Troubled Bones

by Jeri Westerson

  “Yes. And that was when you were fostered into Lancaster’s household, I believe.”

  “Yes, when I was seven. No mother and no father, save Gaunt.”

  “Your liege lord raised you well, making you a knight.”

  Crispin moved against the seat, trying to find a comfortable spot. “Lancaster is no longer my liege lord.” He wished he could leap to his feet and cast over the chair. Instead, he gripped the arm. “Situations change. Particularly of late.” I came all this way, dammit. Get to the point!

  “Lancaster has staunch views on religious matters. One might even say they lean toward heresy.”

  “My religious views do not necessarily mirror that of my former mentor.”

  “Well then. Can I assume that you are a friend of the Church?”

  The comfortable spot on the chair still eluded him. He edged forward. “I am neither friend nor foe of the Church.”

  “Am I mistaken about you, Master Guest? I heard from my brother monk, Abbot Nicholas of Westminster Abbey, of his high regard for you. Of deeds you have performed for the sake of Mother Church.”

  “He is a friend.”

  “And the relics?”

  He couldn’t help cringing. Did it always come to that? The chair proved too uncomfortable. He snapped to his feet, started to pace before the fire, and then thought better of it. He stood before it instead, keeping his back to the flames. “Simply because a holy relic falls into my hands—for whatever reason—does not mean I believe in its power.”

  Courtenay took a sip of wine, his gaze never leaving Crispin. “Then why do these relics come to you?”

  He threw up a hand. “I know not. Perhaps it is God’s plan. Or jest.”

  “I suppose a man like you can be trusted, if the Almighty finds you worthy.”

  “You can trust me. For a shilling you can buy all the trust you desire.”

  “For money? I don’t believe you.”

  Crispin set the goblet down hard, spilling some of the wine. “You know my history. I have learned that the only thing that can be trusted is gold.”

  “That is not a godly sentiment. Aren’t you a good Christian, Master Guest?”

  He raised his chin, staring up at the ribbed ceiling and decorative bosses. “I believe … in belief.”

  “Master Guest—”

  He squared on the archbishop. “Forgive me, Excellency. But these niceties get us nowhere. I have come a long way. What do you want with me?”

  Courtenay slowly nodded and set his wine aside. He stood. “You are a candid man, so I shall be forthright with you. The Lollard heretics have made threats against the martyr’s relics.”

  At last! Firm ground. “What kind of threats?”

  “Letters. Rumors. All indicate that they wish to do harm to Becket’s tomb and remains.”

  “May I see these letters?”

  “Alas. I destroyed them. There were only two, and I took them as nothing but the anonymous mischief of a disingenuous rabble. But then there were rumors and incidents. Broken locks and petty thievery. It was only then that I began to take these threats seriously. And as you know, I am no friend to the Lollards.”

  Crispin remembered. Ten years ago, Courtenay and Lancaster faced off like two cockerels in a barnyard fight. Crispin stood beside Lancaster as he was wont to do. Courtenay no doubt remembered Crispin from that occasion. Courtenay’s attempt to suppress the Lollards, and their attacks on papal authority and the doctrines of the Church, outright opposed Lancaster, who took it upon himself to support John Wycliffe, the Oxford theologian and the father of the reform movement, who was also the duke’s personal preacher.

  “Then you believe it is the Lollards who seek to despoil Becket’s tomb?”

  “Who else? They dare call the sacred shrine and others like it idolatrous.”

  “They may hate more the fees charged to the pilgrims.”

  Courtenay’s sharp glare replaced his earlier and more controlled demeanor. “It is just such talk, Master Guest, which produces violent rabbles. Do you suggest that the maintenance of such a holy place be solely on the poor church that is forced to house it?”

  “Forced, my lord? Many a monastery would happily go to war to own such a profitable venture.”

  Courtenay’s face reddened. “And you call yourself a son of the Church!”

  “Be at ease, my lord. I do not say I approve of such infighting. Can you tell me this does not occur within the Church?”

  Courtenay’s breathing evened, and he gripped the back of the chair. His rings sparkled in the tinted light of the flames and stained-glass windows. “You are right, of course. Such does occur, and it grieves me to see it.”

  Crispin sighed and took up his goblet again. “Tell me, then, how do you suggest I protect the bones.”

  “That, Master Guest, I leave to you.”

  “Then I propose that you post a guard on them day and night.”

  “Naturally. But the letters indicated that there would be an attempt made at the beginning of the season. Which is now upon us.”

  “And so?”

  “My hope, Master Guest, is that you would personally guard the tomb.”

  Crispin choked on the wine. “Me? Sleep alongside Saint Thomas?”

  “I trust you, Master Guest. This is my charge to you.”

  “My lord, I have no wish to play nursemaid to Becket’s bones for the rest of my days. I have lodgings in London. I have my life there.”

  “Certainly I did not expect that you would give up all to spend eternity by a tomb,” he said. Except that by his tone, Crispin thought that this was exactly what Courtenay expected. “But I wish it guarded, and I will pay you well.”

  “You have an entire community of faithful monks, my lord. Surely they can be expected to be obedient in this.” Courtenay was silent, and Crispin studied his tightening shoulders. The archbishop left the chair and strode across the room to stand below a large crucifix. He rested his hands behind his back and stared up at the corpus, its limbs carved with care, showing stretched sinews and even scars from flogging.

  “A monastery is a wonderful haven, Master Guest. I wonder if the layman can truly appreciate it.”

  “I have seen it carve great and holy men within its confines.”

  “As have I. But it can also cripple a weak man.”

  “Your Excellency?”

  “Master Guest, have you ever led an army?”

  Crispin’s nimble mind tried to keep up with the archbishop’s more agile one. “Not an entire army. A garrison.”

  “But you rely on the competence of your men to win the day.”

  “Naturally. And their loyalty.”

  “Their loyalty. Indeed. The battle cannot be won without it.”

  “My lord, I am at a loss as to your meaning.”

  He turned. His blue eyes were deep sapphires. “You asked about my monks.”

  “Yes. The monks of the priory. This is their church.” He sensed Courtenay’s hesitation. “They are faithful monks, my lord, are they not?”

  “They call you the Tracker.” Courtenay moved from the crucifix and returned to his table. He trailed his fingers along the documents piled there. He picked one up, glanced at it, and set it down again. “My treasurer and his assistant do much of the task of guarding the relics, but I must tell you an unpleasant truth.” His hand dropped away from the desk and fell against his robe. He raised those sapphire eyes to Crispin again. They burned with a cold fire. Crispin suddenly had a feeling of raw power emanating from those eyes, reflecting the true heart and soul of the man who owned them. “I believe one of my monks to be a Lollard heretic, Master Guest. I want you to root him out and bring him to me.”

  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 pr
ess 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 m
an 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.”