Troubled Bones (16 page)

The monk stopped and pivoted long enough to say, “You seem to have all well in hand …
Brother John,
” and left him alone on the cloister walk.

Jack mumbled a very unclerical curse, and looked around. He didn’t know where anything was, where his room might be, even the privies, and he was feeling the need for the latter. He’d have to look about for himself and hope he didn’t get into trouble. If he was caught, he’d be able to tell them in all truth that he was lost. One lie at a time, indeed.

Jack made his way through the cloister and came to another door. He slowly pulled it open and saw that it led to another smaller courtyard with a set of huts, trees, grass, and foliage. An old man was hoeing his own little garden, the dark earth turning with his blade. Tall sticks were propped together into a cone shape in anticipation of the young bean tendrils to come.

Taking a swift glance, Jack didn’t notice any privies and turned to go when the man looked up. He smiled under a white beard and mustache and lifted an arm with a wave.

Jack turned back and approached. He reckoned the man was a caretaker. Perhaps he might know something.

“Good day to you, young friar,” the man said, and rested his hands on his hoe when Jack neared. He did not sound like a caretaker. He sounded more like a man in the manner of Crispin.

“Good day to you, sir.” Jack stood with his hands behind his back and surveyed the patch of cultivated ground. “You’ve been very diligent.”

The old man’s cheeks flushed. “Why yes. It is now a passion of mine. Such passions are allowed within a monastery.” He chuckled.

“Are you— Do you work here? You do not appear to be a monk.”

“No, I am no monk. This is my retirement. I live under the care of the good brothers here. I have given up my worldly goods, my estate, to pay to be cared for here under the wings of God.”

“I see,” said Jack. He looked at the old man with admiration.

“Would you like refreshment?” He leaned the hoe against the side of his rustic cottage wall and ducked as he entered under the low lintel. “Come in,” he called from the shadows.

Jack scanned the courtyard for other faces, saw none, and entered after the old man. The cottage was small, only one room, a little larger than Crispin’s lodgings in London. The air seemed to sparkle with motes of dust and hay. Shafts of sunlight angled toward the wooden floor, and though it was mean lodgings, it was clean. Shelves and tables lined one wall and Jack was surprised to see them filled with layer upon layer of scrolls and even a few books. He glanced casually at them, noting a few colorful drawings of shields and animals on one open scroll.

“This is far less than I was used to, I assure you,” said the old man, pouring ale from a chipped jug into a wooden beaker. “But I can equally assure you, I am content with what I now have.”

Jack took the offered beaker and drank hastily. He hadn’t realized how dry his throat was.

The old man poured a beaker for himself and drank thoughtfully, eyeing him. Jack lowered his cup. “Forgive me,” he bowed. “I am Brother John. I have come to visit Canterbury from the south. But—” He tried on a dramatic expression. “The monks all appear to be anxious about something. I’ve only just arrived and no one will say.”

“Oh.” The old man sat on the one chair and offered a stool for Jack. “Yes, great tragedy is here in Canterbury. The monks try to hide it but I see much.” He leaned toward Jack and said solemnly, “I do not wish to alarm you, but there have been two murders in the church within the span of two days.”

Jack did his best impression of horror. “No! God preserve us!” He crossed himself. “Who?”

The old man shook his head and ran his hand over his white beard. “A prioress, visiting as a pilgrim. And one of our very own monks. He was a young man. About your age.” His sincere expression of sorrow brought a lump to Jack’s throat.

“How can such a thing happen?”

The man sighed deeply and lifted his yellowed eyes to Jack. “Murder is a terrible thing. But there is something else. The monks have been acting like agitated bees in a skep. Though in truth, much of it began happening before the murders, if I am not mistaken. As an old man, I sometimes confuse recent events with older ones.” His eyes traveled and landed on Jack again. He smiled. “I don’t know why I am telling you.” He sat back and held his cup to his chest. “Perhaps because you remind me of Brother Wilfrid, who was kind to me. Or perhaps because, as a visitor, you have a right to be warned. There is something about the martyr’s relics. I am not certain exactly the circumstances, but I know that this mischief concerns them. The strange thing is, there seemed to be a flutter about the martyr’s remains well before these deaths. Or perhaps my mind is playing tricks on me.”

Jack leaned forward. “What kind of ‘flutter’?”

