Troubled Bones (30 page)

“Now see here—”

“Protest if you will, Excellency. It does not change the facts! He was ordered to remove the bones before my arrival.”

Brokhull shook his head in amazement. “If that is true, Master Guest, then where are they now?”

Crispin walked several strides to the tomb of Prince Edward. “I regret to say, that the bones of the sainted martyr are housed in the late Prince Edward’s tomb.”

“How could you have possibly known?” gasped Dom Thomas.

“Only later. I recalled being shooed away unceremoniously from his tomb not once but twice. The lid of the casket is slightly askew. And I found the finger bone of Saint Thomas between his own shrine and Prince Edward’s tomb. Obfuscation notwithstanding, this is the only possible answer.” He looked sharply at Courtenay. “Am I right, Excellency?”

Courtenay sucked in his lips but said nothing.

“It is true,” sighed Dom Thomas. “Poor Wilfrid. It was too great a burden to lay upon his young shoulders. To keep such a secret! He was greatly troubled by the deception. I should have taken my conscience from him. Too late.”

“You talk too much,” growled Courtenay.

Thomas raised his head. “I should have spoken earlier. I am ashamed at how I used all of you. You can be assured I shall do much penance in recompense.”

Crispin nodded. But he saved his iciest glare for Courtenay. “Have
you
nothing to say?”

The archbishop remained his aristocratic self. “Well, naturally I moved the bones.”

Silence followed this pronouncement. Crispin snorted.
He’s playing it that way, is he?

“I feared a Lollard threat,” Courtenay said, red-faced. “I felt it the wisest course to protect the bones.”

Still no one spoke. Crispin doubted anyone believed the archbishop.

“At any rate,” said Crispin after a long pause, “I have you to thank, your Excellency, for helping me find Dame Marguerite when she escaped from us.”

“Me? I do not know your meaning.”

“In the cathedral. You pointed out where she had gone. To the Corona tower.”

“Are you mad? I was at Vespers.”

Crispin shook his head. “But I saw you there. You were wearing a short miter and you pointed. From there.”

They all looked to the edge of Saint Thomas’s shrine where Crispin indicated.

“But I tell you I was at Vespers with my monks. They can all attest to that.”

“But then … what bishop did
I
see?”

As soon as Crispin said it, coldness crept over him, starting at his temples and trickling downward.

Dom Thomas was the one to say it though Crispin well knew they were all thinking it. “It was Saint Thomas!”

“No,” said Crispin, the words coming to his lips without thinking them. He refused to believe it.

“What other explanation could there be? The saint himself, who witnessed all these terrible things. Oh my Lord and my God!” Dom Thomas fell to his knees. “Forgive me for this deception. Blessed Thomas. Forgive me!”

*   *   *

FAR TOO MUCH HAD
happened that night. Crispin retired to his bed and Jack, as white as a ghost himself, settled on his own cot, though Crispin doubted the boy slept.

Brokhull came early to the inn the next morning. Crispin left Jack huddled by their fire to speak to the sheriff. He carried with him the sword of Fitz-Urse.

Crispin greeted him with a bow, but Brokhull’s greeting was more to Crispin’s liking: He offered a full jug of ale and two cups. They sat together by the hearth and downed a cup each before the sheriff spoke. “All is well, Master Crispin. At least, as well as can be with tidings such as these. Three religious dead.” He shook his head and his face was lost again behind his beaker. He wiped his mouth with his hand. “Saint Thomas’s relics have been restored to their rightful place, thanks to you. I do not know what the archbishop is paying you, but I am certain it is not enough.”

“My payment will be better served by leaving this place and returning to London, for I sorely miss it,” he said, even though such a thought had been foreign to him before.

“Are you certain? I could use a man with your talents. I would pay you well.”

“That is something to consider. Though London is my home.”

“Tracker, eh? Does it satisfy you?”

“In its way.”

“I can see that a man such as yourself would be better served with no master. Perhaps … I envy you.”

“Me? Do not envy me, Lord Sheriff. What you see is the sum total of what I have.”

“Then what I see is a man well armed to take on the world.”

Surprised, Crispin merely drank another. He looked at the sword at his feet and handed it to the sheriff. “Lord Sheriff, I surrender the sword of Fitz-Urse to you.”

