The Deepest Grave

by Jeri Westerson

  Jack’s mouth hung open. Crispin hid his smile of amusement in his cup.

  ‘He thinks they’re bloodsuckers, for he found one with blood upon his face cloth.’

  Jack snapped to his feet and looked desperately at a suddenly stilled Isabel. ‘Master, we can’t go on such an unholy vigil.’

  ‘And why not? The man paid me, after all.’

  ‘But Master Crispin, it isn’t anything a Christian should be doing after hours. It isn’t right, sir.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool, Jack. I don’t believe any of it for one moment.’

  ‘Oh.’ He sank down to his chair again.

  ‘But there is clearly something going on that vexes this priest, and so we must investigate. It’s near sunset now. We’ll be leaving presently. That will allow us to enjoy a bit more wine and digest our meal.’

  Jack rubbed his belly. ‘I feel all queer inside now.’

  ‘It isn’t you with child, after all,’ he said with a chuckle.

  Isabel rose and stacked the wooden bowls on the serving tray. She seemed to have shaken off her initial misgivings, and elbowed Jack. ‘You do as Master Crispin says. He’ll not let you fall into harm’s way.’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Crispin cheerfully, tilting his chair on its back legs and sipping more wine. ‘I find the whole thing amusing and invigorating. What could it possibly be that has vexed this man so? I tell you, I cannot get it out of my head.’

  ‘Me neither,’ said Jack sullenly.

  Crispin finished his wine slowly, watching Jack fidget and Isabel clean the bowls and plate. She dried it all with a towel and all was swiftly back in order. She threw more peat on the fire and sat in her chair before it, picking up her sewing again. He noticed she was repairing one of his stockings. Her needlework wasn’t as fine as some he had seen, but it was serviceable, and that was all he could expect these days.

  ‘Are you ready, Jack?’ he asked after a time.

  Startled, Jack looked up. Eyes wide, he nodded. Crispin went to the door and donned his shoulder cape and hood. As he buttoned the mantle, he turned. ‘Well?’

  The boy dragged himself to his feet and shuffled toward the door and his own cloak and hood. ‘If we don’t return, Isabel,’ he said solemnly, ‘go on to your uncle.’

  Rolling his eyes, Crispin spun him toward the door. He looked back at Isabel in the firelight. Her face was drawn and seemed thin in the shadows cast over her features. He smiled to reassure. ‘He’s being overdramatic. We’ll return well after midnight. Don’t wait up.’

  He saw the cast of relief in her eyes before he closed the door and slapped Jack’s ear. ‘Are you a fool? Why would you worry her so?’

  ‘Master, we’re off to see corpses walking abroad.’

  ‘I told you that it was foolishness. Now come along.’

  The Tower of London was at the other end of the city and it would take a while to get there, particularly since they had to skirt the Watch. Only thieves were abroad at night, and Crispin never needed an excuse to get himself involved with the sheriffs.

  He jabbed Jack with his elbow. ‘Stay alert for the Watch,’ he admonished.

  Jack straightened and pulled his hood up over his head. The boy was tall, as tall if not a bit taller than Crispin, and huskier than he’d ever been. In fact, with Jack at his side these days, Crispin felt more at ease than he had in many years. Jack Tucker was a skilled fighter and strong enough where it mattered. The two of them were a formidable pair and, what’s more, all of London knew it. Crispin smiled. He didn’t truly fear the Watch, for it was more than likely that the Watch was skirting them.

  He was able to enjoy the night, the stars peeking in and out of the cloud cover, wisping across the night sky between the tall buildings. The glittering stars marched ahead of them on a cloudy trail. The shops and houses were blue in the falling light. Only the wealthier houses had gleaming candles shining through glass windows. The rest were barred with shutters, with only a stripe or two of light. London was inside, sharing the hearth with family and servant. As he should have been doing. But, alas. A man had to make a living.