He shook his head and shrugged. “Talk of nothing but. And much whispering when others drew near. I gathered there had been rumors and threats against them.”

Jack nodded. “Who do you suppose did it? The murders, I mean.”

“Who can say? But I can tell you this; a rumor amongst the brothers owes these deaths to the curse of Becket’s bones.”

Jack’s eyes rounded. “C-curse? I never heard of no curse.”

“Becket was killed by four knights. Reginald Fitz-Urse, Hugh de Morville, William de Tracy, and Richard le Breton. Their families were torn apart by their betrayal and foul deed. The men were banished from England, doomed to wander the earth in penance for their sin. Many of their descendants changed their names to avoid association. Even two hundred years later, the stain of their sin remains.”

“So … what is the curse?”

“No less than calamity to the families of the murderers. And so it happens, that the Prioress, Madam Eglantine was a descendant of Hugh de Morville.”

“No! You don’t say.”

“Indeed. And our own Brother Wilfrid who met with the same fate, his surname was de Tracy.”

Jack gasped. His hands trembled when he lifted the beaker to his lips. He drank gratefully, the ale warming his cold chest. “Two of the four. You think this place is cursed, then?”

“Not the monastery or church, no. But the circumstances seem to give truth to events now well out of our control.” He sipped the ale, staring into his thoughts until his eyes focused again on Jack. “I told you this only to inform you as to why your fellow monks act as they do. You must forgive them.” He smiled, lightening the dark mood threatening the little cottage. “Of course you
can
and
must
forgive. But forgiveness is more difficult in the old.” He rubbed his mud-spotted knees. “But you seem very young to be a monk. How old are you, Brother?”

Jack’s thoughts furiously spun on the old man’s talk of a curse when he suddenly looked up at his open face. Perhaps it was the man’s gentle way and soft voice, but Jack didn’t want to lie to him more than he already had. “I am … thirteen, sir.”

“Thirteen! Bless me! It seems they become younger every year.”

“Aye, sir.”

“You have a way of speaking not unknown to me. From where do you hail?”

“From London, sir.”

“Oh yes. But not in its finer halls.”

Jack reddened and lowered his face.
Curse my lowly tongue.
“No, sir.”

“You must have had a master, then, eh?”

He looked up brightly. The truth came so much easier. He vowed never to lie again. “Aye, sir. A very fine master. He taught me everything. How to read and write Latin, French, and English and even a bit of Greek, though I falter there.”

The white brows rose. “Indeed. This is quite the master.” He smiled. “You loved him. I can see that in your eyes.”

Jack’s throat thickened. “Aye, sir.”

“So was it he who pushed you into the Church?”

Jack’s mouth curled ironically. “That he did, sir. Most strenuously.”

“Then he must be proud of you.” His eyes glazed again and he tapped a boney finger on the cup. “I loved my master as well. He taught me all I know.” Taking a deep breath, he lowered his eyes. “He’s been long dead now these two score years. So much time has past. So much we did together. He was like a father to me, for I did not know mine. My sire died when I was quite young and I came to my master a mere whelp of a boy. Was it so with you?”

“Aye, sir. My master took me in … when no one else would.”

“Then he saw something special in you and cultivated it. It is a rare man who can see beyond the face of things. What is his name?”

Jack stiffened. For once in his life he couldn’t think of a plausible lie. His mind simply blanked. The man was staring at him. He couldn’t very well stall too long. “You wouldn’t know him,” he said feebly.

“It isn’t likely, is it? Still, I should like to remember him in my prayers.”

“Crispin Guest,” he gasped aloud, but the moment it left his mouth he thought of Gilbert Langton, the tavernkeeper of Crispin’s favorite haunt the Boar’s Tusk. Why didn’t he use that name?

“Crispin Guest. Crispin Guest. No, it isn’t a name that comes immediately to mind.”

Jack blew out the breath he was holding.

“My master was William Baldwin. I married his daughter and we had a good life together, though there were no children. She died three years ago.” His eyes flicked to a jug of dried flowers. Jack’s heart stabbed with the thought of this lonely man cultivating flowers to keep in memory of his dead wife. “I was happy to follow in my master’s footsteps, become the man he made. I hope that he smiles down on me from heaven, for surely he is there.”

