Troubled Bones

2

Chaucer clapped Crispin on the shoulder and stood back. “Cris! By God! Let me look at you. I have not seen you in … Holy Mother. How long has it been?”

“Eight or so years,” he answered stiffly.

“You look very thin.”

“Starvation will do that.”

Chaucer gave an embarrassed laugh. “Indeed. Well.”

Crispin eyed the monks, glaring in their direction. He took Chaucer’s arm and directed him out of the chapel area.

“Must you speak so loudly?” Crispin muttered.

“You know me, Cris,” said Chaucer, his voice just as loud. “It is my way.”

“I remember.” He tried to suppress his initial shock. He wasn’t successful. He looked at Chaucer, now with a curly beard and mustache. He wore a red ankle-length gown trimmed in dark fur. His belt was dotted with silver studs and held a dagger with a bejeweled pommel. A familiar dagger. One Crispin had gifted to Chaucer too many years ago to count. “What brings you here, Geoffrey? Shouldn’t Lancaster’s poet be at court?” He released Geoffrey, though all he wanted to do was clap him in his arms.

“The duke’s poet cannot go on a pilgrimage for the sake of his soul?” Chaucer talked in a nervous rush, too jocular, too carefree. “And what brings you here, Master Guest? I thought you’d sworn off pilgrimages.”

Crispin forced himself back to the present. It had been many a year since he and Chaucer called themselves friends. He weighed how much to reveal. Slowly, he said, “I’m here on a task for the archbishop.”

“Task?”

“I must find employment where I can.”

If Chaucer was embarrassed, he no longer showed it. “Where are you staying? I am at the Martyrs Inn. I assume there will be ample opportunity to catch up with each other’s news. It has been a long time, after all. We’ve gone our separate ways from those long ago days serving Lancaster, eh? And I … well.” He paused, his eyes alive and searching every crease and plane of Crispin’s face. The rush of words finally hit a stopping point. First he eased back, looking at the long tips of his shoes. Then he edged forward again, raised his face, and said more quietly, “In truth, I would know how you have fared. I remember our days together fondly.”

Crispin softened but didn’t quite relax. “As do I.”

The moment was broken when Chaucer gave a familiar smirk. He stepped back again to boldly appraise his friend. His hat flapped against his back, its long liripipe tail across his chest holding it in place. “Where do you stay? We will meet, will we not?”

“No doubt. I am at the Martyrs, too.” His gut roiled with emotions he did his best to tamp down. “I … I must go. Later, Geoffrey. Later.”

Chaucer tried to speak but Crispin slipped away without looking back. He did not know exactly why he felt so uncomfortable seeing Chaucer again. He reckoned it was mostly because he always felt a certain amount of unease and embarrassment when encountering someone from his former days when he was still a knight and lord. And Chaucer had been one of his best friends; a friend whom Crispin had made certain to abandon.

He strode quickly through the church and out, feeling a sense of relief to walk in the sunshine and leave Chaucer behind. He headed toward the great hall where the archbishop’s lodgings were situated and encountered a locked gate at the stair. He pulled the bell rope and soon a monk appeared.

“Benedicte,” said the monk.

“I have come at the bidding of his Excellency the Archbishop. Tell him Crispin Guest is at the gate.”

The monk looked less than inspired with this request, but he turned, trudged back up the stairs, and disappeared around the landing.

Crispin rubbed his chapped hands together and stomped his feet to ward off the chill. He’d met his Excellency William de Courtenay once years ago. How did the archbishop come to think of him for this assignment? It warmed a place in his chest to think that his fame as the Tracker had reached Canterbury, but he squashed the thought just as quickly. If Courtenay remembered him at all, it was as a protégé to John of Gaunt and consequently Courtenay’s enemy.

He startled when the monk hurried back down the steps. The monk took a key from a ring at his cincture, unlocked the gate, and pulled it open. He seemed surprised to find himself saying, “His Excellency will see you immediately.” He locked the gate again and Crispin followed him up the staircase, through a corner of the great hall, and to a large arched door. The monk knocked, listened a moment, then ushered him through.

Courtenay looked up from his reading with striking blue eyes set in a fleshy but earnest face. A classical nose found on many a Roman statue rose over well-carved lips and a prominent chin. He rose at his place behind a large table and ornate chair. Courtenay wore the long robes of his office. A red cap fit snugly on a head of curled brown hair.

