Authors: Jeri Westerson
3
CRISPIN GRUMBLED TO HIMSELF
all the way back to the inn. Tombs, relics, heretical monks. Sixpence a day wasn’t enough compensation.
Always better to talk out the problem. Where the hell was Tucker?
He pushed open the inn’s door and was stopped short by the press of pilgrims talking, laughing, shouting. The season had most definitely begun.
Crispin recognized most of them as the pilgrims he’d seen at the shrine. There were the two nuns, one older in a black habit and one much younger in a brown veil and gown. They were talking to a priest, the round fellow in prosperous garb. Beside them but not with them was the well-shaped female of the merchant class he recalled from the shrine, talking animatedly to a short, stout fellow hoisting a beaker of ale, who looked to be a tradesman of some sort. He nodded his head and listened to her speech but his shuffling feet seemed to indicate he would rather be skirting away.
The other that Crispin had taken for a tradesman was a tall, lank fellow dressed like a middling merchant. He stood by the shorter man, but on closer examination he appeared to be alone and merely listening to the conversations of the others. He kept a surreptitious eye on two skulking men from the shrine who were still talking secretly to each other in a far corner. One was a tall blond man and the other his shorter, squatter companion.
And there, the wealthy Franklin from Becket’s tomb, replete with gold chains over his scarlet robes. He stood before the fire as if he owned it, warming his bejeweled fingers.
“Master Crispin!” Jack rushed forward, a beaker of ale in one hand. His normally pale complexion flushed red from spirits. “Look at the merry folk who are here! All pilgrims, and they have just lately come from London, too!”
Jack had probably never been this far from home, he realized, and he allowed himself a momentary pang of empathy for the boy.
“Cris! What kept you?”
He flinched. He couldn’t help it. He turned to see Chaucer bearing down on him. Chaucer clapped him on the back and then left his arm draped lazily over his shoulder. Ears warming, Crispin did his best to shrug him off by pulling Jack forward. “This is Jack Tucker,” he said curtly. “My protégé.”
Chaucer focused skeptical eyes on Jack. “Protégé?”
“He helps me solve puzzles. Catch criminals. Surely you must have heard—”
“Oh yes! The celebrated ‘Tracker.’ There’s a poem in that, I’ll warrant. Like a modern-day Robin Hood.”
“Put me in one of your poems and you’re a dead man,” he growled.
“Now, now Cris. Mustn’t lose that famous temper of yours. It does get you into trouble, doesn’t it?” He smiled, but not sincerely. He turned from Crispin to study Jack. “And so, Young Jack. Where do you hail from?”
“From London, good sir.”
“And pray, what family?” His gaze traveled well over Jack’s threadbare tunic with its worn laces.
“No family, sir. Master Crispin took me in from the street. I was little better than a beggar. Taught me to read and write, he did.”
“Taught you to read and write?” Chaucer stroked his light brown beard and aimed his eye at Crispin. “How democratic of him.”
Crispin put his hands on Jack’s shoulders and began to steer him away. “If you’ll pardon us, Geoffrey. I have business to attend to.” He didn’t wait for Chaucer to answer.
“What is it, Master Crispin?” Jack asked softly when they’d moved to a quiet corner. “What have you discovered?”
Near Jack’s ear, he said, “The archbishop fears the bones of Saint Thomas are in danger of theft or damage. He wants me to guard them.”
“Blind me! What does he take you for? A mastiff?”
“I wondered that myself.”
“What will you do?”
“I don’t know. There is more—”
“The dinner will be ready anon. Can’t it wait till after we’ve eaten?”
Crispin scanned the room of chattering pilgrims, the warm fire, the inviting aroma drifting in from the kitchens, and considered. Maybe a quick bite would do him good. He could think better on a full stomach.
Just then the innkeeper called for the guests to be seated at a long table in the center of the room. There was a general sound of affirmation before shoes scuffed and garments rustled as they made their way around the table, seating themselves. The pleasant-faced innkeeper scurried from cup to cup, pouring wine from one jug and ale from another.
Crispin sat slightly away from the others while Jack stood behind him, trying for the appearance of a proper servant.
The priest scanned the room before his gaze landed on Crispin and he shuffled into place beside him, scooting closer with his cup in hand. “I am Father Gelfridus le Britton,” he said cheerfully. “You seem familiar with our Master Chaucer. He accompanied us from London, you know. Just a pilgrim like the rest of us.” He chuckled. “A noteworthy gentleman. A man of wit and good humor. The stories he told! He reminds me fondly of my days as a schoolboy. I read many a tale in those days. The poetry, the histories, the philosophers. Seldom do I get an opportunity to read such like anymore.”
