Authors: Jeri Westerson
Harry Bailey sat beside him and shook his head. “Can you tell us the tidings, Friend Crispin? What we heard cannot be wholly believed.”
“Believe it.” He drank then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His jaw and his head hurt. Vaguely he wondered if a day was allowed to pass without some part of him in pain. “The Lady Prioress was murdered in the church. At the same spot as Saint Thomas the Martyr.”
The assembly burst into troubled conversation. “It’s an outrage,” cried the portly tradesman. “I have never heard of such a thing. Who could have done it?”
Crispin lowered the bowl from his lips. “I intend to find out.”
The young, pale merchant shook his head. “I cannot recall a time I heard of such a horrific case. By my life, but the last time such a thing occurred must be when the blessed martyr himself was murdered.”
“One of our own,” muttered the tradesman. He eased down to the bench beside Crispin and slid his hand to Crispin’s shoulder. “I was the last one to talk to her. She and Dame Marguerite were leaving for the church. I bid them good prayers. She touched my hand.” He lowered that hand from Crispin’s shoulder and looked at it. “She said to me, ‘Much thanks, Good Miller. Bless you, sir.’ Just that. And then she went. We all traveled for two days together. All of us.” He rubbed his hand absently with the other calloused one. “Whatever you need, sir, I am your man. This cannot be allowed. Not in England.”
“I thank you, Master,” said Crispin wearily. His blood had been hot in pursuit of the killer, but now he felt near to collapse. Cold.
A thump at the stairs made him turn his head. Alyson descended, looking back over her shoulder at the closed room she had just quitted. She ticked her head.
He stood and parted the company to go to her. “How is she? Can she speak?”
“No, alas. She has uttered nothing and does not look as if she will be able to for quite some time.”
“She is the only witness,” he rasped.
“There is nothing to be done,” she said quietly. She turned to the others gathered about them. “Bless me. Such tragedy to befall so temperate a company.”
“The tragedy is great,” said Crispin. “Before I relate the whole of it,” he said to the assembly, “pray tell me … where is Master Chaucer?”
They looked around helplessly.
Sir Philip Bonefey shrugged. “I have not seen him since supper.”
“Were all here for supper?” asked Crispin. An emptiness inside him reminded that he had missed supper, too.
“All but the nuns,” said the merchant. “Bless their souls,” he added, crossing himself. Everyone followed suit.
“Nor were Master Maufesour and Master Chaunticleer,” said Father Gelfridus with a little too much malice.
Chaunticleer the Pardoner squinted his pale eyes at the priest. “We are here now,” he said.
Maufesour, Chaunticleer’s stout companion, stroked his greasy beard. “What has that to do with aught?” he snapped. “We have our own business in town. It is not all saints’ relics for us.”
“Indeed, not,” said Bonefey. “It is your stealing the souls from poor folk who fear the Church’s wrath, foul Summoner,” he said, turning a beady eye on Maufesour, “and the galling fees to be paid to the Pardoner to get them out of Purgatory. You two should always travel together, like Disease and Death, the two partners of Fate.”
Maufesour pushed aside the Pardoner and strode up to the Franklin. “You’d best watch your tongue, Bonefey,” he shouted. “Or you might find
yourself
slain and not in a fine church, but a back alley as you deserve.” Maufesour’s tirade left spittle dotting the Franklin’s beard.
Bailey and the Miller grabbed Bonefey before he could draw his sword. They wrestled him to a bench. Maufesour huffed and strutted, smoothing out the breast of his gown. Crispin was behind him in an instant and pulled the man’s dagger from its sheath before the Summoner knew it happened. He whirled, but without a weapon there was little he could do but glare.
“Have a care,” said Crispin in a low voice. “Too much blood has already been spilt this night.”
Maufesour calmed, even as he looked at Bonefey, still chomping at the bit. “Very well,” he said. “I will if he will.”
Crispin turned to Bonefey. “Sir Philip, his threats are groundless, as you might have surmised were you to keep your blood cool. Do you acquiesce?”
Bonefey glanced up at the hearty Miller and the equally solid Harry Bailey flanking him and nodded. “I do.”
They released him, and he straightened his houppelande. Crispin approached Maufesour while examining the dagger. The blade was hatched with deep scratches and grooves radiating upward from the point. “Your blade, Master Maufesour, is in poor shape. It looks to me as if you recently tried to pry something open with it.”