“I am certain that is so,” said Jack quietly. Looking at this old man, he couldn’t help but feel as if he was peering into his own future. He swallowed more ale before he said, “But sir, you were telling me about the martyr’s bones. What is it I should know about them?”

“Alas. I have no proof, but I have every reason to believe they are no longer in the shrine.”

Jack blinked. “And why would you say that, sir? What might you have heard or seen that would lead you to reckon it?”

His eyes focused suddenly and sharpened on Jack. “These are personal matters amongst the brothers here. I do not wish to commit the sin of gossipmongering. None of it may have any foundation in fact. And I am a man who lives by such.” He rose. It was Jack’s cue as well. “I hope you will come back to visit me. You bring to mind very pleasant memories.”

“I shall. And I thank you, good sir, for your hospitality.” He put the cup on the table and looked up with a pinched expression. “Might I ask one thing more?”

“Of course.”

“Do you by any chance know where the privies are?”

*   *   *

ONCE JACK RELIEVED HIMSELF
he straightened his cassock and blinked at the shadowed arches that seemed to march away in an infinite redundancy of perfectly designed architecture. “Now where, by Christ, am I?” He scanned the buildings rising above him, but they all looked the same with their buttresses and reticulated windows. Startled at the sound of the bells suddenly tolling, he looked up though he couldn’t see the bell tower from where he stood. Bells meant something. They called the monks to prayer and to everything else. It was past noon, so it wasn’t the Angelus, but it might just mean dinner.

He lifted his head and tried to follow his nose, but the constant breeze whisking throughout the cloister grounds made finding the kitchens impossible. He shrugged to himself and just started walking. How far could the great hall be? He turned a corner, and as luck would have it, he found several monks heading in the same direction. His belly growled. He hoped they were heading toward the hall. It seemed a long time ago since breakfast.

Some monks greeted him cordially but without speaking, while others eyed him with wide stares and pursed lips. Jack made a mental tally of those faces.

As a herd—or, he supposed, flock—the monks meandered down the long walkways and left the cloister precincts. Jack began to wonder just where they were going when they all entered a large hall and the smell of food touched his senses. A long table at the front of the hall was probably set for the prior. There were many tables and benches perpendicular to the head table. Jack moved slowly forward, uncertain where he was to go when he noticed Father Cyril motioning to him. Gratefully, he picked up his cassock and trotted forward, then slowed when he realized everyone else took on a slower pace.

Cyril motioned for him to stand before an empty wooden plank and Jack turned to watch the rest of the monks file in. There were more than he realized and his heart sank. How was he to question all of these? He’d be stuck here till Doomsday!

Finally, three entered and strode right up to the head table: the prior, another monk that Jack took to be the sub prior, and Dom Thomas. They sat in their places and the prior began by intoning a string of Latin prayers. The assembly crossed themselves, responded, and then all, with the loud scraping of benches on the wooden floor, took their seats. Jack watched the head table as the prior leaned in toward the sub prior and spoke to him. Dom Thomas’s glare directed toward Jack. Jack made a dismissing gesture, and looked at his plate and that of his fellow diners. No one spoke a word, and if they needed anything, they made a series of hand gestures to get across their meaning. All over the room was a fluttering of hands and moving cassocks like small dark waves. One monk stepped up onto a raised platform and sat before a lectern. A large book lay open there, and with his finger the monk traced over the page, cleared his throat, and began to read the Latin in a loud, clear voice.

Platters on the table were filled with dried fish, cooked leaks, and hunks of cheese. A small wooden bowl of pottage and a round loaf of barley bread just for him sat before his place. A leather beaker and a jug of ale also stood at the head of his place setting. At least these monks ate well, he thought, and took out his eating knife to stab a fish. He scooped up a handful of leeks and placed it on his plate and took them up in his fingers to chew them down like a rabbit.

He glanced sidelong at Cyril, wishing he could ask a question or two, but plainly, speaking was forbidden during meals. While he ate, he looked at the other diners. Dom Thomas had turned his attention to the prior and sub prior, but when Jack swept his gaze across the hall, a monk sitting close to the head table seemed to be staring at him. Brother Martin. He scrutinized Jack with narrowed eyes, and Jack worried the monk might recognize him. The monk squinted at him a bit longer, and then turned to his meal.