Troubled Bones (18 page)

He stopped in the gallery and stared down the stairs. The innkeeper stood at the bottom looking up, a pitchfork in his hands. “A false alarm,” Crispin called down to the man. “All is well.”

The innkeeper sighed and lowered the fork. The man went back to his room but Crispin stood as he was, thinking.
All is not well
. He looked back at Bonefey’s closed door, heard him argue in a loud voice with Bailey and a drunken Gough, and shook his head. Chaucer’s room was the next door down. He pulled his jacket to straighten it, strode up to the door, and knocked.

Nothing.

It was almost a relief. He knocked again just to be certain and he was greeted by silence. He tested the door and was surprised to find it unlocked. Carefully he pushed it all the way open and quickly glanced around. No Geoffrey.

He stepped in. The room was neat. Geoffrey’s fire was covered with fine ashes and his toiletries were laid in a line. Parchment and quills were set in perfect order on the table: used parchment in an exact pile on one side, unused on another. He remembered Geoffrey being meticulous but he seemed to have become even more so over the years.

He drew close to the chest and exhaled a long breath before he knelt and opened the lid. Inside, his extra coats and gowns all folded; braies rolled alongside rolled stockings. And an extra pair of long-toed poulaines lay atop them all, their exaggerated tips curled up against the wall of the chest. Crispin dug down and found a red, ankle-length gown. His heart burned with a wash of heat when he saw the color. It was close. Very close. He dragged it from the chest and laid it on the bed. His breathing quickened as he carefully folded over each pleat of the hem, going slowly over every inch of it. And then—

His breath caught. A tear. A square hole torn from the fabric. His hands trembled as he reached into his pouch and withdrew the scrap of cloth. He knew it long before he ever laid it over the tear. It fit perfectly.

“What by all the devils are you doing!”

Crispin whirled. Geoffrey stood in the doorway clutching the doorposts. His eyes were dark with menace.

Crispin rose to his full height and faced Geoffrey. He felt as if a leaden ball sat in his stomach while a knife pierced his heart. “Geoffrey Chaucer. You must accompany me to the Lord Sheriff. You are charged with the murder of the monk Wilfrid.”

13

JACK AWOKE EARLY THE
next morning with a start and leapt up from his bed. Bells. Constant bells. It was unnerving. He looked at the small window but saw that it was still dark. What the hell?

He went to the bucket and washed his face with the icy water and wiped his nose and cheeks on his sleeve. He remembered now. Monks rose before the sun to pray the Divine Office. He shook himself fully awake and opened the heavy door with a creak. He poked his head out and saw the sleepy monks meander toward the quire.

He joined them, using the same sleepy stride they used.
Bunch of sarding sheep.
He followed them into the dark church. The only light came from candles set on either end of the quire stalls, where the monks followed their chantry in their books. Jack made his way to Wilfrid’s old chair, feeling a bit guilty for using it thus, and looked up curtly at Cyril who seemed to be dozing. They all stood when the prior took his place at the head and then the chanting began. Jack cringed at it. It echoed all around him. He did not think it possible to fill the space within the hulking cathedral, but it did. Unearthly. Magical. He listened, forgetting he was supposed to be participating, yet he could not have if he tried. The notes followed their own pattern, like a path through a forest, meandering this way and that, finding alternating sunshine and shadow, cool and warm. The beauty of it struck him deeply in his heart. He did not know such feelings were within him. He was glad they were. He felt God’s presence in the music and the words and he understood then, for at least that moment, why a man would wish to become a monk.

By the time the Office was complete, it was time for their meal. Jack wanted to ask more questions of Cyril but he took his cue from the others and did not talk unless they talked first. And now they were going to another silent meal. Frustrated, Jack ate and drank down his beer as if by his hurrying he could hurry along the others. Finally, the silent time was over and they shuffled outside the hall to their separate tasks. Jack got separated from Cyril and tried to spy him among all the identical cassocks.
Like a needle in a haystack.
He stretched up on his toes to look above the cowled heads when an arm tugged him against the wall.

Jack looked up into the pointed face of Brother Martin. “Don’t I know you?” asked the monk.

Jack shook his head vigorously. “Oh no, Brother. I don’t see how.”

