Troubled Bones

22

Crispin’s heart sank. Without Bonefey and the information he suspected the man was harboring, his chances of proving Chaucer innocent were nil. He stood in the courtyard, the sun sinking lower, the sky darkening. He thought furiously, or tried to, but his mind was a frustrating blank.

Something was pulling on his coat. He swung back his arm to strike it away when he realized it was Jack. “Master, what are we to do now?”

“I don’t know, Jack!” he said a little more harshly than he intended. He paced in a small circle while Jack stood to the side, wringing his coat hem in one hand and clutching the sword with the other.

This was impossible. Impossible! Geoffrey’s life hanging from a thread; the only and best suspect gone. Why was God treating him so? Hadn’t he done his penance for forswearing his king? Was there no end to it?

“Why!” he cried out, fists in the air. If he could climb the cathedral and reach God himself he would do it and ask Him personally.

“Th-there must be something we can do for Master Chaucer,” said Jack softly. “There must be some way to prove it was not him.”

“And weren’t you keen to prove it was him not too long ago?”

“Aye, sir, I know. I am heartily sorry for that. I did not have all the facts. Someone clearly snatched Master Chaucer’s dagger from him and did the deed. But who, Master? Sir Philip?”

His mind snagged on one word: facts. Did they have all the facts? It wasn’t for the bones. He knew that. Then if not the bones, why? “We don’t have all the facts. The sword, Jack. We don’t know who it belonged to.”

“I just assumed it was Sir Philip’s.”

“He has his own sword. But Master Harper was researching that blazon for us. Perhaps we had best revisit him to see what facts he has uncovered.”

It was not much, but it was something. Crispin turned on his heel to head back to the cathedral. He went straight to the priory gates and rang the bell before his impatience made him slam his fist repeatedly to the door. “Open up, I say!”

A monk drew the door open a crack. “Why do you disturb the peace of this priory, sir? It is late.”

“Get out of my way.” He pushed the door open and the monk fell back. He had no time for apologies and stomped forward. Jack scurried in quickly behind.

Crispin paid no heed to the monks he shouldered out of his way, nor the angry words and gestures they invoked toward him as the monks threaded in the direction of the chapel for Vespers.

His eyes were fixed on the arched colonnade ahead and to the little door that led to the courtyard where the pensioners lived. No one said anything more to him as he passed through the cloister. He thought about sending up a prayer for forgiveness as he trespassed but swallowed it back. There would be time later for shriving. He trusted that Dom Thomas was doing his part. Crispin would do his.

They reached the courtyard at last but Harper was not out hoeing his garden. Of course not. It was Vespers already. Crispin had barely registered the sounds of bells chiming above him and the line of monks heading to the chapel to perform the Divine Office. He hoped Harper was in his cottage with his books and not with the monks.

He stalked up to the door and knocked. The door immediately opened and Harper greeted Crispin with a grim expression. “You’re back. Good. I have the answer you are seeking.”

“God be praised.” Entering, he stepped right up to Harper’s table. The old herald was directly behind him and reached forward to open a parchment. He moved a candle forward, its light casting a warm glow over the piece.

“You see, Master Guest,” he said, pointing to the parchment.

Before Harper could speak, he pressed his hand to the man’s arm, silencing him. He didn’t know what to say. His mind raced like a stallion in a meadow. He could not have fathomed this, but slowly, it began to make sense to him.

“Master Harper,” he said, his strained voice strange to his ears. “May I borrow this?”

Harper looked over the paper and frowned. Clearly, he did not like to part with his Ordinaries, but when he looked up, Crispin could see the conviction in his pale eyes. “Yes, of course. If it will help.”

“It will. And Master Harper, I thank you. You have saved a man’s life.” The herald bowed. Crispin folded it up, carefully following the creases, and stuffed it in his belt. “Come along, Jack.”