“Nor do I,” answered Crispin. “Those books are long gone.”
“Owned them, did you? What I would not give for a fine library.”
“Your parish has no library?”
The priest cut a glance back at the tall nun and then brought up a guilty expression as if he had not meant to look at her. “Well, no. I am the nun’s priest, sir. Though the prioress’s tastes tend toward the classical, she finds it impractical to own books.”
“Perhaps she simply has no stomach for overindulgence. ‘A priory in a humble state can only boast in Christ, not in its riches,’ so the saying goes.”
The priest, a man of Crispin’s age though a little shorter and broader, adjusted the collar of his blue robe and straightened his cap. “That sounds dangerously like the opinion of a Lollard, sir.”
Jack leaned between them to pour wine. He offered some to the priest. Crispin noticed the boy’s cheek bulging with bread, which he was trying to chew quickly. “Not at all, Father Gelfridus. I am no Lollard.”
“What’s a Lollard?” Jack whispered, mouth still full.
Gelfridus turned toward Jack and tapped the boy’s crumb-dusted chest with a finger. “Don’t concern yourself with that lot, young man. You just follow your priests as you should.”
“Now, now, Father,” said Crispin. “‘All men by nature desire knowledge.’ And Jack is as hungry as the next man.”
Jack had managed to down his mouthful. He crooked his thumb in Crispin’s direction. “That was Aristotle, that.”
Gelfridus seemed surprised and rested an arm on the table.
Jack was proving to be a resilient pupil, but had yet to learn when it was appropriate for him to join a conversation. Still, it was a good excuse to bring the subject into the open. “Lollards, Jack, are those followers of John Wycliffe, a philosopher and theologian at Oxford—”
Gelfridus made a disgusted sound. “So you call him, sir. He does not deserve your charity.”
“Nevertheless,” he continued, aiming his remarks toward Jack, who had somehow secured an onion and was eating it with relish. “He denounces the influence of clerics and even the pope’s authority. He claims that Christ is the only pope and he further argues that the Church owns too much land, too many riches, and has too much power.”
Jack eyed Gelfridus in his new robes and rings but said nothing.
“Wycliffe found many supporters,” muttered the priest. “His staunchest is his grace the duke of Lancaster.”
“Lancaster?” cried Jack.
Crispin kept his eyes on Gelfridus. “Any man may take a long, hard look at the vastness of Church property and perhaps invent philosophies of his own.”
“Yes,” said the priest. “With one hand these great men pay lip service to the Church and at the same time plot its destruction. All for greed.”
“Not all,” said another voice.
Crispin turned his head and recognized the wealthy Franklin he’d noticed earlier.
“Master Crispin, may I present Sir Philip Bonefey.”
Crispin inclined his head.
“You have something to say, Sir Philip?” asked Gelfridus.
“Only that a man of property may have a better sense of excess, good Father,” he said taking a seat. “The Franciscans, for instance, preach poverty. They do not wear fine robes and ride fine horses, for the most part.”
Gelfridus rose in his seat. “Sir Philip! Do you presume to ascribe temporal laws to priests and clerics?”
“I presume nothing. I merely state—”
“Gentlemen”—Crispin opened his hands—“I am instructing this lad here on the finer points of Lollardism. Any notes you care to add should be done with a civil tongue. How is he to learn if all questions come to blows?”
Sir Philip looked at Gelfridus, and then they both looked at Jack. The Franklin’s face broke into a smile, and he clapped his hand on the table. “Bless me, Master Crispin. But you are right. Instruct!”
“Don’t forget pilgrimages,” put in Father Gelfridus. “These damnable Lollards declare that pilgrimages are idolatrous.”
Jack turned to Crispin.
“That is so.”
Frowning, Jack edged forward. “But if his grace the duke was a Lollard supporter, then why aren’t you, Master?”
“I was not always in agreement with everything his grace professed. Though I find some of the Lollard doctrine intriguing.”
“And Eve found the fruit from the forbidden tree just as ‘intriguing,’ Master Guest,” said Gelfridus. “Remember, only a hairsbreadth lies between rhetoric and heresy.”
“I do remember, Father.”
