Authors: Jeri Westerson
Jack concentrated on eating slowly. He wished the monk would stop reading. His low drone was annoying, like the buzz of an insect. He tried to ignore it, and when he did, surrounded by all these silent diners in their cassocks, his mind unbidden lit on the young nun, Dame Marguerite.
Never had he met a more refined and gentle lady. And so beautiful. Her hands were delicate and her face had the look of a stone saint. He reckoned she was his age or a few years older. When she talked to him, she used a soft voice with demure eyes always aimed downward. He wished she would look up more often because those eyes were very dark and sympathetic. Crispin didn’t like his talking to her, but he didn’t care. Didn’t Master Crispin say Jack had a choice to obey him or not? Though probably not in all things. Still, the saying of it was easier than the doing of it. He still felt obligated to the man who rescued him from Newgate Prison and gave him a decent life.
He sighed, thinking of Dame Marguerite.
Marguerite
. When he got out of this monastery, he vowed to speak to her, tell her how he felt. Perhaps she really didn’t want to be a nun anymore. His brow wrinkled. Was a body allowed to stop being a nun? He wasn’t certain. He could make her forget the horror of the murder, take her back to London, and then … Then what? Crispin paid him a wage but it wasn’t very much. He sipped his beer and rested his arm on the table. Wasn’t he getting ahead of himself? First things first. He’d have to talk to her.
Benches scraped back and Jack looked up alarmed. The meal was over and the monks were standing for their benediction. Jack scrambled to his feet and bowed his head, looking up through his fringe at the others. The monks filed out and Jack followed, staying close to Cyril. He stood outside the hall and Brother Martin skirted past him, eyeing Jack the whole time.
Cyril, too, watched Martin go. “Oaf,” murmured Cyril under his breath. Jack whipped his head around to stare at the man, who shrugged. “So he is.”
The monk moved on back to the cloister and Jack followed. “I thought fellow monks always spoke well of each other.”
Cyril exhaled a snorting laugh. “We live in close proximity for all the years of our lives. There’s only so much forgiveness to share. As Benedictines we are not allowed to traipse all over the countryside as you and your Franciscan brothers do.” He looked at Jack’s expression and patted his shoulder. “Don’t vex yourself, Little Friar. We live in relative harmony. It’s just that some of us are more harmonious than others.”
The monks seemed to mill about and Jack guessed this was the time of day for leisure, since the rest of the monk’s day was devoted to prayer and work. “Father Cyril,” Jack ventured. “I have heard the rumors—”
“Bless me, but I brace myself.”
“Well, that there is something amiss with the martyr’s bones.”
Cyril stopped and suddenly grabbed Jack and dragged him into the shadows. “Best not to say these rumors too loud, Friar.”
“Brother John,” muttered Jack.
The monk nodded disinterestedly. “As you will.”
“But I heard that they may no longer be in the shrine. Is this true?”
Cyril sighed and kept an eye peeled for anyone who might overhear them. “I fear it is.”
“How can we find them?”
“His Excellency has hired a man from London. A sour-looking fellow named Crispin Guest. Though I do not know why the archbishop should put his trust in a traitor.”
Jack clenched his fists and kept them at his sides. “Traitor, Brother?”
“That’s what I hear. I do not know much about him. The other monks do not trust him.”
“Because he is a traitor?” Jack sputtered on the word.
“No, because he used to be the duke of Lancaster’s man. The duke is said to be a Lollard sympathizer. For the most part, my fellow brothers would have great objections to helping such a man. But there may be one or two … well. Perhaps I have spoken too much already. I think the ale has gone to my head. I should go to the privy.”
“I will go with you.” Jack walked alongside him, occasionally passing other monks along the way. “If the monks do not trust this man Guest, why did the archbishop hire him?”
Cyril gave another snorting laugh. “Why indeed!”
“I do not get your meaning, Brother.”
“Well, it’s just a curiosity, isn’t it, that he hired this fellow to guard the bones and the moment he arrived they disappeared. And then the murders.”
“Do you think it the curse?”
They reached the privy stalls and Cyril hitched up his cassock. Jack did likewise beside him. “Oh ho! You’ve been talking to Edward Harper.”
“Who?”
“Our pensioner.”
“Oh. Is that his name?”
“He holds great store by family curses. I fear certain monks have given him notions.” He finished his business and washed his hands in a nearby bucket, shaking them out.
