Troubled Bones (27 page)

Crispin was about to argue but saw that it would do no good. “Thank you, Excellency. Thank you.” He rose and only then did he dare glance at Geoffrey.

His friend’s face was wet with perspiration. He felt a constriction in his throat. Chaucer looked frightened. He wasn’t the only one.

Crispin bowed low to the assembly, threw his cloak behind him, and marched out. His mind worked furiously. Today and tomorrow. That was all he had to prove Geoffrey innocent. But what evidence was there? A charge of murder he could elude, but one of heresy?

He stopped. He
had
to get a message to Lancaster. It would certainly never reach him in time but he had to make the effort. He owed Geoffrey that much.

He needed someone with a swift horse.

Crispin hurried out of the cathedral precincts and then he ran. The Westgate. If the sheriff was there he had a chance …

He barely took note of the streets as he passed through them. He could be in London as any other place, though he did not know these streets as well as he did London’s.

His gaze rose above the rooftops, searching for the round tower gate, and he turned the corner of many twisting lanes to keep in the right direction.

Finally, he rounded the last corner and the stone gatehouse loomed above him. The Westgate was surrounded by scaffolding while still under construction and he hoped the sheriff, or at least someone who could help him, was there.

“The sheriff,” he told the guard, trying to catch his breath. The man only motioned him inside. Crispin looked around, saw a stairwell, and took it.

The first door he came to he peered within. A clerk sitting at a desk and penning careful words on a parchment looked up.

“The sheriff. Is he here?”

“Aye. He is within,” and the clerk gestured to the closed door.

“I must see him. Now.”

The man stood. “And who are you, sir? And your business?”

“I am Crispin Guest, and my business—”

“Oh!” The man seemed to know well Crispin’s business and he scrambled to the door, knocked once, and entered, closing it behind him.

He paced. He couldn’t stand still. Each moment that ticked by was another moment he wasn’t using to find the killer.

At length, the door opened and Thomas Brokhull strode through. “Master Guest. What is it you require?”

“Praise God. Lord Sheriff, I need your swiftest messenger sent to London immediately.”

“Why so urgently?”

“Because—” He suddenly noticed the clerk peering at both of them. The sheriff noticed as well, and led Crispin into his room. He closed the door.

“Tell me.”

“The archbishop, like any wily fox, has taken advantage and has condemned Geoffrey Chaucer for heresy.”

“What? He cannot do that! Even if it were an ecclesiastical matter he hasn’t the jurisdiction to execute a prisoner.”

“And so, too, would I think. But I do not put it past the man to use any means at his disposal.”

“That is the crown’s jurisdiction,” Brokhull went on indignantly. “
My
jurisdiction!”

“Indeed. But can we argue the point later? The messenger, Lord Sheriff.”

“Oh yes.” He went to the door again and told the clerk to send for a man.

“Have you quill and paper?”

The sheriff offered his own desk for his use. Crispin circled to the other side, fetched a quill from its pot, and took the square of parchment offered. Hastily, he scribbled a note:

Your grace,

I write this in haste without room for pleasantries. Your servant, Geoffrey Chaucer, is in danger of his life. He is accused of murders for which I know he is innocent but a charge of heresy will be his end. In all God’s speed, send your emissaries to stop Archbishop Courtenay from this course. Urgency is utmost.

Your servant,

Crispin Guest

He blotted it, sealed it with the sheriff’s seal, and clutched it in his hand until the messenger arrived. When he did, Crispin all but pushed the sheriff aside. “Give this to the duke of Lancaster at Westminster Palace. In all haste. How fast can you ride to London?”

The man, wearing the tabard of the city of Canterbury, looked once at Brokhull and then at the window. It was almost noon. “With good weather and riding hard, I can perhaps make it by nightfall.”

“Good then. Go. Go now!”

With a look of acknowledgment from the sheriff, the man left. Crispin listened to the man’s feet thump down the stairs.

“Is there anything I can do?”

Remembering the sheriff, Crispin stared at Brokhull. “No, my lord. I work best alone. But believe me, if there was something you could do I would not hesitate to ask. I thank you for this.”