Maufesour snatched it back and promptly sheathed it. “Those are old scratches.”
“Indeed not. The scratches go all the way to the edge of the blade. Were they old the whetstone would have erased them from the edges by now.”
Maufesour frowned and glared at the others. “And what if I had? It is of no business of yours.”
“We’ll see about that.” Crispin made a slow circuit of the room, studying the faces glaring back at him. “A heinous murder has been committed.” He wondered whether to continue but decided he’d like to see the reaction. “And further … there has been a theft in the cathedral.”
Gasps erupted. The pilgrims muttered to one another, and invariably, most eyes turned toward the Pardoner and the Summoner. It was not lost on the two. “This is unconscionable!” cried Chaunticleer. “It is plain they mean to accuse us. We are entirely innocent.”
“Not entirely, surely,” said Crispin.
Maufesour lunged forward, hands clenched. “This is an outrage!”
“No one is accusing you,” said Crispin mildly before baring his teeth. “Not yet.”
They stepped back and all eyes focused on Crispin. Jack stood guard by the door. He wore an anxious look and clutched the wrapped sword to his chest. Would any of them bolt? Crispin had little reason to suspect the pilgrims of these crimes, though they all seemed to be acting guilty enough. He slid a glance again toward Maufesour and Chaunticleer. Those two certainly seemed in league with each other. What a coup if they managed to snag one of the greatest relics of all. A pretty price it would bring from some lord. He wouldn’t mind seeing them hang for it.
“It’s my duty to inform you,” said Crispin to the assembly, “that no one is allowed to leave Canterbury.”
“What? That is quite impossible.” It was Father Gelfridus who spoke first, but Bonefey was on his tail.
“You cannot mean to keep us prisoner here,” said Bonefey.
“I do not call it ‘prisoner,’ Sir Philip,” said Crispin. “I simply state that you may not leave the city. Further, I advise that you stay close to the inn. I should not like to go searching for you. And lastly … you are not to mention the murder or the theft. At all.”
“By what authority do you dare this?” cried Bonefey.
Crispin sneered. He pushed Bonefey back until his legs hit a bench, and he sat hard. “I’m not telling you all twice. The archbishop so charged me. I don’t like it any better than you do. But if stay we must, then it is to your benefit to assist me in any way you can. The sooner these crimes are resolved the sooner you can leave.”
They fell silent, each looking at one another.
“Mistress Alyson,” said Crispin. She raised her head. “A word with you.”
She stepped from the crowd and came to him. He moved with her into a corner. She tilted her head back and rested her hand at her hip. “Bless me,” she said. “I’ve never been accused of murder and mayhem before. I assure you, I am just as appalled as the rest. More so, after tending to that poor, sweet nun.”
His jaw ached. “I have not called you aside to accuse you. There is another matter for which I think you are suited. I believe I read you well, madam, in assuming a little blood will not frighten you.”
She nodded solemnly. “You may assume I have a hearty constitution. Do you speak of the Prioress herself?”
He was grateful for her candor. “Yes. The monks are not suited to deal with a woman. The archbishop insists on an expeditious burial. Can I prevail upon you to … to prepare the Prioress?”
She nodded gravely. “I would be honored, sir.”
“Shall I call upon the assistance of the maids here?”
“They are a hardworking lot, but I do not think it prudent to involve them. I can manage without help, I think. I shall go to the cathedral with you.”
He nodded. “It is best it be handled there. The archbishop would prefer it.”
“Let me get my cloak.”
He turned to Tucker. “Keep watch. Harry Bailey can be relied upon to keep our charges here tonight. But I want you to inform me when Chaucer returns.”
Cloaked with her hood raised, Alyson awaited Crispin by the door. In the still of the night, they walked toward the looming cathedral.
5
CRISPIN AND ALYSON ARRIVED
at the cathedral’s doors where two monks stood at the entrance, their faces shadowed by cowls. Crispin nodded and they let him pass.
He and Alyson walked up the long north aisle to the Saint Benet chapel and turned the corner. Two monks bent to pick up the body. Crispin felt Alyson stiffen with a gasp, and he placed his hand on her arm. She looked up at him and nodded. “I am well.”
“Wait,” said Crispin. The monks holding the Prioress’s shoulders stopped and stared at him. Crispin inspected the scene, trying to etch it into his mind one last time. Many footprints had smeared the spattered blood, but he could still see the initial puddle under the Prioress. A rag and a bucket would soon clear all traces of a life snuffed out.