The archbishop pushed the chair aside and strode around the table. He seemed to be a man in his full capacity, fully aware of his role and his position in society. He, like the martyred Becket, had once served as chancellor to a king, but resigned after serving King Richard only four months. Crispin had no reason to suspect that he left the king’s services due to any lack of affection for the young king, but he did wonder.

He knelt, kissed Courtenay’s ring quickly, and stepped back.

The cleric openly inspected him. Over the years, Crispin expected a certain amount of scrutiny, especially from those who were aware of his history, but knowing this never seemed to dull the sensation that he was a horse at market.

“Crispin Guest,” said the archbishop in a clipped and patrician tone. Courtenay hooked his thumbs into his embroidered belt. “We’ve met before, you know.”

“Yes, your Excellency. I thought we might have done.”

“But those circumstances are best forgotten.”

He agreed. “But if that is so, my lord, then why did you send for me in particular?”

Courtenay smiled. He gestured to a sideboard before he sat in a chair beside the fire. “Pour some wine, Master Guest.”

He bowed and moved to the sideboard. He poured wine from a silver flagon into two silver goblets and took them to the fire, giving Courtenay one and keeping the other. Courtenay offered him a wooden chair beside him, and Crispin sat.

“You are well known in certain circles, Master Guest,” said Courtenay. His jeweled ring glittered as he turned the goblet in his hand. “And your recent doings at court have made association with you less of a disadvantage than it might have been before.”

Crispin raised a brow. Saving the king’s life? He supposed that made him less of a pariah, though he was still not welcomed at court. No one forgot treason, he supposed.

“Indeed,” Courtenay went on, “your skills investigating crimes make you highly desirable and quite the only one I wished to consider.”

Crispin drank in silence.

Courtenay’s eyes fixed on him. Suddenly, he offered, “I remember tales of Sir Henry Guest. He was a valorous knight and a devoted baron to the crown as well as servant of Lancaster and the old king.”

Crispin straightened at Courtenay’s unexpected words. He cleared his throat. “I do not recall much of my father,” he said carefully. “He was often gone to war, where he died.”

“Yes. And that was when you were fostered into Lancaster’s household, I believe.”

“Yes, when I was seven. No mother and no father, save Gaunt.”

“Your liege lord raised you well, making you a knight.”

Crispin moved against the seat, trying to find a comfortable spot. “Lancaster is no longer my liege lord.” He wished he could leap to his feet and cast over the chair. Instead, he gripped the arm. “Situations change. Particularly of late.” I came all this way, dammit. Get to the point!

“Lancaster has staunch views on religious matters. One might even say they lean toward heresy.”

“My religious views do not necessarily mirror that of my former mentor.”

“Well then. Can I assume that you are a friend of the Church?”

The comfortable spot on the chair still eluded him. He edged forward. “I am neither friend nor foe of the Church.”

“Am I mistaken about you, Master Guest? I heard from my brother monk, Abbot Nicholas of Westminster Abbey, of his high regard for you. Of deeds you have performed for the sake of Mother Church.”

“He is a friend.”

“And the relics?”

He couldn’t help cringing. Did it always come to that? The chair proved too uncomfortable. He snapped to his feet, started to pace before the fire, and then thought better of it. He stood before it instead, keeping his back to the flames. “Simply because a holy relic falls into my hands-for whatever reason-does not mean I believe in its power.”

Courtenay took a sip of wine, his gaze never leaving Crispin. “Then why do these relics come to you?”

He threw up a hand. “I know not. Perhaps it is God’s plan. Or jest.”

“I suppose a man like you can be trusted, if the Almighty finds you worthy.”

“You can trust me. For a shilling you can buy all the trust you desire.”

“For money? I don’t believe you.”

Crispin set the goblet down hard, spilling some of the wine. “You know my history. I have learned that the only thing that can be trusted is gold.”

“That is not a godly sentiment. Aren’t you a good Christian, Master Guest?”

He raised his chin, staring up at the ribbed ceiling and decorative bosses. “I believe … in belief.”

“Master Guest-”

He squared on the archbishop. “Forgive me, Excellency. But these niceties get us nowhere. I have come a long way. What do you want with me?”

Courtenay slowly nodded and set his wine aside. He stood. “You are a candid man, so I shall be forthright with you. The Lollard heretics have made threats against the martyr’s relics.”