“Well, there is one thing I will do. I will take my men and march to Christchurch Cathedral at once! This must not stand. Just who does the archbishop think he is?”

“He thinks he is the Primate of England … and he is.”

“But he is not the
King
of England. And the king is the law. I shall do my best to remind him of that.”

He nodded. He liked this fellow. He was certainly better than Exton or Froshe. And more useful. “I have been given a day, Lord Sheriff. Forgive me if I do not waste it.”

Brokhull nodded and Crispin departed, making swift work of the staircase. The irony of the situation was not lost on him. Here, two hundred years ago, Archbishop Thomas à Becket opposed his king, claiming that priests and monks should only be tried in ecclesiastical courts, while the king argued that he alone was the law. And now Courtenay would reverse the sundial.

But at least Brokhull did not seem a man to countenance any perversion of the law. He might delay the execution in time for Lancaster’s men to intervene. It would take that extra time, for even should the rider make it to London by late tonight, how would Lancaster’s men get to Canterbury in time to stop Chaucer’s execution?

He trotted back to the cathedral, hopeful that the sheriff might persuade the archbishop from taking further action, but uncertain if it could be done. True, the sheriff was the law, but the archbishop was the Church. When a man was threatened with excommunication and heresy, duties and loyalties could easily be forgotten.

He wiped his mind free of Courtenay’s treachery. He needed to think, to concentrate. He had been so certain it was Sir Philip, but with circumstances being what they were, that certainty had eroded. He was so close to discerning the true killer he could taste it. Who?
Who?
Sir Philip had a grudge against Madam Eglantine but what of Bonefey and Wilfrid? And how did he obtain Chaucer’s dagger? No, no. This was no good. One thing at a time. Was it for the bones? He didn’t think so. Was it revenge? Was it this idiotic curse Jack would have him believe? Something about it was strange, personal, rabid. If God chose to take His revenge then it had been satisfied two hundred years ago. Even God ended his grudges in a timely fashion. No, this was human intervention. But to what purpose? The Prioress, poor Wilfrid, and perhaps Father Gelfridus. All religious. Did it have something to do with that? With the shrine?

He was drawing himself into circles and nothing was making sense. Becket’s four murderers. God’s blood, but that was the only thing that made sense! But how could that be!

He stopped. Jack was waiting for him in the cathedral’s courtyard. After so heavy a heart, his spirits were suddenly lifted to see his protégé.
Protégé
. For so many years that word was like a curse. At least it had been to him, being Lancaster’s protégé. But Jack was his now and he would not see the boy ill-used, especially by himself. He joined the boy in the shadows of the stone arches and merely looked at him.

Jack fidgeted. “W-what are you looking at, sir? Did I do something wrong?”

“No. Not at all. But Jack”—he laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder—“if I were ever to order you to do something that you knew was wrong, I expect you to disobey me.”

“Huh?”

“Just know that it will eliminate a world of mistrust and pain.”

“Sir,” Jack began carefully. “Master Chaucer. How … how did it go?”

His hand fell from Jack and they climbed the steps, entering the portico at the west door. “The archbishop has moved to take matters into his own hands. He has condemned him and means to execute him on the morrow.”

“God blind me! Can he do that?”

“He forces the issue of heresy but he is breaking the law. I only hope the sheriff has his will of him, but I do not know … I earned Chaucer a reprieve, but only one day’s worth. And it is already late.” The sun was moving much too fast across the sky. “We must work quickly if we are to prove him innocent.” He stared at the floor tiles, the sound of the masons hammering fading as he fell deeper into thought. “I think I should see Saint Benet’s chapel again.” They made their way together up the north aisle.

Apart from the masons and the occasional monk exchanging old candles for new, they were alone.

Except in Saint Benet’s chapel.

A slim figure stood amid the shadows. A candle from the altar limned the person with an edge of gold. “Dame Marguerite,” said Crispin, startled. He couldn’t prevent a glance at Jack, who turned multiple shades of red.

“Dame,” he said, softer. He was suddenly worried for the sake of all the religious within these walls. “Perhaps you should not be here.”

She turned toward the statue of Saint Benet and then looked again at the spot on the floor where the Prioress had lain, not too far from the place of Becket’s martyrdom. “I needed to come to the church.”