His eyes roved over Jack’s face thoughtfully. “What monastery are you from?”

“Oh … er … do you know Saint Michael’s in Suffolk?”

“Why yes, I do.”

“Well I’m not from there,” he said quickly. “I’m from a very small friary south of there. You wouldn’t know it.”

“Still, you have a familiar look about you.”

He smiled. “I have that kind of face.”

Martin sneered. “I do not know why you stay. Hasn’t anyone told you? If you’ve come to see the martyr’s relics, they are gone.” His expression was far from one Jack expected. He seemed almost … glad.

Jack decided to play his hand. “So I heard. Truth to tell, is it not better for the common folk if such things were not here to tempt them to spend their hard-earned wage?”

Martin raised his chin. A few hairs bristled there where his razor missed. “You have a shrewd head, Friar. But I would not mouth such sentiments”—he looked over his shoulder—“so freely.”

He shrugged. “I am not learned in such things, so maybe I am in error. For it does seem to give them comfort—”

“They should find their comfort in God. His only Son sacrificed Himself for us to offer the comfort of Heaven. Should that not be enough?”

“But so, too, did Thomas à Becket sacrifice himself for the love of the Church, Brother. Is that not a good example? Is that not why we venerate the saints?”

“We venerate, yes. But a saint is not God. And some would place their precious saints before the worship of the Almighty. I have seen it too many times, Brother. It sickens me. And this monastery is the worst of the lot. Thomas à Becket has become little better than a slab of meat hanging in a butcher’s stall. The best cut goes to the richest and therefore the least deserving. I rue the day I chose this place and not some humbler institution. But youth,” he said, eyes glaring at Jack, “is flawed.”

That was an earful if ever Jack heard one. “Er, well…” He didn’t quite know how to respond but he didn’t need to. Martin narrowed his eyes at Jack and released him.

“I have my work to do.” He offered one more backward glance and scurried away, boots slapping the stone.

“And
I
have found my Lollard,” Jack whispered. He allowed Martin to get ahead of him and shadowed his steps.

Martin hurried forward. Jack held back, unseen by his quarry but keeping him within sight. The monk moved with purpose and it soon became very apparent that the man was headed into the church. Jack hid behind a column. Martin entered the church door and it closed after him. Jack scuttled forward. He waited another beat before he grasped the handle and pulled the heavy door open. He allowed his eyes to adjust to the dim surroundings but used his ears and turned his head to the left. He heard Martin’s frantic footfalls and pursued, careful to keep his own steps quiet and to stay to the shadows or behind pillars.

The church was otherwise quiet. The artists painting the stone runners and ceilings had not yet arrived. Nor was the furious pounding from the masons shattering the still of the cold interior. Just Martin’s footsteps … except …

Jack slowed and Martin’s steps, too, faltered.

Whispering. Two men were talking somewhere in the cathedral. The sounds—their sibilants hissing into the canopy of stone above—rushed here and there. It could have been coming from the quire as much as the sanctuary. But no. It was down there in the nave, Jack was certain of it. But where was Martin?

He heard the soft slip of a shoe on the floor. Yes. There he was. Crispin was fond of telling Jack that whispers never boded well.

He slipped back behind the gates of the quire and made his way past it. He cocked an eye back and saw Martin several pillars down, listening. Jack hurried as quietly as he could, catching an occasional glance at Martin through the pillars and tall seats of the quire as he shot past. Finally, the whispers were closer and he slid his way forward. He crouched down behind a thick stone column abutting scaffolding.

Dom Thomas Chillenden was there and his exasperated whispers were directed to a burly man Jack recognized as one of the stone masons. Jack leaned against the column, trying to sift the echoes from the hushed voices.

Dom Thomas raised a small sack in his hand and reached in. He pulled out several gold pieces that made Jack nearly salivate, and the monk thrust them into the mason’s hands. “There!” said Chillenden with a sneer. “Is this not what you asked for?”

The mason looked at the gold in his hand and considered. “Aye. It is a goodly sum.”

“Is it enough for your silence? I have had enough of your innuendos.”

The mason closed his large hand over the coins and rocked his fist as if weighing them. “My silence, Brother? But of course.” There was more amusement in his voice than commitment.