  They made it up to Aldgate and cut over to a narrow lane. St Modwen’s was a stubby church with a single tower and arched entry. She was an old church of mossy stone, nearly by itself. Worn paths through the surrounding fields shone like white veins when the moonlight showed itself between the clouds. These were old, meandering paths from the dwindling houses at the outskirts of London that led directly to the parish church. And, all around it, sparse woodland. Though a lonely parish, as with all of God’s houses, there was comfort there within the stone. It shone with a single lantern within – the sanctuary lamp – through its tall, dark windows.

  They walked up the few steps to the door and Crispin pushed them open. They yawned wide, their hinges expressing a laconic whine. The church was no warmer in its nave than it was outside in the night, but they followed the lantern light up the tiled path to the rood screen, its carvings creating a welcoming gate. They passed under the arch and nearly up to the altar, where a figure knelt before it, praying. He must have heard their steps and finally turned. The fear in his eyes was even greater now than before. Crispin rested his hand on his sword hilt.

  ‘You came.’ Father Bulthius seemed surprised at such a boon and rose, wringing his hands.

  ‘Of course I came. And I brought my apprentice, Jack Tucker.’

  Jack bowed. ‘Father.’

  ‘You are most welcome, young man.’ He glanced back toward the crucifix and crossed himself. ‘Shall we go to this dread deed?’ He handed Jack a glass vessel. ‘Here is holy water.’ He clutched a silver crucifix which he showed to Crispin. ‘Now we are prepared.’

  Jack clasped the holy water as if his life depended on it.

  The priest led the way to a side door which opened out to the churchyard.

  The moonlight painted the trees and gravestones with silver-blue. But the shadows it cast churned even Crispin’s imagination. The gnarled shapes of trees that stretched to horrific heights wove a tapestry of disquiet all around them. A rustling in the underbrush didn’t help. He knew it was mice or other night creatures, but the circumstances suddenly made much of nothing. Something winged overhead, and Jack ducked, releasing a squeaked curse. He apologized to the priest for it, but Bulthius didn’t seem to notice. He held his lantern aloft. It shook and rattled from the trembling of his hand.

  Crispin cast about, narrowing his eyes into the darkness around them. A mist was rising, making distances foggy and shadows all that much more filled with omens. He found himself clutching his dagger hilt and, feeling foolish, released it, opening and closing his tensed hand.

  The air smelled damp and earthy. Ears sharp, eyes searching, Crispin moved purposefully behind the priest, waiting. Perhaps that was the worst of it. The waiting. Was anything truly going to happen?

  Abruptly, the priest stopped. He raised his arm and pointed. ‘Look!’ he rasped.

  Crispin turned toward the direction of his pointing hand but saw nothing. Until there was movement in the distant mist. A sluggish figure with a heavy burden.

  Jack gasped and took a step back, crossing himself vigorously, holy water pressed tight to his breast.

  Crispin slowly drew his sword. ‘What manner of sorcery is this?’

  A man was walking toward the field, dragging each step; on his back, a large object. Was it a coffin? Crispin wasn’t certain at that distance, but he wasn’t about to stand around wondering.

  He stepped around the priest but Father Bulthius grabbed him and held him back. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m going to see what it is.’

  ‘I know what it is, Master Guest. It is the walking dead.’

  Crispin gripped the sword tighter. ‘And so we shall see.’

  ‘Master, don’t go.’

  You too, Jack? He gave his apprentice a disgusted sneer. ‘If you’re afraid, stay back.’

  That prodded him. Jack visibly swallowed, screwed
up his courage, and drew his knife. He pulled off the cork from the vessel with his teeth, and brandished the holy water with his other hand. They set off together, and perhaps not willing to be left behind, Bulthius trotted after them. Suddenly, the lantern winked out as the priest tripped and clattered to the ground.

  The moonlight hid behind a crest of clouds, and the apparition vanished into the darkness. ‘God’s blood!’ Crispin swore. ‘Did you see in which direction it went?’

  ‘No, master. It just disappeared into the night.’

  ‘Forgive me, Master Guest.’ Bulthius brushed himself off and grabbed the lantern. The metal was battered and the candle within bent. ‘We’ll need a new flame.’ He trudged back toward the church, skirting around a crooked headstone when he suddenly stopped. ‘Bless me. Almighty Father, save us.’

