Troubled Bones

18

The west door of Canterbury Cathedral was blocked by a throng of townsfolk, some demanding entrance, others just curious at the commotion. Crispin wished with all his heart he still possessed a sword. He hoped a commanding tone would do for him what three feet of absent steel could not.

“What goes on here?” he shouted.

He smiled to himself to see the crowd part for him. There was something to be said for a noble upbringing.

He could see the door now. It had been wedged open by some of the townsfolk. Two broad-shouldered men stood within the entrance and one of them looked like the mason Crispin had seen the day before.

“That’s Master Nigel,” whispered Jack, elbowing his side. “The one I saw with Dom Thomas.”

“Indeed.” Crispin pushed his way up the steps, unmindful of the glares he received. “Master Nigel, what’s amiss? Why have you barred the way?”

Nigel turned his wide, flat face, measuring him with keen, darting eyes. “And who might you be?”

“I am Crispin Guest. They call me the Tracker.” There were a few gasps of recognition and even Nigel’s features became graver. “The archbishop has charged me with keeping the peace in this parish … and there has been precious little of that of late.”

“Aye,” said Nigel with a leer. “If you have been so charged, you haven’t been doing your job well. Two murders, I hear tell. And … other mischief.”

“Is that why you guard the doors? Because of ‘mischief’?”

“Well, we might make a little mischief of our own, good Tracker. We guard the doors as we have promised to do if the monks here refuse to pay their bill.”

Jack lurched forward. “But-”

“Jack!” hissed Crispin and pushed him back. To Nigel, he said, “It is interesting that you should say so. I have it on good authority that you have already been paid these sums.”

Nigel frowned and glanced at his fellows who were too far away to hear their conversation. He turned his back on Crispin to call a mason to the door. When a man arrived he spoke to Crispin again. “I will talk with you, Master Guest.” Jack made a move to follow but the man looked down at him and shook his shaggy head. “Only the Tracker, if he is brave enough.”

“Master Crispin is the bravest man in the kingdom!” Jack shouted, hands balled into fists.

Crispin laid a gentle hand on Jack’s shoulder and eased him back. “That’s enough, Jack. Wait for me here.”

Jack, all former animosity forgotten, stood his ground. Crispin smiled inside but turned a solemn expression to the masons. His lone dagger was small comfort as he passed under the arch within the cool church. He glanced up the nave and saw more masons barring the way from the cloister. Nigel led him to a dark corner near the quire before turning to Crispin with his beefy fists at his hips. His tunic was rough-spun and dusted with powder and bits of stone. His paunch spilled over the thick leather belt at his waist. His dark stockings had patches on each knee. Never had Crispin been happier to own a new coat and stockings, or he might have looked as poor as this man.

“Very well,” said Nigel, his voice thick with intimidation. “What do you have to say?”

“Merely that you have been paid.” He lowered his voice and glanced dramatically at the others. “Or is it a secret from your fellows?”

“You lie.”

He straightened. “A poor game, this. For you know I am not lying.”

Nigel grimaced and pulled his dagger. Crispin expected it and had his out first. His other hand darted forward, gripped the mason’s arm, and slammed his hand against a pillar. The surprise of the action freed the blade from the mason’s fingers. It clattered loudly on the floor and echoed throughout the empty church. Crispin pressed his own blade to the bull-like neck. The man’s eyes widened when he stared down at the steel. “I don’t like men pulling their daggers on me,” he hissed close to Nigel’s face. “It isn’t friendly. It makes my own blade itch for blood. Should I scratch that itch?”

“No, Master,” croaked Nigel. “It … it was ill-advised of me.”

“I will put my dagger away and we will talk, yes?”

The man nodded and Crispin slowly withdrew the dagger from the man’s neck and sheathed it.

“Now. This is what transpired. You received money from Dom Thomas to hold your tongue about something you saw.” The man’s brows rose up his creased forehead. “It matters little to me if you wish to share this boon with your fellow guild members. My interest in it is this: I want to know what it is you saw. Why is Dom Thomas paying for your silence?”

“It has nought to do with you, Tracker.”

“Doesn’t it? I wonder how your fellows would react should I tell them that you have indeed already been paid and choose to keep it for yourself. Could you feign forgetfulness, I wonder, and live?”

Nigel passed a hand over his sweaty face. “It’s not what you think.”

“I believe it is exactly what I think. What did you see? If it was murder and you failed to report it to the authorities then you are as liable as the killer-”

“Murder? Murder?” His sweaty face was suddenly pebbled with perspiration. “Blessed Mother! I am no party to murder!”

His voice rose in volume, alerting the other masons nearby. Heads turned.

“I have no part in murder!” he cried again.

Damn the man! Crispin saw his opportunity slipping away as curiosity turned to concern. Some came away from their posts and headed toward them. Soon the masons were gathered around the two, casting accusatory and threatening looks Crispin’s way. Before Crispin could negotiate the situation, Nigel snatched up his own money pouch in a burst of inspiration. “Look! This man has talked to the good brothers and brought our pay! Let the monks come through, then, as our quarrel with Canterbury is at an end. We will return to our work. Come now!”

The men, acting like a shield around Nigel, cheered and moved as one to meet the others at the cloister door. There was more discussion, some arguments, but the monks were soon allowed in and the dispute appeared to be over.

Nigel looked back with a smirk. Disgusted, Crispin turned away.

He met Jack at the entrance again and the boy was beaming at him. “Don’t be proud of me yet, Jack,” he said with a scowl. “I was not able to extract the information I wanted from Master Nigel. And now I never shall.” He recounted their exchange and Jack’s face fell. “However,” he said, “mention of murder produced a rather profound effect.” Jack didn’t understand. He steered the boy into the nave and bent close to Jack’s ear as they watched the monks’ shadows cross the Chapel of Saint Thomas at the far end. “Dom Thomas does not seem guilty of murder. I thought that would console you.”

Jack nodded. “Indeed it does. A holy brother guilty of the greatest sin? Though I do not much like the man, I am relieved he is no killer. But what, then, did he need to pay extortion money for?”

“That I do not yet know. But I shall ferret it out some other way.” He, too, was pleased that Dom Thomas, pompous as he was, was not guilty of murder, but it drew him no closer to finding evidence against Sir Philip. He shook his head. “Prioress Eglantine, Brother Wilfrid. Such heinous crimes. I wish I knew why-”

“Oh! Oh God’s blessed eyes and ears! I do know why, sir!”

He stared at Jack as though he had sprouted wings. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s that curse, sir,” he said, grabbing Crispin’s arm and searching the shadows.

“What foolish nonsense is this?”

“It’s the curse, Master. What Edward Harper was telling me. The curse of Becket’s bones!”

“I have never heard of such foolishness. I expected better sense from you. After the hours I spent teaching you-”

“But sir! First it was the Prioress, and her name was Eglantine de Mooreville. And then poor Wilfrid, and his surname was de Tracy. Don’t you see, sir? They both have the same surnames as Becket’s murderers. The saint is taking his revenge on their descendants. And Father Gelfridus is next! He’s a Le Breton.”

Crispin paused. He rolled the thought in his mind like dice in his fingers. Was there merit to such an idea? Was someone taking vengeance on the past?

“Why, Jack, that is a very interesting theory. But how could the murderer know that these three people would be at the same place and time?”

“If God wishes a thing done, then it is done.”

“God is not killing these people!”

“Well someone is!”

“Who is this Edward Harper?”

Jack looked relieved at last. “I will take you to him, sir.”