Troubled Bones

by Jeri Westerson

  “But you were standing right there. Did he try to … to…”

  “That’s right,” she said, her voice sinking into the blankets. “He did turn to me. He … said something, but I do not know what it was.”

  “Another language?”

  “Yes. Yes. Latin, I think.”

  “But you speak Latin—”

  “Only enough to understand the Divine Office. Nothing more. Yes. It must have been Latin.”

  “Do you know what it was?”

  “No,” she said vaguely. “Perhaps—” She screwed her face and stared at her rosary. “Fortis et Patientia?”

  Crispin stored this information for later and unwrapped only the pommel of the sword. He gingerly presented it to Dame Marguerite. “Do you recognize these arms?”

  The pommel with the red enamel and the bear head glinted in the candlelight. He expected that she might pull back in horror, but she barely glanced at the sword’s pommel and shook her head. “I never saw it before.”

  “Do you know any reason why someone would wish to harm the Prioress?” And not you were his unspoken thoughts.

  The door opened again and in bundled Alyson with a sleepy-eyed Gelfridus. Crispin threw the wrappings over the sword hilt again and rose. “Father Gelfridus is here. I will take my leave.”

  She reached out a white hand toward Crispin. The thin fingers stretched wide apart like twigs, the skin spreading taut over her hand. He was too far for her to reach but the gesture stopped him nonetheless. “You must do your best, Master Guest.”

  He stood stiffly a moment, merely staring at her outstretched hand. “I will.” He bowed.

  The wooden floor creaked under his heavy steps. He took Alyson aside while the priest bent over the girl in the bed.

  “So much sadness in so young a life,” she said, shaking her head again. Crispin warmed to her sincerity. “She told me of her life in the priory,” she said softly. “How her mother became with child and was forced into the life of a scullion.”

  He looked at her anew. “She said her mother was a servant. But it is unusual for the daughter of a servant to become a holy sister.”

  “Ah, but you see, her mother wasn’t always a servant.” Alyson sidled closer and settled in. “Now mind you, I do not believe I am taking liberties when I tell you, for she freely told me her tale in that flat, odd way she has.” Crispin nodded, reassuring her with his attentive expression. “Now then. She told me her mother got with child … with her … and was forced to find a place to call home. She said her mother was not of lowly origin and she spoke well, not like the other servants. She could read and write. The Prioress took pity on her and took her in. But because of her obvious sinful state she did not make life easy for Marguerite’s mother. She said she was beaten, and rightly so, to strike the Devil out of her. Imagine throwing away your birthright for a moment’s rutting. Foolish, foolish girl. Living like a bond slave in a nunnery, not even becoming a sister herself but a servant, and a scullion at that! I would have beaten her myself!”

  He couldn’t disagree. Though it was a harsh man indeed who would toss out his own daughter, even a wealthy man or lord, Crispin doubted he could have been as ruthless. Even so, a man’s honor was a precious thing. It would take a man of great integrity to persevere amid the whispers and rumors.

  But one’s own daughter …

  “And now this,” said Alyson. “So much sorrow. How will she endure it?”

  “Her faith will no doubt sustain her.”

  “Indeed. God’s great mercy will offer her sanctuary as He has done for so many.”

  He reached into his pouch and withdrew the many loose beads, cradling them in his hand. “I found these in the cathedral.”

  “I put the Prioress’s rosary into her closed hands myself. This must be Marguerite’s.” She cupped her hands to accept them. “I will string them for her.”

  Crispin nodded to her and left the room quietly amid the soft voices of priest and nun.

  Back in his room he tossed the sword on the cot and closed the door. The nun spoke of someone who perhaps wore a cassock, and this troubled him. He, too, saw a vague cloaked figure who struck at him, but it happened so quickly he couldn’t tell if it was a cassock or not. Could the archbishop be right about one of his monks? What was it that Brother Wilfrid wanted to say to him?

  He lay on the bed, still in his clothes, and closed his eyes. But Dame Marguerite’s words kept playing in his head. Fortis et Patientia: Strong and Enduring. The little scrap of red cloth. Becket’s finger bone. Sleep seemed a useless exercise.

  * * *

  CRISPIN GROANED, SNAPPED AWAKE, and sat up. He glared perplexedly at the open window and the sunlight splashing on the floor.