Jack waved his farewells to Harper and ran after his master’s long strides. Crispin didn’t want it to be true, but he didn’t see how it couldn’t be. It all fell into place. Except for Wilfrid. But he’d have to ask …

When he got to the transept door, he entered the church. The masons had given up their work for the day and Crispin’s troubled soul fell into the quiet and solitude of the lonely spaces of vault and column. He walked up the nave, stopped before the rood screen, and turned on his heel to face Jack.

“What is it, sir? Do you know who owned the sword? Did Master Harper-?”

“Yes, Jack.” He couldn’t help it. His eyes fell from the boy’s. How was he to say? He tugged the parchment from his belt and opened it. He pointed to the red shield with the muzzled bear head. Then his finger traced downwards from the shield. “This was the Fitz-Urse line. The murderer Reginald had no issue, but his brother Richard did; a daughter named Mabel and a son Warine. Then Warine had an issue named Gilbert. But as you see here, by the fourth generation, they changed their name.”

He took a breath and glanced up at Jack.

Jack looked back at him, puzzled. “And what is that surname sir?”

Crispin lowered the paper to his thigh. “Bereham.”

It took a moment, but Jack’s face slowly changed from puzzlement to pale incredulity, and finally to reddened outrage. “That’s a lie! That’s a filthy lie! Let me see that paper!” He snatched it from Crispin’s hand. He gazed over Jack’s shoulder, following his finger tracing over the stiff paper, resting here and there on a name until he reached the sixth generation. Margaret de Bereham was Crispin’s age and there was a line struck through her carefully penned inscription. A note was written to the side probably by Master Harper some years ago. Crispin recognized the look of such slightly browned ink. It read: Gave birth to bastard daughter and was banished from the family. May God have mercy.

Jack dropped the parchment and walked like an old man to the rood screen, dragging the sword behind him. His fingers curled around the rood’s carved wood and he stood a long time facing it. Crispin didn’t know whether he should go to the boy or better to stay away. “Jack,” he said softly.

Tucker slowly shook his head from side to side, but he did not turn to Crispin. His voice sounded wrung from him, taut, fighting back tears. “Why did it have to be her? Of all people. Why, Master Crispin, did it have to be her?”

Crispin licked his suddenly dry lips. “I do not know, Jack. But this sword most certainly belonged to Dame Marguerite. She … she must have known the nature of Prioress Eglantine’s name and bided her time. Or…” He shook his head. “I know not why. But it explains the broken rosary. An errant sword swipe could not have cut through it without harming her. But if she had lifted the sword herself and caught the crossguard on her own rosary in her belt, it would have snapped it.”

“That is so clever of you,” said Marguerite.

Crispin and Jack both spun. Dame Marguerite stood behind them in the darkening church. She cocked her head and looked at Jack. “He is a clever man, isn’t he?” she said to Tucker.

“Dame Marguerite,” whispered Jack, anguish breaking his voice.

Footsteps. From around a pillar, Chaucer and Dom Thomas trotted and suddenly stopped.

“Cris! This monk-”

“Master Crispin?” asked Dom Thomas, taking in the tableau.

“Silence! Both of you!” Crispin swept his hand up, gesturing for them to stay as they were.

“I have decided something,” said Marguerite, face white within her surrounding veil. She seemed little put off by the presence of two more, and in fact took little notice of them. “I shall leave the Church and go with you, Master Tucker. Yes, I think this is best.”

“Marguerite.” He took a step closer to her.

Crispin clasped Jack’s shoulder and pulled him back, stepping forward in his place. “Dame Marguerite. That sword.” He gestured to the one in Jack’s hand. “Did it belong to you?”

“Of course. I am of the family Fitz-Urse.”

Chaucer and Dom Thomas gasped but wisely stayed silent.

