Troubled Bones (11 page)

“Indeed not. Then I suppose you may permit pilgrims to enter.”

“But … there will be nothing there to pray to.”

“Alas, Brother. Yet if the pilgrims are ignorant of that, do you truly think God will mind?”

“But the fees?”

Crispin’s scowl darkened. “Perhaps the fees can be waived.”

“Waive the fees?”

Bless me, but I think I might be siding with these Lollards.
“Do what you will, Dom. It is not my affair.” He brushed past the monk and up the aisle before slowing to a stop. “Isn’t the church to be closed?” Dom Thomas stood mutely. He fumbled with his keys. Crispin swiveled toward him. “Well?”

“I have had no instructions on this,” said the monk carefully.

Crispin drew back as if slapped. “Not close the church! But surely it needs to be reconsecrated after a murder—”

Dom Thomas clenched his hands and thrust them into his scapular. “There has been no instructions from the archbishop. I suggest you keep out of it, Master Guest.”

He stared hard at the monk whose apparent frustration colored his face in blotchy red. “I see. This murder is then to be kept very secret.” He tried to inhale a cleansing breath but instead took in stale incense and dust. “Brother Wilfrid needed to speak to me,” he said. “Send him to the Chapel of Saint Thomas.”

Chillenden did not acknowledge this when he spun on his heel, but his progress was halted by the mason yelling down to him. “Oi! Brother monk! Wait a bit.” The large muscled man grabbed a rope and descended the side of the scaffold. It shook with his weight and dusted the floor with particles of stone.

“I ask again, Good Brother, when I and my men may receive their payment. You are overdue.”

The monk glanced hastily at Crispin and set his chin high. “The archbishop must approve all payments from the treasury, Master, and I am sorry to say, he has not yet done so.”

“We have been delayed too long, Brother. If you do not wish to pay—”

“Payment will come to you anon. I suggest you and your men practice patience.”

“We may practice more than that. On the morrow, we may find it difficult indeed to locate the church.”

“Do you threaten me? I can get any number of masons here to do this work.”

“They’d have to traffic with the guild … and get past us to do it,” he said, laying his considerable hammer over his shoulder.

Dom Thomas pressed his lips tightly together and gave one more look toward Crispin. “I’ll see what I can do,” he muttered and hurried away.

The mason watched the monk leave and offered Crispin a curt bow and a smirk before he hoisted himself up the scaffold again.

Over his shoulder, Crispin watched the man climb while his feet took him to the shrine to await Wilfrid. Though he made no motion to Jack or Chaucer, they followed him anyway, silent as shadows, to Saint Thomas’s chapel. Thousands of pairs of feet had passed this same way for two hundred years, hollowing each worn step, all to venerate a saint, an archbishop of Canterbury.

“You’ll find those bones, won’t you, Master?” said Jack at Crispin’s elbow.

He nodded. “I want them back almost as badly as the archbishop does.” He glanced at Geoffrey who remained mercifully silent. “Saint Thomas was martyred because he would not allow crimes against the clergy to be tried in any other than an ecclesiastical court. To King Henry’s mind, this meant treason.” Jack nodded. This much he knew.
Treason,
thought Crispin
. How easy it is to commit. How hard to endure the consequences.

“‘Will no one free me of this troublesome priest?’ was King Henry’s cry,” Crispin went on. “And four barons took their king at his word.”

“And then the king humbled himself at the martyr’s tomb,” said Jack. “A humbled king. I would like to have seen that.”

“As would I.” He walked up to the shrine. “Such grandeur. Yet with all its gold, jewels, and magnificence of the craftsmen’s art, the tomb lies empty.”

“What will they do now, Master Crispin?” Jack’s voice was quiet.

“Do?”

“What if … what if you never find them bones?”

He squared his jaw. “I will find them.”

He heard Chaucer’s step along the chapel’s perimeter. “But they are only the bones of a man, after all,” Geoffrey said, his voice echoing hollowly.

“A holy man, sir,” corrected Jack. “A holy saint.”

“A stubborn archbishop who would not accede to the demands of his king.”

Crispin slowly pivoted. “Do you suggest a bishop of the Church should accede to the wishes of his king over the pope?”

“The king is his sovereign lord.”

“And the pope?”

“A foreign prince.”

“Why Geoffrey. You sound like a Lollard.”