  Jack’s writing things were spread across the table. A broken quill and scraps of parchment made up his small retinue. There were no Latin texts to copy, only those parchments with Crispin’s careful penmanship to guide the boy in his practice. At least Jack had taken some time for his studies, though his haphazard script looked nothing like Crispin’s.

  The boy was no longer at the table but by the fire, singing a ribald tune he’d no doubt learned at the inn. He looked up from over the steaming pot on the hearth.

  Crispin eased his legs over the bed and scratched the sleep from his head.

  “I’ve made hot water for your shave, Master,” said Jack.

  Dressed, shaved, and reasonably clean, Crispin trod downstairs to the inn’s hall. The pilgrims were talking together, but when they noticed him they fell silent. He called for wine and food and sat on a bench by the fire, doing his best to take no notice of them. He drank his bowl slowly and ate his fill, perhaps not with relish, but with dignity.

  The Franklin’s shadow fell over him. “The great Tracker. Is that all you’re going to do? Just sit and eat while we are trapped in this accursed inn?”

  He glanced up at their faces. “Some of your fellow travelers do not feel, as you say, ‘trapped.’ They are not here, in fact. Where are Master Chaunticleer and Master Maufesour? Or Chaucer?” They looked at one another. Crispin shook his head. “Truly, Sir Philip, if my orders to remain at the inn cannot be obeyed, then there is little hope of my succeeding.”

  “So they are orders now?”

  The young merchant waved a shaky finger in the air. In a clear but broken voice, he said, “Master Guest made that very admonishment last night. I heard him quite d-distinctly.”

  Bonefey glared at the youth.

  Crispin smiled. “So says our merchant.”

  “Er … Thomas Clarke, master. Manciple.”

  “Ah. Forgive me. Why debate the point, Sir Philip?”

  “I am an important man,” said Bonefey, chest puffed. “I cannot wile away my time in Canterbury indefinitely. I want to know and I want to know now. Do you suspect us of these crimes?”

  Crispin dabbed at his lips with the linen tablecloth and brushed bread crumbs from his coat. He rose, adjusted his belt and dagger, and shimmied his cloak over his shoulders. “If you are not guilty, what is there to fear?”

  Sir Philip huffed through his cheeks and spun on his heel.

  Alyson pointed a finger at Bonefey and quoted Scripture. Clarke stuttered some point of law while the Miller quaffed cup after cup of ale alongside Harry Bailey. They all stopped abruptly at the creak of the stair.

  Dame Marguerite, shaky and white, took wilted steps down the stairs, leaning heavily on Father Gelfridus on one side and Jack on the other. Alyson moved first, and then the others met the nun at the bottom step.

  “My dear Marguerite,” cooed Alyson. The lady from Bath had been awake almost as long as Crispin. Her cheeks were not as rosy as they were yesterday and her eyes were rimmed with red. Even her coif was slightly askew revealing shiny brown hair. “You should not be out of bed.”

  The nun, her cleaned brown veil affixed to her stained wimple again, shook her head. “Father Gelfridus thought it best I do. And in all obedience…” She stepped away from his grasp
as if to prove the truth of it. Jack edged forward, his face pale, hands open to catch her.

  Bonefey threw up his arms. “Christ wounds, Gelfridus! Can’t you see the wench has had a shock?”

  Marguerite waved him off. “There is nothing as wastrel as lying about in bed. I have learned this lesson well from my Lady Prioress.” She crossed herself unsteadily. “Requiescat in pace.” She made her way to the bench and melted into it. Jack knelt beside her and whispered something. The nun raised her eyes to him and seemed to see him for the first time.

  Crispin watched the exchange with concern. “Come along, Jack. We must see the archbishop. Go up to our room and get the … the object.”

  Jack glared at him. It was a new face for Tucker. The boy seemed to be blossoming into a man before his eyes, but at a most inopportune moment with an equally inopportune object of affection.

  “Jack,” he repeated gently.

  Tucker snapped out of his mood and his eyes were shaded with embarrassment. He took a moment to gather himself and loped up the stairs, returning only a moment later with the wrapped sword. He scampered ahead of Crispin to open the door for him but the way was blocked.

  “Good morrow, Cris,” said Chaucer, standing in the doorway. He was as loud as usual but his voice struck Crispin as a little overenthusiastic for the hour.