At last! Firm ground. “What kind of threats?”

“Letters. Rumors. All indicate that they wish to do harm to Becket’s tomb and remains.”

“May I see these letters?”

“Alas. I destroyed them. There were only two, and I took them as nothing but the anonymous mischief of a disingenuous rabble. But then there were rumors and incidents. Broken locks and petty thievery. It was only then that I began to take these threats seriously. And as you know, I am no friend to the Lollards.”

Crispin remembered. Ten years ago, Courtenay and Lancaster faced off like two cockerels in a barnyard fight. Crispin stood beside Lancaster as he was wont to do. Courtenay no doubt remembered Crispin from that occasion. Courtenay’s attempt to suppress the Lollards, and their attacks on papal authority and the doctrines of the Church, outright opposed Lancaster, who took it upon himself to support John Wycliffe, the Oxford theologian and the father of the reform movement, who was also the duke’s personal preacher.

“Then you believe it is the Lollards who seek to despoil Becket’s tomb?”

“Who else? They dare call the sacred shrine and others like it idolatrous.”

“They may hate more the fees charged to the pilgrims.”

Courtenay’s sharp glare replaced his earlier and more controlled demeanor. “It is just such talk, Master Guest, which produces violent rabbles. Do you suggest that the maintenance of such a holy place be solely on the poor church that is forced to house it?”

“Forced, my lord? Many a monastery would happily go to war to own such a profitable venture.”

Courtenay’s face reddened. “And you call yourself a son of the Church!”

“Be at ease, my lord. I do not say I approve of such infighting. Can you tell me this does not occur within the Church?”

Courtenay’s breathing evened, and he gripped the back of the chair. His rings sparkled in the tinted light of the flames and stained-glass windows. “You are right, of course. Such does occur, and it grieves me to see it.”

Crispin sighed and took up his goblet again. “Tell me, then, how do you suggest I protect the bones.”

“That, Master Guest, I leave to you.”

“Then I propose that you post a guard on them day and night.”

“Naturally. But the letters indicated that there would be an attempt made at the beginning of the season. Which is now upon us.”

“And so?”

“My hope, Master Guest, is that you would personally guard the tomb.”

Crispin choked on the wine. “Me? Sleep alongside Saint Thomas?”

“I trust you, Master Guest. This is my charge to you.”

“My lord, I have no wish to play nursemaid to Becket’s bones for the rest of my days. I have lodgings in London. I have my life there.”

“Certainly I did not expect that you would give up all to spend eternity by a tomb,” he said. Except that by his tone, Crispin thought that this was exactly what Courtenay expected. “But I wish it guarded, and I will pay you well.”

“You have an entire community of faithful monks, my lord. Surely they can be expected to be obedient in this.” Courtenay was silent, and Crispin studied his tightening shoulders. The archbishop left the chair and strode across the room to stand below a large crucifix. He rested his hands behind his back and stared up at the corpus, its limbs carved with care, showing stretched sinews and even scars from flogging.

“A monastery is a wonderful haven, Master Guest. I wonder if the layman can truly appreciate it.”

“I have seen it carve great and holy men within its confines.”

“As have I. But it can also cripple a weak man.”

“Your Excellency?”

“Master Guest, have you ever led an army?”

Crispin’s nimble mind tried to keep up with the archbishop’s more agile one. “Not an entire army. A garrison.”

“But you rely on the competence of your men to win the day.”

“Naturally. And their loyalty.”

“Their loyalty. Indeed. The battle cannot be won without it.”

“My lord, I am at a loss as to your meaning.”

He turned. His blue eyes were deep sapphires. “You asked about my monks.”

“Yes. The monks of the priory. This is their church.” He sensed Courtenay’s hesitation. “They are faithful monks, my lord, are they not?”

“They call you the Tracker.” Courtenay moved from the crucifix and returned to his table. He trailed his fingers along the documents piled there. He picked one up, glanced at it, and set it down again. “My treasurer and his assistant do much of the task of guarding the relics, but I must tell you an unpleasant truth.” His hand dropped away from the desk and fell against his robe. He raised those sapphire eyes to Crispin again. They burned with a cold fire. Crispin suddenly had a feeling of raw power emanating from those eyes, reflecting the true heart and soul of the man who owned them. “I believe one of my monks to be a Lollard heretic, Master Guest. I want you to root him out and bring him to me.”