The sheriff sneered at the weapon. “You do not own a sword, Master Crispin. Why don’t you keep it?”

Crispin hefted the blade a moment, but then offered it hilt first to Brokhull. “True, I own no sword, but I fear this one would be a poor replacement. It has ill-luck attached to it, to be sure. And more ill-luck, I do not need.”

The sheriff nodded and reluctantly took it.

Harry Bailey thumped down the stairs and when he caught sight of Crispin he hurried down the last several steps and joined the men by the fire. “Master Crispin. Lord Sheriff.” He sat with a heavy sigh. “Bless me! I have never in my life experienced a pilgrimage such as this.”

“Nor, I hope, shall we ever again,” said Crispin darkly.

“I will drink to that,” and he poured himself a beaker and drank it down.

The innkeeper brought a platter with cold meats and bowls of steaming broth. They thanked him and partook of the food.

Crispin sipped at the broth. “By the way.” He set down the bowl and wiped his lips. “Have our friends the Summoner and Pardoner returned?”

Bailey shook his head. “No one has heard or seen a wisp of them.”

Crispin snorted into his beaker. “As I thought.”

The sheriff drew his bowl from his lips. “Were there others you would have me pursue, Master Crispin?”

“Not for the moment.”

Harry Bailey edged forward, an earnest look on his weary face. He seemed much older of a sudden, and Crispin realized what a great strain this whole affair was for all concerned.

“How is young Jack? It was apparent to me—to all of us—that he was enamored of the youthful nun.”

Crispin sighed. “He will recover. As must we all. He is young and resilient.”

They fell silent, no doubt reliving their own first loves. Crispin worried about Jack, but young men suffered disappointments and trials all the time. Jack was certainly no stranger to either. Of course one’s survival was easier to cope with than one’s passions. Dame Marguerite would be burned into his consciousness for years to come. It would help mold him into the man he was swiftly becoming. Crispin only hoped it would make him stronger and not tear him down.

“Whatever happened to our dear Franklin?” asked Crispin.

The sheriff harrumphed. “Sir Bonefey?” He waved with a pullet haunch. “My men apprehended him on his way back to London. Do you still want him?”

Crispin considered. As annoying as the man was, he had done no actual harm. “No. But I fear I must apologize to him. I treated him with little courtesy.”

“Never fear that. If he would not declare it to you, he certainly feared the king’s justice. He eagerly confessed his entire plot. To serve the Lollards, he conspired to steal the bones with the help of your Summoner and Pardoner. Of course, Dom Thomas ruined that plan with his own plot. Or rather, the archbishop’s.”

Crispin snorted at the machinations of the nobility. Had the archbishop simply left it alone … But alas, Prioress Eglantine and Wilfrid would still be dead. “And his Excellency. What of him?” Crispin sipped his ale and watched the sheriff with steely concentration.

“I cannot bring charges. He is the Archbishop of Canterbury. If he wishes to relocate the relics in his own cathedral there is nothing for me to say to it. As for his calling his own Episcopal trial, well … That is a matter I do not wish to trouble the king with. Or Rome. The cathedral is being re-consecrated. There has been no mention of a theft but the bones will be paraded about Canterbury tomorrow in celebration.”

“I shall be gone by then.”

“Indeed,” said Bailey. “So should we all. We must return to London. We have tarried here long enough.” He set down his beaker and rose. “I’m certain the others would agree with me. Come with us, Master Crispin. Verily, you could do with the company.”

Crispin felt the abrupt weariness of the week’s events and agreed with Bailey. To return to London with an assembly was certainly more companionable. And it might be better for Jack as well. He was about to say just that, when a man burst through the inn’s door, shouting at the top of his lungs.

Everyone jumped to their feet. All Crispin could think was,
What is it now?

“There’s murder, Lord Sheriff!” cried the man, little older than Jack, and more ragged. “We have a man cornered. There are witnesses! Come, please!”

The sheriff was almost out the door the moment the man mentioned “murder.” The others followed. Crispin cursed Canterbury. It seemed they simply could not escape death this trip.

Brokhull led the way to the crowd of shouting townsfolk who had seized someone. When the sheriff arrived the people parted for him and Crispin saw what the trouble was.

He wasn’t much surprised.