“Who was the monk who was killed?”
Cyril took a deep breath and his face fell to a solemn configuration. “Young Wilfrid. The horror of it.” He crossed himself. “He was the treasurer’s assistant. You might have met the treasurer in the prior’s lodge.”
“Aye, we’ve met.”
He gauged Jack’s expression. “Yes, I see you have. Wilfrid was Dom Thomas’s assistant. They had many secrets, those two. But I do not think poor Wilfrid was up to the task. Perhaps in time and with more experience. But alas.”
“Not up to what task, Brother?”
Cyril smiled and continued through the cloister. “You are a very curious fellow. It does not do well to ask too many questions here. My brothers keep a closed lip.”
Jack put on a merrier face. “I am a traveling friar, Father Cyril. I am more used to a loosened tongue, I fear. You must pardon me if I seem to ask too much.”
He patted Jack’s shoulder again. “I do not fear your questions. It is good to talk to someone new.”
“I wonder, Brother, if you can direct me to my quarters. Dom Thomas neglected to tell me where they are.”
“I’ll show you.” He took Jack through a door and down a long, dark corridor lined with many cell doors. He went to the last one and opened the door. Jack peered in at the dismal surroundings, not much better than a cell in Newgate. A bare cot, a fireplace, a tiny window, a shelf, a table with a stool, and a crucifix on the wall.
Jack brought up a smile. “It’s wonderful,” he said weakly.
Cyril’s drooping lids rose only momentarily. “Is it? You must come from a very poor place indeed.”
“Father Cyril—”
“Sorry, Friar, but I must return to my work now. Sit next to me at the Divine Office at None. That place is empty now. It belonged to Brother Wilfrid.”
He bowed to Jack, stuffed his hands within his scapular, and trudged away. Jack turned to the cold little room and shuffled to the stool. He sat and stared into the dead hearth. So far, he’d found out a few things. One: No one there trusted Crispin, and in fact, all wondered why he was even called to Canterbury. Two: There was still some hidden secret among the brothers. And three: Brother Martin might prove to be a problem. Tricky business, this tracking.
12
CRISPIN AWAKENED IN A
strange bed, his face buried in long strands of brown hair. Hand resting on a plump, pink hip, he paused, thinking about it for a moment before he remembered. He snaked his hand around her thick waist and nuzzled the back of her neck. A female moan emerged from the cloud of hair, and she turned over to look him in the eye. She smiled and sighed lustily, stretching her arms up around his neck. “Crispin Guest,” she purred.
“Ah, so you remember me.”
“Very well indeed.”
“And you are Alyson, as I recall.”
“Mmm.”
“The both of us had a bit to drink last night.”
“We managed quite well anyway. Several times.”
He smiled. “So we did.”
“That’s why I prefer a younger man. More stamina! ‘Rejoice O young man, in thy youth!’ I shall never marry a man my age again. Only younger men.”
“‘Men’?”
“Five times a widow now, Crispin. I expect there will be more than one husband hence.”
He rolled to his back and pillowed his head in his intertwined fingers. “Perhaps you wear them out.”
She laughed. Her ample breasts shook and he watched them. “Perhaps I do.” She drew the blankets to cover her chest and propped herself against the wall. “But at least it takes our mind off our troubles, if only for a while.”
“Yes.” He shifted upward and leaned against the wall beside her.
Her gaze was sympathetic. “Is this the normal course of things during an inquiry? This waiting. Searching. Worrying.”
He breathed deeply. “Yes. Especially when murder is involved. The culprit rarely confesses. And I must use all means and cunning to ferret him out.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Do you truly think the culprit is Sir Philip?”
He laid his head back against the wall and stared up at the beams. “I know he has something to do with it. Blood is on his hands, I am certain. As for the rest, I am puzzled.”
“The rest?”
Crispin nearly spoke of the missing relics but caught himself. He said nothing instead and let his lids fall closed.
“And what of your friend Chaucer?”
He snapped open his eyes. “Geoffrey,” he breathed. “I … I must arrest him when he shows himself again.”
“Arrest him? Lancaster’s poet? Whatever for?”
“Murder,” he growled.
Alyson shifted upward. “Murder?”
“Geoffrey’s dagger was found in the neck of Brother Wilfrid. He must face the sheriff and explain it.”