“Master Nigel.” He moved closer to the man and looked as large and as threatening as he could, though he stood several inches shorter than the broad-shouldered mason. “I will make no more payments. I had your word that this was the final sum. The archbishop will become suspicious.”

The mason chuckled and tucked the gold into the money pouch hanging from his thick leather belt. “I gave you my word, sir, and it is my bond.”

“Your bond!” the monk sniffed. “Extortion comes with honor, does it?”

“I gave you my word,” the mason said loudly. The monk looked around worriedly. “But I’d like to know who’s the more dishonest,
Brother
: the man who committed the crime”—and he pointed a stubby finger at the monk’s chest—“or the man who witnessed it,” and he thumbed his own. “Fear not. I will not reveal your sins, for you have paid right well for my silence. You have only God to contend with you now.” He straightened his leather tunic, gave the monk a derisive snort, and turned his back on him.

Dom Thomas stood frozen and watched him leave before he seemed to snap out of his torpor and spun on his heel. His quick steps soon disappeared.

Jack slumped against the cold stone and slapped his hand over his mouth, for surely he’d blaspheme himself in the church if he allowed himself to speak. What had he just heard? Dom Thomas was guilty of something. Was it murder? “Jesus preserve us,” he whispered. A monk. Guilty of murder. Of Brother Wilfrid’s? It was almost too much to bear. How could he face him again? He had to get out of the monastery and soon!

He forgot all about Brother Martin as he left the church. He needed to get out and tell Crispin all he had heard. Preoccupied with his thoughts he never noticed Edward Harper until he smacked into him.

“Oh! Master Harper!”

Harper steadied Jack with a smile. But Jack’s thoughts were still of murder and he looked back anxiously over his shoulder toward the church. “You’re up early, Master Harper.”

“There is no reason not to rise with the sun. And sloth in a monastery is not to be borne.”

“But you are a pensioner.” He tried a smile in answer to Harper’s raised brows. “I talked to Father Cyril. It was he who told me your name.”

But Harper must have noticed Jack’s demeanor for he moved forward and touched his shoulder. “Brother John? You look ill. Come. Some refreshment may revive you.”

“I would be pleased,” he said distractedly. Reluctantly, Jack followed the man back to his mean lodgings and entered the little hut. Harper searched for a cup and Jack leaned against the table, fidgeting with the curled parchments and books. His eyes glanced lists of names, charts, long descriptions in French going on about something he didn’t quite understand, like a code. He snapped up his head when Harper brought him a cup.

“Now tell me,” said Harper. “What troubles you?”

Jack paused.
Well, I think one of the monks here is a murderer.
No, that would never do. He realized he would have to lie again. Harper was like Crispin. Maybe he could help Jack better understand the circumstances. “I have traveled far and wide, to many a monastery,” said Jack carefully. “But I have never been to a cloister where its monks had, well, heretical leanings.”

“Never? I find that hard to believe.”

“Well, some not so obvious. But here, well. To put it another way,” he whispered, “I think there is a fox in the henhouse.”

Harper pulled an indulgent smile and sat with his cup. “Indeed. And what heresy does this fox bark?”

He could think of a number of things, but the only one he could speak aloud he did. “I think he’s a Lollard.”

Harper’s smile froze and gradually faded. “Truly? What makes you say so?”

“Well then. He didn’t seem to think that the missing relics were all that bad a thing.”

He nodded and drank, measuring Jack over the rim of the cup. “Why do you suppose he said that to you?”

“Well, I don’t know. Perhaps because it is easier saying such to a stranger.”

“Perhaps. Still, I think I know of whom you speak.”

“You do?”

“Was this Brother Martin, by any chance?”

Jack rose in his seat. “Aye! You’ve heard him, then?”

“He is most indiscreet. I do not blame a man for a conscience, but a man who takes vows should show more loyalty.”

Jack nodded and wiped the beer froth from his lips with his sleeve. “To me, loyalty is a sacred thing.”

“Indeed? Then I wonder…” Harper glanced at his parchments and looked back at Jack. He seemed to be deciding something. “Never mind. I must be getting back to my garden, as you must be getting back to your prayers.”