“It is Bereham now. Fortis et Patientia. The Bereham motto. ‘Strong and Enduring.’ So foolish a thing, truly. Strength and endurance, aye. My mother had it in abundance. She was a Bereham but she was shunned from the family. They gave the sword to her. I do not know if it was a jest or whether she was supposed to use it on herself for disgracing the family so. Or perhaps they simply wished to rid themselves of the reminder of their dreaded past.”

She edged closer to Jack. Crispin shoved the struggling boy behind him.

“Did you kill the Prioress?”

She smiled. It was the same as her pitying smiles. It chilled him to the bone.

“Yes, of course. She needed to die.”

The words, so gently spoken, could well have been mistaken for something else. But Jack’s gasp behind his back told him it was true. Crispin felt the boy’s fists at his spine and Jack suddenly burst forward. Tears streaked his face.

“But why, Marguerite?” he cried.

She turned dull eyes on Jack, where they softened. “Because she was most cruel to my mother. Is God not love? Isn’t that exactly what my Lady Prioress preached? And yet. There seems to be so little love in the world. My mother was not loved by her family and they sent her away all because of a babe. An innocent babe. And my Lady Prioress showed little love to her, treating her cruelly, giving her much penance and hard work, all because of this babe. She was a lady once. My mother. She died a peasant. And she died saddened to her soul. She was not loved. But I loved her. And I swore to her as she lay dying that I would avenge her. And I have. But I am sorry about the monk.”

Jack closed his eyes. His lashes were dark with tears. Without opening them he asked, “Did you kill Brother Wilfrid?”

“I regret that I did. You see, he knew the nature of my name. He works in the treasury and the rolls of the church, so he said. He knew my name and knew it used to be Fitz-Urse. He was going to tell. And then everyone would have known it was me.”

Crispin wanted to be far from this place. But it had to be done. Questions needed to be answered. “How did you get the dagger?” he asked.

“Master Chaucer was leaving his room when I noticed he had quill and parchment. I begged him if I could borrow a portion of parchment to send a missive to my priory. He was kind and allowed me to write my note in his rooms. But he is also careless. For he left his dagger behind. I took it. It was a pretty thing with gems upon it. The Prioress was fond of pretty things. She had beautiful sleek greyhounds who ate meat and gnawed good bones better suited for soup, while my mother ate rough bread and stale cheese. I’d lost my sword, you see, so I took the dagger in compensation.”

He glanced back at Chaucer and his face was white and grim. “But how were you able to smuggle the sword into the church?”

“I told my Lady Prioress that I had forgotten my rosary and I went back for the sword in my things. I have kept it carefully hidden in my trunk. We are not allowed to own anything of our former lives, you see. But I knew I needed my mother’s sword. It was all that was left. And I killed my Lady Prioress, and I killed him. And I have confessed it, and so I am absolved.”

And Father Gelfridus was the beneficiary of that! He now understood the priest’s agitation. A murderer did confess, just not the one Crispin thought. The priest was not allowed to say. To even warn anyone.

“I cannot allow you to go free, Dame. And I certainly would never allow you to go away with Jack. You are my prisoner now.”

She frowned and looked down. She shook her head. “No. I think not.”

“You have confessed it, Dame, before witnesses. You must pay for these crimes.”

“But I have confessed it to a priest. I was absolved. I am a nun and I have killed my prioress and a monk. Surely it is a matter for God.”

“For God, yes. But first for the hangman.”

Her eyes suddenly took on a wild expression. She looked at Jack, his face marred with tears, and then caught sight of Chaucer and Dom Thomas cringing in the near darkness.

Like a frightened sparrow, she darted away into the smothering shadows.

Everyone moved at once. Crispin cursed. “Be still! I cannot hear in which direction she has gone!”

“That way!” pointed Chaucer.

But Dom Thomas lifted his arm and aimed at another direction. “No. It was there!”

“God’s blood! Everyone go off and search!”

Crispin looked back at Jack. The boy slid to the floor, the sword clutched in his hand. He left him alone. The boy needed to grieve.

