The Deepest Grave

by Jeri Westerson

‘Then what other reason would she have to sneak away?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s always a man, isn’t it? I wish I had a man to sneak off to.’ She eyed Jack suddenly. Jack straightened and fidgeted with his knife sheath.

  Crispin made an incremental step in front of him. ‘Does she have family in London?’

  Clarice shook her head. ‘None left. She’s been in service here almost as long as I have. Since we were children.’

  ‘If you see her, tell her that she must come to me. I’m on the Shambles—’

  ‘At an old poulterer’s,’ she said sullenly. ‘Everyone knows that.’

  She nodded and curtseyed, and hurried away under the stern eye of Hull. He gave Crispin a dismissive turn of his shoulder, before Crispin decided that they’d best leave as soon as possible.

  They waited outside for the abbot, and he shuffled hastily across the courtyard toward them. ‘This is all very strange,’ he said, pulling his cowl up over his head. ‘I have seen many household shrines but this one … struck me as odd.’

  ‘In what way?’ said Crispin, leading the way beyond the mercer’s gate. He couldn’t help but glance toward the Walcote house. His stomach was growling and he wanted to return home to the supper that Isabel had laid out.

  ‘The people usually have great reverence for such a thing. It is a very great gift to have a saint’s relic in one’s house.’ He wagged a finger at Crispin. ‘As much as you might despise the very thought.’

  ‘I have never used such a harsh term, Abbot William.’

  ‘Well … the sentiment is certainly there. Never mind. What I wish to say is that it was not the occasion it was meant to be. Such an object and it was lost and suddenly returned. One would think there would be much rejoicing. But that was simply not the case. Oh, the mistress of the house was much overjoyed at its return, but the others … It seemed more that it was taking up their time.’

  ‘A servant’s lot,’ said Jack, speaking carefully. ‘We don’t always have the time to take, Lord Abbot. When something must be prepared or done as the master wished it, he don’t want to hear any excuses.’

  The abbot patted Jack’s arm as they turned the corner at the Shambles. ‘I quite understand, Master Tucker. Yet even servants are glad at the presence of one of the Lord’s favored. These were not. Ah, it is just a feeling. A small observation.’

  ‘Perhaps an important one,’ said Crispin. ‘I will think on it.’

  They arrived at the poulterer’s and greeted Isabel, who had kept warming cloths over the dishes.

  Later, they left the warm and homey companionship of Crispin’s household for the little church in All Hallows. Crispin was quiet and thoughtful as they walked, gravel crunching under his boots. Even as he lifted his face to the twilit sky, inhaled the fresh breeze that blew through London’s streets and bore away the smells of the Shambles, he pondered. Two murders occupied his thoughts. The one certainly had nothing to do with the other. Yet for the one, there was a time limit, for he was worried about Christopher. He had confessed to murder, and that was something not easily forgotten. The judges would not forget it; neither would any jury, who were likely already deciding even before the trial. Would he lose his son having only just found him?

  He glanced toward Abbot William. Should he tell the abbot about these tidings? It wouldn’t likely help, and it would change nothing. For Clarence Walcote acknowledged the boy as his own, and that was the best course, the only course. There were always bastards being born to nobility. It wasn’t an uncommon thing. Lancaster had them. His longtime mistress Katherine Swynford bore the duke’s bastards, but she was widowed when they were born. He could acknowledge them and they lived well because of it. But this was a merchant’s son, a London alderman. What could Crispin offer? Only shame to the boy and his mother. The lad might even be disinherited. It wasn’t worth the cost. And the boy wouldn’t thank him.

  No. It was better he kept silent. Jack knew. Isabel knew only because Jack was keen not to keep such secrets from his wife, but he didn’t fear they would say anything. It was only his own vanity that made him want to speak of it, to show the world he could father a son.

  Yet every dog could do as much.

  And as far as Philippa was concerned, he dared not be in the same room with her, for he burned, and so did she. Any further congress would lead to sin and they both vowed not to indulge. For the first time in his life, he questioned the need to satisfy his honor.