The poet made a half smile. “Perhaps I am more parrot than Lollard. I repeat what I hear my master say.”

“Say it too often and you may be summoned by the Church to repeat it. I do not know you can plead that your master says and thus so say you. Torture is not pleasant.”

Geoffrey’s smile faded and he looked at Crispin with a renewal of something he had not wished to elicit: pity.

Crispin turned away and stared up at the many miracle windows instead. The light shone through them and their glorious colors glowed brightly. He stood thus for a long time until he heard, amid the hammers and shouts of masons and artists, the hurried steps of an approaching monk.

Brother Wilfrid, his shiny-tonsured head bobbing over his rumpled cowl, trotted forward, lifting the hem of his cassock to trundle up the stairs. His face opened when he saw Crispin. It wasn’t exactly relief, but something akin to it. “Master Crispin! Praise God. I must tell you—”

Geoffrey stepped out of the shadows and Wilfrid turned at the sound. His eyes rounded and he took a step back. When his eyes turned back to Crispin there was a veil of fear over them. “I thought we were alone,” he said breathlessly.

Crispin looked toward Chaucer. “I think the mummery is over.” He did not mean to have such a sneer of finality to his voice, but this time Geoffrey was visibly taken aback. He flicked his gaze toward the monk and then to Crispin. He merely bowed and turned away. His heavy steps echoed and he soon disappeared down the stairs.

Wilfrid didn’t seem satisfied and trotted to the top of the stair to see where he’d gone. He waited, listening, until there was no more sign of Chaucer. The monk looked at Jack but he seemed unruffled by the boy’s presence. Wilfrid, his back to Crispin, gave a great sigh. At last, he returned and gathered his hands under his scapular. His face was pale and tight. “I could not talk in front of him. You see, I saw him here last night.”

“With the pilgrims?”

“No, Master. Last
night
. I made my rounds with the keys and locked the doors. And when I was leaving Saint Benet’s chapel, I saw a shadow. One gets used to the shadows here at night, Master Crispin. The faint of heart might take scaffolding and pillars for people or demons. After years in this place, I know the difference, I can assure you. And when I turned I saw the shadow of a
man
. I called out. I told him the church was to be closed and locked. But he did not answer, perhaps thinking I had deceived myself. But I was not deceived. I said again, louder, ‘You must leave now. I see you there. Behind the pillar.’ It was only then that he came out. The church was dark but I recognized it to be that gentleman.”

“Do you know who that gentleman is?”

“He is Sir Geoffrey Chaucer.”

“And how do you know this?”

“He was here a fortnight ago and someone pointed him out to me.”

He looked back the way Geoffrey had gone, but he saw only the scaffolds and arches. “Was he?”

“Yes.”

“What was he doing here two weeks ago?”

“He came as a pilgrim to the shrine. I remember him.”

“Why do you remember him in particular? Did he speak to you?”

“No, sir. But I do remember his red gown. Such a striking red, sir. Much like the archbishop’s cloak. A color difficult to forget.”

A strange and uncomfortable feeling rumbled in Crispin’s belly. “I see. Did he do anything else here then, that fortnight ago?”

“No, sir. He came with the pilgrims, as I said. He kept his hood up, but I did remember him.”

“He did not meet with the archbishop, for instance?”

“No. At least, I do not think so.”

“And last night?”

“He came out of the shadows and chuckled. He said to me, ‘But is not God’s house open to all?’ ‘Indeed, sir,’ I answered him. ‘But the chapel of Saint Benet is open for that. Surely you must understand that the shrine must be kept safe at night.’ But he would not move. ‘You must come with me,’ I told him more insistently. But still he did not move. I told him I would go and get the chaplain. I did so. When I returned he was gone.”

“Are you certain of that?”

“Yes, Master. I searched in all the usual places. You see, I know of certain thieves in this town and I have learned some things. All the doors were locked. But no one was here. Until the Prioress and her chaplain came in. And then you, sir.”

“Well…” Crispin looked back the way Chaucer had gone. “Master Chaucer is a … he is the king’s poet and is often—” He shrugged. “Imaginative men. Who can understand their ways?”

“Lurking in the shadows of a church? At night? What is imaginative in that?” He shook his head. “No, Master Crispin. I do not think him up to any good.”

“Here, now,” said Jack pressing forward. He gestured with the wrapped sword. “Master Chaucer is Master Crispin’s friend.”