They all fell silent. The dinner arrived and the pilgrims readied their eating knives. The prioress and her young chaplain sat opposite Crispin, while Sir Philip Bonefey found a place beside the priest. The round woman with the gat-toothed smile sat beside Crispin to his right.
Jack remained behind Crispin, clutching the wine jug.
One last traveler arrived and fit himself into the bench. “God’s wounds,” said Crispin, smiling at the round-faced man with the rosy nose. “And what brings you, good sir?”
The man smiled. “Master Crispin!” He leaned over the table and gave the offered hand a hearty shake. “It has been many a day, sir.” He gestured toward the rest of the company. “I saw these good pilgrims on their way to Canterbury from my inn and I told the wife it was time I ventured there again myself. And so you see me now.”
Crispin turned to Tucker. “Jack. This is Harry Bailey, proprietor of the Tabard Inn in Southwark.”
Jack ducked his head in a bow. “A pleasure, good sir. God keep you.”
Servants came from the kitchens bearing platters of roasted pullets and haunches of lamb, onions in an almond milk broth, cheese, and loaves stuffed with nuts and meats.
He felt Jack tense behind him. This was possibly the grandest feast Jack had ever partaken of. But Jack appeared determined to play his role, and he served and cut slices of meat for Crispin as Crispin had instructed him—as he had done himself for Lancaster when he started as a page in his household.
With his knife, Crispin jabbed the meat and fed himself the generous slices. The spices and herbs blended together in his mouth. A full bowl of wine sat before him. For the moment, he was content.
The prioress picked delicately at her food, eating as daintily as a bird. The nun beside her did not quite have the same aplomb, but tried to mirror her prioress’s table manners. She lifted her horn cup to her lips and reddened upon discovering it empty.
Jack scrambled around the table and quickly offered to pour her beer. She took it without looking up at him. Crispin watched Jack detachedly until he noted the woeful expression on the boy’s face when the young nun would not acknowledge him. Jack put down the jug and offered her bread. She shook her head and still would not raise her eyes. Jack lowered himself to the bench beside her and slowly reached for the meat.
Crispin thumbed his wine bowl and edged forward. “Madam Prioress.”
The Prioress raised her eyes but kept them carefully shadowed under a canopy of dark lids. “Prioress Eglantine de Mooreville,” she announced. “This is my chaplain, Marguerite de Bereham.”
“God keep you,” he said with a smooth nod of his head. “From which priory do you hail?”
“A small and humble one, Master Guest, not far from London.”
“Then you, your nun, and your priest have traveled some distance like the rest of us.”
She held a haunch of pullet vertically and sawed down at the flesh as she talked. “Though we have traveled far, it is well worth the journey and expense. I was most impressed by the martyr’s shrine today.” She sighed. “Such magnificence. Saint Thomas was such a brave and noble man. To stand up as he did against a king, his friend. Such a chivalrous man.”
“You speak of him most strangely,” said Crispin. “Not as a saint, but as a romantic figure in a minstrel song.”
“And why not?” she said, cocking her head. “We love our saints, we cloistered women. And we have no lover but God. ‘Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth; for thy love is better than wine.’ There is no need for outward passion of two vulgar bodies. Let man love from afar and look upward. To Heaven. We must be blind to all else but the love of God.”
He flicked his gaze toward Jack whose eyes were glued to the young nun.
“I intend to make a special vigil at the church tonight, later after supper,” said the Prioress. “One must make the most of one’s outlay.”
“The Prioress is very thrifty,” said Sir Philip brusquely.
Crispin turned to him but the Prioress went on.
“Thrift is an important trait in a priory. I have my hounds and my garden. What more would I need? Abuses of discipline and money are for the world without. Is that not correct, Dame Marguerite?”
The quiet nun raised her face. Jack no longer appeared to be
his
table servant but the nun’s. The boy was quick to drop the food from his hand and fill her cup lest it be empty the next time she touched it.
She lowered her eyes. “My Lady Prioress is correct. I myself was raised under the careful guidance of my lady.”
“You were brought to the priory as a child?” asked Crispin.
“No, Master. I was born there. My mother was a servant in the priory. My lady was kind enough to see to my schooling and sponsored me when I begged to take vows.” She raised a crust of bread to her lips and carefully took a small bite. Jack pushed another piece of bread toward her, but she shook her head. He munched a pullet leg absently and kept a furtive glance aimed at her beneath his shaded eyes. His lips murmured a sigh.