  He’d burn that little portrait of her he coveted. It had been foolish to keep it this long. Now it was dangerous to have it in his possession.

  ‘Sir?’

  He suddenly realized Jack had been speaking to him. ‘What was that, Jack?’

  ‘I said what are we to do when we reach the church?’

  ‘Same as before. We shall find a place to hide and watch his grave. And we’d best keep an eye on Horne’s grave as well.’

  ‘But what of the holy water? The bishop locked the church door, said it was unconsecrated.’

  ‘Holy water is holy water, Jack. Er … is that not so, Abbot William?’

  ‘Holy water is a sacramental and remains forever in that state. Its blessing cannot “expire”. Just as a rosary remains a sacred object, as well as a … reliquary.’

  ‘And yet a church can expire,’ said Jack bitterly. Crispin smiled indulgently at his apprentice. Even after all he had seen, all he had experienced in his life, Jack was a staunchly devout man. Jack was not tainted by his thieving past, nor by his brief time in a brothel as a child. Crispin knew that while he languished in Purgatory with all his sins, he’d have to wait till Jack came along to get him out.

  ‘It is a loathly thing,’ said the abbot, shaking his head, not for the first time today. ‘All those souls awaiting resurrection in what was once sacred ground … It is just as bad a crime as murder, for their souls seem to have been murdered as well. And for what? So the church can sell the land for profit? For what shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul?’

  ‘But what can one do, my lord?’ said Crispin. ‘I have a feeling there is no arguing with the bishop if he is determined.’

  ‘Oh, determined he is. I have dealt with his like all the years of my adult life while serving God. I have conversed with cardinals of a like mind, with clerics from Rome to the edge of civilization. When men reach a certain rank …’ He stopped himself and suddenly stared at Crispin. ‘Well … you well know it, don’t you, Master Guest? Sometimes to be so high is to forget where you came from, and its purpose. You yourself forswore your oaths to commit treason—’

  ‘It was no light decision, my lord, I assure you,’ he rasped. ‘I knew well what I was doing, and considered the very matter you assume I had forgotten. For I was only thinking of my tenants, my fellow citizens of London, of all England. It was not for me and my vanity, though well you may think it. If you must constantly throw it in my face, at least know the truth of it.’

  Breathing hard, he scowled at the abbot a long time before he swung his face away. Damn Abbot William for incessantly bringing it up, and damn Crispin himself for ever contemplating treason in the first place.

  ‘I see I have been too flippant and too quick to judge,’ said the abbot calmly, though there was an edge to his voice this time. ‘I had always assumed that to put Lancaster on the throne would be advantageous to you. And so it would have been. But perhaps I have mistaken your motives. And I am sorry if I have done so.’

  Crispin grunted his reply.

  ‘And I also see how you have taken your disgrace to heart, for indeed, you could very well have left London, left England itself for its enemies abroad, and in your thirst for vengeance, fought against your homeland. But you did none of those things, and I must conclude that your motives were as you say they were. I myself cannot fathom doing as you did … but then again, I have not put myself in your shoes as our Lord urged us to do, and for that, I do heartily beg your mercy.’

  Nodding, Crispin gl
anced his way. ‘Even a confessor cannot know entirely what is in a man’s heart. If you wondered if I do penance, I do it every day just by being alive … in London.’

  ‘I shall never underestimate you again.’

  Softening, Crispin offered him a smile. ‘Only at your peril, my lord. Especially at the chessboard.’

  The abbot’s face, so solemn in his confession, brightened marginally. He nodded, and turned toward the road again. There was just one curve before they spied the darkened church. Even the sanctuary lamp was now dark.

  Except there was a light within. And it was moving.

  FOURTEEN

  Crispin motioned for the others to halt. He gestured to Jack and each took an opposite direction to surround the church. Crispin crept in from the north door, expecting it to be locked, but it opened silently. He drew his dagger.

  The church was nearly pitch-dark and, cocking his head, he listened. Whatever light he had initially seen had been snuffed out. He could still smell the smoke.

  He stepped carefully into the nave. His boots scraped against the stone and he cursed himself in his head for making the noise. Stopping again, he listened.