He heard Chaucer retreat toward the quire and Dom Thomas down the nave to the west entrance, but Crispin headed toward the north aisle, ears cocked and listening.

He made his way up the north ambulatory, spying around corners and pillars, but he saw no one. Darkness had fallen, and the church was draped in deep shadows and a few flickering candles. Starlight shone through Saint Thomas’s miracle windows.

He crept up the pilgrim stair and carefully entered the Chapel of Saint Thomas, scanning over the many silent tombs. The candles around Becket’s shrine had been extinguished. No need for candles when the relics were not there.

When he turned back, a shadowy figure stood at some distance. Startled, Crispin squinted. Who was it? He recognized the odd shape of the miter on his head. It was not a tall miter as he usually wore, but a shorter version. His face was a dark silhouette. “Your Excellency? What are you doing here?”

The archbishop said nothing. He raised an arm and pointed toward the Corona tower door. Crispin looked. The door hung open.

“Much thanks,” he called over his shoulder and ran for it. He reached the door and gently pushed it open. The stairwell was empty. Crispin felt like a fool, but decided that “better a live fool then a dead one” and pulled his dagger. Slowly, he climbed the stairs, sliding his back along the stone wall. The dark stairwell was cold from a draught swirling down from the open door above. He could see stars through the opening and finally reached it. He peered around the doorpost and spied the nun standing by the battlements, looking out across the city.

“Dame Marguerite.”

She did not turn. “Look at all the houses down there. See the little candles in the windows? Is it lovely having a family, all homely together, I wonder?”

“I am sorry for the cruelness of your life, Dame, but it is never a matter for murder. Surely you could have left the priory when you came of age and found your own husband.”

“Who would take me? No dowry, no name. I am no one.”

Crispin flinched. Yes, how cruel the world could be to those without a name. “And so, too, did I lose all. But I have made a life.”

She turned then and studied him with deadened eyes. “You find criminals and bring them to justice.” Her voice was unsteady.

He nodded. “I do.”

“Am I a criminal?”

“I fear, Dame, that this is so.”

She seemed to consider this. “Will the sheriff hang me?”

He hesitated. “Justice … must be served. Would you see another die in your place? Master Chaucer was accused of these crimes. He was slated to die tomorrow for them. Would you see that happen to an innocent man?”

“Master Chaucer? And he is such a merry fellow. I would not see that happen.”

“And so. You will have to accompany me to the sheriff and tell him your tale.”

She sighed and turned back to the sparkling city with its torches and candlelight glittering on the evening air. “I shall never have a family. Not a proper one. I wish … Alas. Wishes are sometimes like prayers, are they not? They are as lost and as futile.”

“Prayers are not futile, Dame. God listens to us.”

“He listens, but does He act?”

Crispin fingered his dagger before sheathing it. “I am no theologian.”

“No. You are a man. I am a woman. And I have sinned. Death is the only course for sinners, no?”

“Dame…”

He should have suspected; he should have been better prepared, but it happened so fast.

Marguerite gave him a sad smile before she pivoted on the stone, stepped up between the merlons, and flung herself over the edge.

“No!” Crispin leapt and slammed hard against the tower floor, grasping at air.

Her gown fluttered in the wind, lifting her for only a moment, before she fell into the blackness of the night. She made no sound in her descent.

He strained his neck looking up at the empty place where the nun had stood, feeling the uneven paving dig into his chest. He gradually drew himself up, dragged his feet to the edge, and looked down, but the tower’s foundations were lost in darkness.

There was a scramble at the stairs and Jack’s white face appeared. “Where is she?”

“Jack…”

The boy looked quickly around and made an abrupt run for the edge. Crispin grabbed him and held him tightly. “It’s too late, Jack. It’s too late.”

Jack gripped Crispin’s coat. He struggled, but it was only for a moment. All at once he slumped and sobbed into Crispin’s chest. He held the boy tighter, hoping to make it better, knowing he could not.