Peter Chanticleer was being held tight by two men while the others shouted at him. His long gown was covered in blood.

“What is this?” the sheriff demanded.

“I killed him,” said Chanticleer, chin thrust proudly. “He cheated me! He was a foul, loathsome churl and I killed him. And I shall not repent of it, though I know I will hang.” His lips trembled. “God will find forgiveness for me for ridding the world of that vile Summoner.”

Crispin nodded to himself as Brokhull took his leave of him to lead Chanticleer and the others away.

A fitting end for two wicked men.

The Miller was right, though. The Devil
had
come to roost in Canterbury. Crispin was glad to leave it.

24

THE ROAD SNAKING AWAY
from Canterbury was a ribbon of mud. The solemn troupe left the city behind and good riddance to it, but they hadn’t left it very far when they encountered mud-splattered riders with the livery of the duke of Lancaster. With all the emotional turmoil of Dame Marguerite and Becket’s bones, Crispin had quite forgotten he had requested the duke’s help.

Chaucer rode forth to meet them. Crispin wasn’t close enough to hear their exchange but with emphatic gestures and, Crispin suspected, rosy embellishments, the tale was told. Geoffrey gestured once toward Crispin and the two men fixed their eyes on him for a long moment. They spoke to Geoffrey a few moments more before turning their mounts. The horses kicked up a cockerel’s tail of mud as they galloped away back toward London.

Chaucer rejoined Crispin with a smile. There was a spot of mud on his cheek but Crispin did not tell him of it. “That was my rescue. Cris, I’m touched.”

Crispin rolled his eyes at Geoffrey’s expression. But he was relieved he had not needed Lancaster’s men.

For the rest of the long two days back to London, spring rains continued to drizzle over their quiet company, and often the weary travelers had to dismount and walk their horses through the worst of the mire. Crispin had led Alyson’s horse over the stickiest of muddy places and she smiled that gat-toothed grin at him in gratitude, the first smile in at least a day after the terrible events in Canterbury.

It was two days of watching Jack sitting straight-backed on his horse, sinking into a dull and unfamiliar quietude that worried Crispin.

But it was also two days of reacquainting himself with his friend Chaucer, and he was glad of it.

Geoffrey regaled him with stories of court and of his own adventures as the king’s spy, though he kept those stories close for their ears alone. They laughed together.
Crispin
laughed, and he felt the sharp pang of regret rasping behind it, because he knew this renewed camaraderie could not last. So he clutched at it like a cherished object, keeping it in his heart for now, a heart almost as broken as Jack’s.

London’s spires and rooftops came into view, masked by thin layers of smoke and mist. They reached the Tabard Inn and dismounted their horses in the courtyard, the remaining company of Thomas Clarke, Alyson, Father Gelfridus—who had stayed by himself for the ride back—Edwin Gough, Harry Bailey, Geoffrey Chaucer, and finally Crispin and Jack. They were certainly not the jovial party that had set out from this little inn a sennight ago. All had been sorely tested and they entered the inn for a last beaker of ale and to bid their farewells.

“Drink, my friends,” said Bailey, lifting his own horn. “We will drink to the grace of God for delivering us safely home, to the souls that did not return with us, and to a brighter morrow.”

Everyone lifted their cups in solemn silence. Bailey’s wife watched curiously from a doorway.

Jack turned slowly toward Crispin. “Can we go home now, Master Crispin?”

“Yes, Jack. Let us say our farewells.”

He shook Clarke’s hand and thanked him for his candidness. He gripped the Miller’s strong arm and wished him well. Father Gelfridus glanced up at him with guilty eyes but Crispin clutched his shoulder reassuringly. “Father priest, do not look so saddened. I knew full well you could not divulge what you heard confessed under the sacramental seal.”

“I know I have fulfilled my office.” He rubbed his hands and clutched at the crucifix dangling from his neck. “But I prayed for guidance. I failed that lost soul.”

“She was lost far too long ago, Father. You might have been her next victim.”

He shook his head. “And such would have been a blessing compared to the feelings I must carry with me now.”

He nodded to the priest. There was little left to say to that. He watched the priest move away, shutting himself within his rich cloak. Crispin wondered what the man would tell the priory when he returned to it. Crispin didn’t envy him.