Someone had thought to bring a bier. “Good Brothers,” said Crispin, “can we take her to the infirmary?”
“We must go to the cellar,” said one of the hooded men. He eyed Alyson. “The fastest way is through the cloister, but—”
“The archbishop has given me the authority to go where I please, Brother,” said Crispin. “As for Mistress de Guernsey, she is my agent and must accompany me. I know it is usually not permitted for laymen, especially women, to enter the cloister, but in this instance we may all go with impunity.”
They seemed less than satisfied with Crispin’s pronouncement but could not argue with him. They lifted the Prioress’s sheet-clad form, and carried her out the cloister door and down the dark walk.
They made a turn and entered the cellar. The cold air smelled of must. The monks placed the bier on a long table and stepped back. One said to Alyson, “We will bring you sponges and basins of water. We have rose water, if that will do. Also a shroud.”
“That would content me, Brothers,” she said with a bow of her head.
She waited stone-faced for the monks to return and placed the basin and sponges beside the body. The monks bowed and quickly left. Alyson removed her cloak, rolled up her sleeves, and looked over her shoulder. She tucked her linen veil behind her ears. “Are you staying?” she asked.
“No. But”—he rubbed his chin—“I need to see the wounds. When you are done, if you will … will turn her over—”
She nodded. “Wait outside and I will call you.”
Crispin paced outside the cellar. Without wishing to, his ears picked up the sounds of Alyson’s work; the thump of the body as clothing was removed; a rag being rung into a basin. He imagined the water blooming with swirls of red. There were long moments of near silence before Alyson sighed and muttered a prayer.
Surely the dawn would soon break and he could view the murder scene in lighter surroundings. Leaving the sounds of Alyson’s preparations behind, he followed the cloister walk and slipped into the church, adjusting his eyes to the dark. Ahead of him lay Saint Benet’s chapel. Already monks were scrubbing away all traces of blood and death. They turned to look at him but did not stop in their task. He walked past them to the north aisle and sidestepped the scaffolds. Again, the silence struck him. Except for his boots striding up the aisle and the swish of the monks with their rags, there was not a sound. He climbed the steps to the Chapel of Saint Thomas and headed straight for Saint Thomas’s shrine. The canopy was replaced, and for all the public knew, Becket’s bones were still within. Crispin took a candle from one of the four candlesticks surrounding the shrine and walked around the stone plinth, looking carefully along the edges. He hadn’t the slightest idea what he might be looking for, but he hoped some clue to the scoundrel’s identity might turn up.
The candle glow swept over the floor several times before it caught a faint highlight between Becket’s shrine and Edward’s tomb. Crispin bent to look. At first, it had no significance for him. Just a tiny bit of stone wedged into a crevice between the stone tiles. Probably kicked up from all the work of the stone masons. But when Crispin picked it up, he knew instantly that it wasn’t a piece of stone at all.
With a rush of excitement, he examined the tiny triangular object lying in his palm. The candlelight gave it shadows, depth, texture, though it was white and bleached. He turned it. No doubt about it. A finger bone. The tip. “Saint Thomas,” he whispered.
Crispin had viewed many saint’s relics in his day. They had all been ensconced in great shrines such as Saint Thomas’s, sometimes touched, sometimes only seen through cloudy glass.
But to hold Saint Thomas, to touch the past, nearly took his breath away. Crispin stared down at the small bone in his palm for a long time and then finally raised his head and looked around somewhat sheepishly. Gawking like a schoolboy! He shook his head at himself and carefully placed the bone in his money pouch, sorry he did not have a cloth in which to wrap it.
He continued his search along the floor for more remains. Before he had been struck, he remembered hearing a door bang, but the nature of the cathedral made the placement of sounds nearly impossible to fathom. Where was the nearest door?
The transept doors were far away. The closest to the shrine was behind him: the stairs to the roof of the Corona tower. Crispin hurried to the door and pulled. Locked. But it might not have been locked before. After all, the killer certainly had his own set of keys. Perhaps the murderer waited behind the door for the church to empty before he slipped from his lair to dispatch the Prioress and plunder the bones. But he hadn’t counted on Crispin being there. Had the killer crept past him while he slept? Could the killer have counted on Crispin’s sleeping? Or was he prepared to dispatch Crispin as well?
But if so, why am I still alive?