  A shadow passed over him. He turned. Something made him raise an arm in defense and whatever it was that was poised to strike him in the back of the head glanced off his temple instead. It still took him down to a knee, and there was a scramble, and a door flung wide. He caught a hazy glimpse of a figure in the doorway before it disappeared and then there were hands on him. He struggled for only a moment before a familiar voice at his ear said, ‘Hold, master, it’s only me!’

  Crispin fell limp in his arms, closing his eyes to the double vision, swallowing down the bile.

  ‘Did you see who hit you, sir?’

  ‘No. But I doubt very much that it was a revenant.’

  ‘Well, you never know.’

  Footsteps, and they both turned.

  Abbot William’s white face in its hood stared at them. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Master Crispin’s been struck on the head.’

  ‘Good God. Are you all right?’

  ‘Getting better,’ he said, his stomach still woozy. He rubbed at his temple, felt a lump, and cursed under his breath.

  ‘Can you rise, sir?’

  ‘I had better try.’ Leaning on Jack, he got unsteadily to his feet and looked around the dark church, but he could see nothing but shadowy arches and black windows. ‘You saw nothing, Jack?’

  ‘I wish that I had, but I regret to say that I did not.’

  ‘And you, Abbot William?’

  ‘No. Nothing.’

  ‘They obviously left the church once they struck me. It’s possible they doubled around the other side.’ Jack started to move but Crispin held him back. ‘There’s no point now.’

  ‘I’m going to look for footprints, master.’

  ‘You won’t find any. It’s been dry, and the bishop and his retinue have been all over the place … taking inventory, no doubt.’ He glanced toward the altar when he said it and noticed that there were no candlesticks there at all. ‘My Lord Abbot, did the bishop’s men, by any chance, take away that inventory?’

  ‘No, Crispin. That was for another day.’

  ‘Then our burglar was here again.’ He pointed and they both looked.

  ‘Blind me! Oh … sorry, my lord.’

  ‘Not a bit of it, Jack. Would that I could swear an oath or two.’

  Jack heaved a sigh. ‘Well … are we to stay, Master Crispin? Have we scared off the ghosts and resurrected?’

  ‘As long as we’re here, we might as well stay. Let us find a quiet spot to watch the graves of Father Bulthius and John Horne.’

  He winced as he walked toward the open door, rubbing his head as he went. ‘I wonder what it was they hit me with.’

  Jack closed the door after them. ‘Probably a stolen candlestick.’

  Crispin nodded. ‘You’re probably right.’ He scanned the now dark and lonely churchyard. There the cottage of the gravediggers, with a small candle flame in the open window. And there the edge of the low wall, beyond which the meadow lay. Looking in the other direction was London, whose cressets and candles shone in the night, with sluggish smoke from chimneys rambling over rooftops like so many sleepy sheep.

  ‘Let us investigate the graves of our most recently interred.’

  They went first to John Horne’s grave where it appeared to be undisturbed, stone slab and all. They tromped over the softened earth toward Father Bulthius’s grave, where the earth was mounded over his casket.

  Crispin stood over it for a moment, staring at it, daring it to heave open. ‘Forgive me, good priest, for not being able to stop this and for not being vigilant enough to prevent your untimely death.’

  ‘It’s not your fault, sir, that he got himself beheaded.’

  ‘I wonder.’

  ‘It was the revenants,’ muttered Abbot William.

  Crispin huffed. ‘I have my doubts about that, my lord.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Remember that his throat was cut … before it was hidden by his decapitation. Someone wanted us to believe it was these doings in the churchyard that killed him.’

  ‘So are these bodies going about walking out of their graves or not, Master Crispin?’

  ‘What do you think, Jack?’

  He rubbed his hand over his head, ruffling the wild ginger curls. He studied his master, amber eyes roving over the neutral face Crispin presented. ‘I thought it was the dead rising and causing mischief … but I see that this is not what you believe at all, is it?’

  Crispin said nothing, but he couldn’t help one brow from rising.

