a flame. “I do not feel I can trust you, my lord. I would have thought you’d know that by now.”

“Crispin! You were like a son to me!”

“And you sacrificed me. No angel stayed your hand as they did for Abraham when he would have slain Isaac. No, my lord. I have had a taste of the king’s justice. It is not to my liking.”

“I offer you a chance at your rightful place again.”

“And he will not take it.”

They both turned toward the voice at the back of the room. Jack straightened his coat, the one Crispin had bought for him. “He has said his peace, your grace.”

“And what is this place you now inhabit, Crispin, when servants speak for their betters?”

“A place of trust,” Crispin answered, never moving his gaze from Jack’s. “Where the master will never sacrifice the servant for himself.”

Lancaster gathered himself as if he might strike down the both of them, but as quickly as his anger blossomed, his resolve seemed to wilt and he took a step back. “Will you never forgive me, Crispin?” His voice was unexpectedly soft.

He looked up at his lord then, the man who raised him, made him a knight. But as Geoffrey so succinctly put it, he was also a man who, by rights, could just as easily take it all away. Did such a man truly owe Crispin anything?

“On this journey,” said Crispin, “I have seen how the sin of vengeance can seep into the heart of an innocent and shred that life till the soul is left in tatters. I have no desire to see my own soul degenerate to such a state.” He felt Jack’s eyes on him, felt the warmth from his gaze. “And though I … I may find it hard to forgive, your grace, I find that it is not … impossible.” He lowered his eyes, unable to bear the expression in Lancaster’s steady gaze. “Give me time, my lord,” he said softly. “Perhaps in time, our debts to one another will have been paid.”

The slump of the duke’s shoulder and his drooping lids showed a more subdued demeanor. He gave a curt nod.

“Though I thank you for your kind offer,” said Crispin more lightly. “Today seems to be my day for propositions.”

Lancaster, now ill at ease, measured him, the room, and finally Jack. “What is your name, lad?” he said to fill the silence.

Jack straightened his shoulders. “I am Jack Tucker, sir. Apprentice Tracker.”

The corner of Lancaster’s mouth twitched, but he did not smile. Instead, he nodded to them both and gathered his cloak about him. “Then I must say my farewell, Crispin.” He took a step toward the door, paused, and without turning, said, “Whatever you may think of me, I was only doing what was best for the kingdom.”

Crispin looked at the floor. “So was I.”

Lancaster inclined his head. He grasped the door latch and was quickly out the door.

When it closed at last with a final click, Crispin collapsed into his chair. “I have done a very foolish thing. Again.”

Jack touched his arm. “No, sir. You stood up for yourself. I am proud to have witnessed it. ‘The ideal man bears the accidents of life with dignity and grace, making the best of circumstances.’”

He blinked. “Why, Jack. Is that Aristotle?”

“Aye, sir. It seemed fitting, sir.”

It also seemed to be Crispin’s day for blushing. He settled himself on the chair, leaning on the table’s surface. “It is fitting to you, as well, Jack.”

Jack shrugged. “I have had hardships, it is true. And there will be more along the way. That’s a certainty. But this is your day, master. You told that duke. You showed him what your mettle is. No matter what others may say, I think your family would have been proud of you this day, sir.”

“Family. I think you are my only family now, Jack.”

The boy smiled. “If only that were so. But I am pleased to be your apprentice, sir. That is good enough for me. Far better than I could have hoped for.”

Crispin nodded. But the boy started him thinking about his family.

“Jack, fetch my rings.” He knew that the lad knew where they were. Jack hesitated and then went to the loose floorboard beside the wall under the window and brought out the little cloth bundle. Jack handed it to Crispin and he took it. Unwrapping the package, the rings fell into the little well of his palm. Two rings. One belonged to his father and the other to him. He held the gold band to the light of the opened window and studied the signet carefully created on its face. The arms of Guest.

He held it in his hand for a moment longer, feeling its weight, before slipping it on his finger.