“But it is closed. It must be re-consecrated.”

“Oh? I did not know.” She pulled her veil about her like a cocoon. “I just felt … I should come. Here.”

He said nothing. And then he remembered the rosary bead still housed in his pouch. Reaching in, he took it in his fingers. “Dame, this belongs to you. I know Mistress Alyson repaired your rosary”—and he gestured to the string of beads hanging from her belt—“but I hope this last bead can be added back.” Small comfort but it was all he had to offer.

She opened her hand as if feeding a bird and he dropped the wooden bead into her palm. There was a bit of brown blood on one side of the berry-sized bead. This did not seem to affect her and she closed her hand over it. “I shall do my best,” she said. She gazed at him squarely, even critically before she cast her eyes on Jack. She gave him a strangely alluring look that disturbed Crispin and made Jack’s face blush even redder. She bowed her head to both of them and slowly left the chapel.

He watched her long shadow stretch until it blended with the others in the church. The sound of hammering thudded in his head.

“You don’t think
she’s
still in danger, do you?” whispered Jack.

“I do not know.” Crispin stared at the floor worriedly, hearing her screams echoing in his head. “If she were, then why wasn’t she killed that night? I wonder how…” He remembered a raven-black gown spread out on the floor with a scarlet pool of blood beneath it; rosary beads scattered like teardrops. He thought a moment, looking at the floor, eyes scanning to every nook and shadow. He raised his head and his search grew wider, encompassing the whole church. When he spotted his quarry he darted up the nave and accosted a monk exchanging candles. “Good Brother,” he said to the startled man. He glared at the man’s rope belt and huffed with disappointment. “Never mind,” he cast over his shoulder, leaving the puzzled monk where he stood. He spied another quietly sweeping the paving tiles with a gorse broom. Crispin grasped his shoulders, and the monk, taken unawares, shrank back and dropped his broom. “Forgive me, Brother. But may I borrow your rosary?”

“My rosary?” His hand automatically slapped the beads hanging at his belt. It looked to be made of wood or possibly ivory. The berry-sized beads were similar to Dame Marguerite’s. “Surely you can purchase your own from the many purveyors in the courtyard.”

“I’ll only need it for a moment.”

The monk eyed him askance and snatched it protectively from his belt. “But—”

Crispin deftly liberated it. “Much thanks. Only a moment. I promise.” He hurried back to the chapel where a perplexed Jack was still waiting. “Jack, I will need you to collect the sword one more time.”

“But Master! I just went and put it
back
in our room.”

“Jack.”

Astonishingly petulant,
thought Crispin as Jack huffed a weary sigh and dragged his feet out of the church. Crispin held the circlet tightly in his fingers and waited. Yes, he, too, had owned a rosary once upon a time, beads of filigreed silver. How ostentatious! He thought of them with embarrassment now. Shouldn’t a ring of prayers be of humble materials? It was the one thing he was glad to have lost.

After a brief interval, Jack returned, lugging the sword over his shoulder. “Here it is, Master.
Again
.”

“Thank you, Jack. I will take it.” He unwrapped the hilt first and held it aloft, letting the linen flutter off the blade. Candlelight shimmered along the cool length of steel. He stepped back and gave it an experimental swing. It whooshed as it passed through the air.

Jack leapt back. “Oi! Warn a man, eh?”

Crispin swung it again, getting a feel for the blade. Good balance, good weight. He turned to Jack and handed him the rosary from his belt. “Tuck this into your belt, Jack, and stand there.”

Jack took the rosary, pondered the beads for a moment, and then draped it double over his belt as he had no doubt seen the monks do. He backed up to position himself as Crispin instructed.

“Now Jack, don’t move.”

Crispin swung the blade up and dropped it down, right beside Jack. The boy yelped and leapt back.

“I told you not to move.”

“God’s eyes and toes! What, by the blessed Mother, are you doing!”

“Visualizing. Now kneel and take out that rosary.”

Jack looked for all the world as if he were going to his own execution. He gingerly knelt on the paving tiles and took the rosary in his hands. He stared uncomprehendingly. “Now Jack, for your own good,
do not move.
”

Jack nodded and closed his eyes.