The monk was startled and his eyes widened. “Oh. Oh … I…” He backed away. “I meant no offense, Master Guest.”

“I am not offended. You had a tale to tell me and I thank you for doing so.”

“You mustn’t—” Wilfrid was shaking his head and backing away. “You must forget I said aught, Master Guest. Please. Disregard my words. Surely … surely…”

“Wilfrid, it is well. You did nothing wrong.”

“You mustn’t tell the archbishop I told you. It is nothing, after all. I knew I shouldn’t have come to you. My brother monks told me not to. They warned me to leave it alone. But I don’t think it fair. But it’s only about Master Chaucer that I told you. I’ll say nothing about—” He clamped his lips shut. His rounded eyes ticked from Crispin to Jack before he simply fled. The morning shadows swallowed him and soon his footsteps, too, vanished.

“What do you suppose that was all about?” asked Jack.

“Secrets, Jack. I don’t like them. I never have. I will deal with Wilfrid anon. But for now…” He made for the steps and trotted down. Walking up the aisle, he didn’t see Chaucer at all until he found him on the steps outside in the courtyard. Geoffrey turned and hooked his thumbs in his belt. “And so. What did your little clerical friend have to say?”

Crispin tried to hold at bay the uncomfortable feeling in his gut. He knew Geoffrey acted as a spy—he admitted as much. He spied for the king and, no doubt, Lancaster, who had ultimately betrayed Crispin.

If foster fathers could do such, then why not friends?

“He told me that he saw you lurking in the church last night.”

Chaucer laughed. “‘Lurking,’ was it? Now why would I have cause to do that?”

“And so, too, did I wonder.”

The poet’s laughter subsided. “This has gone far enough. I am your oldest friend, Cris. You can’t honestly believe—”

“Nor have I received a satisfactory answer from you.”

Geoffrey’s face darkened. “Very well. I
was
in the church. But I certainly wasn’t ‘lurking.’ I was praying. Isn’t a man allowed his time with God?”

“The church was closed—”

“Isn’t that the best time? When all is silent and dark? His holy presence is most notably felt at such times. Certainly even you can appreciate that, Master Guest.”

“Noted. But why did you not mention being in Canterbury a fortnight ago?”

Chaucer’s face, bright with triumph, suddenly fell. He tried to hide it by turning toward the sky and adjusting the liripipe tail trailing from his hat to his shoulder. “Is that what he said? I was here a fortnight ago?”

“Yes. He remembered you well. You wore a scarlet houppelande, much like the one you are wearing now. I wonder if I may examine it.”

Geoffrey slowly pivoted. “Why?”

“Does it matter?”

“It damn well does!” Chaucer tossed his cloak aside and strode briskly back and forth before the immense west door.

That pang in Crispin’s heart struck again, the feeling of distance between those he loved and the reality of their betrayal. Would these wounds ever heal? Where was honor? Where loyalty? He ran his hand over his brow. “Harken to me, Geoffrey. We must be frank with each other. I know you deal in secrets. It is not my intention to make them known. But I must venture into all avenues to solve this heinous crime. Surely you can see that.”

Chaucer raised his head but did not look at Crispin. “I might as well tell you now, for it will surely come out eventually. I, too, knew Madam Eglantine prior to this pilgrimage. In fact, I was also at the trial mentioned by the archbishop.”

Crispin’s hand dug deeper into his brow. “And why were you at this trial?”

“Because … I was a witness for the petitioner … Sir Philip Bonefey.”

8

CRISPIN TOOK A BREATH
and raised his eyes to his friend Chaucer. “So then you knew the Prioress. Did you speak to her at the trial?”

“Oh yes. We exchanged words, to be sure. Very heated ones. She is—
was
—a formidable woman. Bonefey was furious and still is. The archbishop did not help matters. At first he sided with Bonefey. In the end he and the judges ruled for Madam Eglantine, but no one in that chamber was satisfied.” Crispin watched his face change. “Do you suppose I was so angry at her words that I bided my time, followed her to Canterbury, and took a sword to her? For something that happened a year ago?”

The wind gusted through the courtyard, winging blossoms into the air. Crispin buttoned his cloak over his chest. “Well, I concede that you don’t seem to have had a vested interest in it.”

“No. But Bonefey does. I defended Bonefey because I was asked to. And because it was another instance of the Church treading where it should not go.”