She leaned toward him. He felt her radiating warmth and all he wanted to do was sink down into the mattress again and wrap his limbs around her. The smell of their coupling was strong within the bestirred sheets. His eyes roved longingly over her bare, white shoulders and décolletage. “Do you believe he did it?” she asked softly.
“No. I can’t imagine it. But it
was
his knife. And he had the opportunity. And he
is
hiding something.” He stared at the blankets for a moment before he threw them off and stood up. He retrieved his stockings, still tied to his braies, and slipped them on one at a time, drawing them up. He shrugged into his shirt and searched for his coat.
“I’m sorry you have to leave,” she said, still clutching the sheets to her bosom.
He grabbed his coat from under the bed, dug an arm into a sleeve, and glanced back at her. He offered a crooked smile. “I’ll be back. Will I be welcome?”
“Most heartily,” she said. She smiled broadly, revealing her gat-toothed grin.
Buttoning his coat, he leaned over the bed and kissed her, tasting her generous mouth. It was soft and moist. “Bath must be a very accommodating city. I must visit it sometime.”
“You would be welcome there, too.”
He made his farewells and left, standing outside Alyson’s room a long time. Finally, he stared down the gallery toward Bonefey’s room and decided to pay him another visit, despite the early hour. Raising his fist, he pounded on the door. He heard grumbling and shuffling and then the bolt was thrown. Bonefey’s squinting face appeared when the door opened a slit and then his eye widened when he saw who it was. Crispin stuck his foot in before Bonefey could slam the door. He pushed the door open and backed the man to his bed where he stumbled and fell onto it. “Where’s your sword now?”
Bonefey’s eyes darted to the chair where his clothes and scabbard lay.
Crispin smiled. “Mind if I look at your dagger?” He went to the pile of clothes and pulled forth the dagger, examining the blade. Good condition. Very sharp. He was tempted to toss it in the coals on the fire but resisted and instead sheathed it again and tossed the belt aside.
Bonefey trembled with fury. “Your insolence, knave, will cost you.”
He spared him only a glance. “I doubt that.”
Grasping the chair with Bonefey’s sword and clothes, he tipped it, dumping its contents to the floor. Setting it upright, he sat and studied Bonefey. “Tell me your exact whereabouts the night the Prioress was slain.”
“I will do no such thing.”
Staring for a moment at Bonefey’s hairy, bandy legs below his long chemise, he drew a breath, then pulled his dagger free from its sheath and looked the Franklin in the eye. “I don’t believe in wasted time, Sir Philip. I mean to get my information. By any means necessary.”
Bonefey’s eyes grew to great white-edged disks. “What do you mean to do with that?”
“Whatever I need to. Now, I suggest you start talking.”
Bonefey never took his eyes from Crispin’s sharp blade. “I … I was here. At the inn. The whole time.”
“Witnesses?”
“Everyone! They all saw me. I never left.”
Crispin frowned. “Surely a moment to go to the privy?”
“Perhaps, but not for more than a few moments.”
“That’s all it would take.”
Bonefey’s hands began to tremble.
“What about last night?” he asked.
Bonefey stared at the blade. “I won’t say anymore. You are mad.”
He rose. “I won’t ask a second time.”
Bonefey rolled off the bed to the other side. “Help! Help! Murder! He’s murdering me!”
“Oh be still, you coward!”
But it worked. Soon fists pounded on the door and men rushed into the room. Crispin slammed his blade into its sheath and turned to face Harry Bailey and Edwin Gough, the Miller. “Master Crispin!” cried Bailey. “What goes on here?”
“I am merely interrogating this man.”
“Interrogating?” Bailey and Gough both looked to the disheveled and underdressed Bonefey and to Crispin, his hand resting on his knife hilt.
“A murder inquiry is a serious undertaking, Master Bailey. I will get little out of him now. But see to it that he doesn’t leave his room. I’ll have more to say to him later.”
“You can’t keep me a prisoner here, Guest. And Bailey and Gough had better not threaten me. I shall take you to the courts. I shall own the Tabard Inn when I am through with you, Bailey.”
Bailey looked worried.
“Empty threats,” said Crispin, but he could tell Bonefey’s intimidation was working. Damn the man to the lowest level of hell! “Do what you can,” he muttered to Bailey and pushed past him out the door.