  ‘Blind me,’ he muttered, now moving his hand over his beard. ‘You take everything I’ve ever believed and turn it upside down. Very well. Let us use logic.’

  Crispin snatched a glance at Abbot William, who was now smiling with folded arms and an enquiring expression.

  ‘If it is not the dead rising, then it is someone or many someones trying to make it look so. And if that were the case – and I’m not saying it is for certain – then these horrible someones are doing it for a purpose. But, master, what could that purpose possibly be? Murder?’

  ‘Well, they’ve accomplished that. But I can’t believe that was the final desired outcome of it.’

  ‘No, that wouldn’t make sense. But … it is a distraction.’

  ‘Quite. Now you’re using your logic, Tucker.’

  ‘Aye, but a distraction from what?’

  ‘From the thievery going on in the church?’

  Jack snapped his fingers. ‘And that’s why they killed Father Bulthius.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Abbot William, frowning. ‘Do you mean to say that the dead are not walking?’

  ‘You needn’t look so disappointed, my lord.’

  ‘I am nothing of the kind, Crispin. How indelicate of you to suggest it.’

  ‘Of course, my lord.’

  ‘It is just that … well. To witness a supernatural event—’

  ‘But surely the Devil having his say. Would you not rather witness one of God’s miracles?’

  The abbot huffed and dug his hands into his sleeves.

  ‘There is the timely appearance – and disappearance – of the relic of St Modwen.’

  The abbot appeared cheered by that. Crispin was relieved the relic was out of his hands at last.

  ‘If the dead are not walking,’ said Jack in a shaky voice, ‘then what is that?’

  Crispin turned to where he was pointing. Out in the misty meadow, lights bobbed.

  ‘What is that?’ enquired the abbot. ‘Souls!’

  Crispin squinted, trying to ignore the flash of gooseflesh running up his arms. ‘I don’t know. Let us find out.’

  He bolted for the meadow. Behind him, he heard Jack swear and then the sound of his footfalls as he belatedly tried to catch up. The faint steps after him must have been Abbot William.

  The glowing lights seem
ed to have a mind of their own; bobbing, weaving, floating just above the tall grasses, like lost souls wandering the countryside. Revenants? Was Crispin wrong? Were they souls wandering free, looking to suck the blood of the innocent?

  With renewed courage, he surged forward into the meadow. The grass tugged at his stockings, and the hem of his cloak snagged on brambles, but he pushed through. But no matter how far into the meadow he went, the lights seemed just as far away … until they suddenly winked out.

  He stopped, the abbot and Jack crashing through the brambles and may bushes behind him with their clumsy gaits.

  ‘Where’d they go?’ hissed Jack, coming to a stop beside Crispin.

  He scanned the dark meadow. ‘I can see nothing now.’

  ‘That was most extraordinary,’ huffed the abbot, clearly out of breath.

  ‘Was it the revenants?’ asked Jack. He straightened, seeming to gird himself. ‘Or … those that would make us think it was revenants?’

  Crispin looked back at the now distant church, a black silhouette against the still faded blue horizon. ‘Dammit!’ He hit the ground running again, back toward the church. He’d fallen for it. Even as he had explained to Jack, he’d still fallen for it.

  The church door lay wide open, but it was the door to the cottage near the church, the rectory where the priest had lived, that also stood open. He slammed into the rectory’s doorway, panting, scanning the room. Whatever goods had been in there were surely gone now. There had been plate, and some small table goods worth little, but those, too, were missing.

  ‘Dammit!’ He whirled on the sound behind him, but it was only Jack.

  ‘Sir? What’s wrong?’

  ‘While we idled in the meadow, following fairy lights, someone has robbed the priest of his household goods.’

  ‘The whoresons!’

  Abbot William huffed and puffed as he arrived, then bent over his thighs, wheezing. ‘Ho, Crispin! Let me catch my breath.’

  ‘There’s no need to hurry. The damage has been done.’

  ‘Damage? What damage?’

  Jack gestured toward the open door. ‘Thievery, my lord. We were lured away. Again.’

  ‘This is diabolical!’