  Crispin came around the stone and saw the empty grave. It looked as if it was dug that day, the piles of dirt on either side of it. And, on closer examination, something heavy had been dragged out of it, collapsing the side of the perfectly rectangular hole. Something heavy … like a coffin.

  ‘This proves nothing.’ He sputtered when he was hit in the face with something wet. Scowling, he glared at Tucker.

  ‘Sorry, master. I was just sprinkling the grave.’ He held up the vessel of holy water.

  ‘This was a funeral today?’ he asked the priest.

  Bulthius slowly shook his head. ‘No, good master. At least a sennight ago.’

  Crispin glared at the empty grave, almost blaming it for its empty state. He pressed a fist to his hip. ‘Was it a wealthy man?’

  ‘Yes. He left a large sum to our chantry.’

  ‘Then that is your answer. A grave robbery.’

  ‘But … the whole grave? Why would anyone wish to steal everything, coffin and all?’

  That was unusual, and Crispin bit his lip, pondering. Usually the grave was opened and the body only disturbed enough to steal jewelry and weaponry. Certainly no one desired the body. Unless there was some sort of evil witchery involved.

  He glanced back at the last place he saw the trudging figure. ‘Jack, stay here.’

  ‘Not on your life, sir.’

  Crispin hurried toward the mist. He felt better with a blade in his hand and Jack beside him. He kept his ears open and eyes sharp, scanning the churning fog. His head turned this way and that, listening, fooling himself with suddenly looming shadows of trees and rocks. He gestured to Jack to stop and they both listened.

  Was that the slow progress of a tread?

  Listening hard offered nothing more.

  The moon slid out from the clouds long enough for Crispin to look around, finally seeing the outline of trees, a stone wall, a headstone … but no figure. He crouched down to examine the mud. ‘Jack,’ he whispered. ‘Look here.’

  Jack got in close beside him, and with the moon shining over their shoulders, Crispin pointed out the footsteps in the mud … and something heavy being dragged behind it.

  ‘God have mercy,’ Jack gasped.

  THREE

  The priest offered Crispin warmed wine as the three of them sat before the small hearth in his rectory.

  ‘You are convinced now, are you not, Master Guest?’

  Crispin mumbled to himself and sipped the hot wine. He stared into the flames, trying to reckon just what it was he saw. ‘I believe there is something, good Father. And we must continue to investigate. What happens in the morning when you go out to the churchyard?’

  ‘The graves are returned to the way they were. With dirt cast back over the hole.’

  ‘Then how do you know of the instance of the blood on the face cloth?’

  ‘I had my gravediggers uncover it, Master Guest. I had to know if they had returned … and that was when I saw it.’

  ‘It’s ghastly,’ murmured Jack.

  ‘Perhaps we should sit outside the grave. See when this apparition returns.’

  ‘Oh no, Master Crispin!’ shrieked Jack. ‘We mustn’t, sir!’

  ‘There are only so many ways to solve this mystery, Jack.’

  Jack downed his wine and clutched the empty cup in whitening fingers. ‘Maybe there are some mysteries Man was not meant to know.’

  Crispin rose. ‘Not this man.’ He crossed to the door and paused. ‘You coming?’

  He could almost feel Jack’s trepidation sweep over him, but the boy rose, dusted himself off carefully as if girding himself, and followed Crispin through the door.

  The cold was a slap in the face as he ventured once again into the night. ‘Where was that grave?’ he muttered.

  Jack pointed. His hand trembled but he stood by his master, hand on his dagger hilt. And when Crispin strode forth through the mist to where the open grave had been, he made sure to keep Jack on his left so he could pull his sword if need be.

  They rounded the corner of the church and stopped. The grave was covered. The dark earth sheltered it loosely, hastily, as if the corpse could not wait to be home again.

  Crispin knelt and ran his fingers over the scuff marks of something large and heavy, saw footprints … and snatched his hand away.

  Slowly he rose. The priest stood behind him, holding a rosary to his lips. ‘Father Bulthius. I will solve this puzzle. But it looks like that will not be tonight.’

  He and Jack strode through a darkened London, saying nothing. Crispin stole glances at the boy and finally asked, ‘What did you think of that, Jack?’

  ‘I could barely stop m’self from pissing me braies.’

  ‘Besides that.’

  Jack screwed up his mouth, beard twitching. ‘You’re trying to say it isn’t what we thought it was. But master, what the hell else could it be?’

  Crispin passed a hand over the cold skin of his face. ‘I don’t know … but it was damned queer.’

  ‘Aye, that it was.’

  ‘There is no choice. We shall have to return tomorrow night.’

  The boy shook his head. ‘Ah, it’s a sore thing indeed when a man must do so unholy a task to earn food for his wife and child.’

  ‘It is indeed. May I remind you that you chose this life? I tried to discourage you.’

  ‘I remember it, master. It is at times like these that I remember it very well.’

  They reached their lodgings before midnight. Isabel had fallen asleep before the hearth in the hall, and Jack, with gentle cooing sounds, urged her to her feet and helped her up the stairs. Crispin followed, and Jack turned to him as he opened his own chamber door. ‘I’ll be in anon to help you undress, sir.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool. I don’t need your help. See to your wife, man.’

  Jack gave him a grateful smile and disappeared behind his door. The soft sounds of Jack helping her to bed gave Crispin that pang again; the pang of a thousand regrets fluttering against his heart like a butterfly’s wings. He turned away, entered his solitary room and closed the door.

  The hearth had not gone completely cold. There were still embers glowing beneath the ash, and he grabbed his iron and stirred it up, tossing bits of peat and sticks upon it. But even as the room warmed, and he drew off his cote-hardie and laid it carefully over his coffer, he knew he was too tired to sleep. He fell into his chair and settled before the fire, a mangy fur – that Jack had managed to bargain God-knows-what for – thrown over his legs.

  Staring into the flames, he ruminated on the couple in the room across from his. He imagined Jack pulling her close, covering her with a warm blanket, petting her unbound hair; she would snuggle against his chest, her nose perhaps dug into the underside of his blazing ginger beard. They were content with one another. Jack had been smitten at the first. And soon they’d have a child.

  And who was Crispin but the lonely middle-aged man who lived with them, who sometimes grumbled and groused and even raved when he had too much drink in him. What would this child see when they beheld him? Who would they think he was?

  He couldn’t help himself. He leaned back and stretched to retrieve the strange mini
ature portrait that he kept under the mattress. It was clearly torn from a breviary. An indulgent husband had hired some monk to pen the prayer book and paint the likeness of his wife within, perhaps as a saint or even the Holy Virgin. It was just her face and shoulders, much less than the size of half his palm width. And then torn from the prayers, it was hastily pasted into a small gold-leafed frame for the secret enjoyment of her long-dead husband.

  Philippa Walcote. She had been married to the rich mercer … or so she thought. No one knew who he was, for he masqueraded as Nicholas Walcote, the famed but reclusive trader in cloth. And it wasn’t until the imposter had been murdered and Nicholas’s brothers came to claim the body that he was discovered. Many declared it had been she that had done the deed and, truly, there had been many secrets. Crispin had uncovered each one, peeling them back like the skin of an onion. He’d saved her from the gallows but, in the end, just like an onion, it had produced its share of tears.

  He stared at the portrait of Philippa. Hair of brassy gold, a dimpled smile, and that heavy-lidded gaze that had always intrigued. Why had he kept the damned thing? It only caused him misery. But every time he tried to throw it into the fire, the thought of its loss ached his heart that much more.

  He clutched it in his fingers till they hurt. He could have had her. He could have had a child and more with her, but his stubborn pride had not allowed it. What was it about him that foiled every chance at happiness over and over again? Was it his curse, his penance for dashing his greatest honor against the rocks, forswearing his oaths to the old king? Had his treason been the cause of his damnation?

  Almost, almost he tossed the portrait to the flames, but once again he couldn’t. And again, he leaned over and stuffed it beneath the mattress once more.

  He awoke stiff and cold. Naturally. What can one expect when one sleeps all night in a straight-backed chair?

  He didn’t so much as rise from the chair as climb out of it, cracking and stretching his back, his muscles, and rolling his stiff shoulders.