  He narrowed his eyes at Chaucer’s ankle-length red gown. “Geoffrey. Where have you been? I wanted to talk to you.” He took the poet by the arm in a firm grip and steered him back outside.

  Standing on the stone threshold, Chaucer shook him off. “What do you think you are doing?”

  “I said I want to talk to you.”

  “That’s a rather accusatory tone, Cris.” He straightened his houppelande. His thin brows lowered over his eyes. “What vexes you?”

  “Have you not heard?”

  “By God’s toes, heard what?”

  “Last night. The Prioress was murdered.”

  Chaucer recoiled. “Madam Eglantine? Are you jesting?”

  “No jest. Last night. In Saint Benet’s chapel.”

  “God’s wounds!”

  Crispin strode quickly up the avenue. Chaucer did his best to keep up. “And more. Becket’s bones were stolen.” Chaucer stopped. Crispin turned to face him. “And so I ask again. Where were you?”

  Chaucer stared for several heartbeats before an uncertain smile slackened his taut face. “By Christ! You’re not accusing me? Say you are not.”

  “No. But I need to know—”

  “Are you sheriff now? Or coroner?”

  “Neither. I am commissioned by the archbishop—”

  “Oh, I see! It all falls into place.” He laughed without mirth. “The Tracker! You feel the need to ‘track.’ And you have tracked … me?”

  Crispin crooked his eye at the very public street. “Don’t be a damned fool!” He took Chaucer’s arm again and pulled but the man refused to budge.

  “I’m not one of your chessmen, Guest. You think you can manipulate me?” He ran a finger around the collar of his houppelande. “I don’t need you to make a mockery of me. I can do the job quite adequately on my own.”

  “You are damnable, Geoffrey!”

  “Yes, I know.” He glared a moment more before he offered a brief smile. “I was in town. On business.”

  “All night?”

  “Yes, all night.”

  “I thought you were here for the pilgrimage.”

  “Among other things.”

  If Chaucer wished to keep silent on a subject, Crispin was no match to drag it out of him. He gave a conciliatory nod and Geoffrey’s face drew on a flat expression, though he also had that sharp look in his eye that Crispin remembered from long ago, a look that proved he meant to get something out of Crispin.

  Chaucer suddenly whirled on Jack, who had run to catch up, the linen-shrouded bundle tight in his arms again. Jack dug his heels in the road. “I’m sure Young Jack here can go on ahead to whatever mischief you had in mind.”

  Jack eyed Chaucer and then looked to Crispin for confirmation. “I’ll … go on ahead, shall I?”

  Crispin nodded and Jack bowed to both before skirting his way around them and trotting toward the cathedral gate.

  When they were alone, Chaucer turned to his friend. “He’s a fine lad, is your Jack. He reminds me a little of you at that age.”

  “I was never that age.”

  Chaucer frowned. “This is damnable business, Cris. How was she killed?”

  “By the sword.”

  “God’s blood and bones!” Geoffrey muttered. “Who did it?”

  “I do not know. Yet.”

  Chaucer fell silent. Only the noise of their feet sucking in the muddy avenue accompanied the morning sounds of commerce. “Then … this is truly what you do now? Inquire about crimes?” Chaucer’s voice sounded hollow and surprised.

  “What did you expect?”

  Chaucer shook his head. “I don’t know. I suppose … I just thought being this Tracker … I thought it might be a metaphor.”

  He snorted. “Metaphor. Only you would think such.”

  They walked several more silent paces until Geoffrey took a deep, sighing breath. “I also thought you would clap me in your arms like an old friend, Cris. And yet you continue cold as ice.”

  He felt the hot blood creep up his neck. “You know why,” he said huskily.

  “Afraid treason would rub off on me?”

  The silent shopfronts and the gold-tinged street gave no respite to the look on Geoffrey’s face. “You knew I was still in London. Yet not one word from you.”

  “True. Contact with you was, shall we say, discouraged. Especially by my wife. I think she did fear treason was somehow transferable.”

  “For my part, I took the king’s words as Gospel. He said that those who gave me succor would suffer my same fate. I felt it best I have no contact with former friends.” He stopped and threw his head back, staring up at the misty morning sky. “Dammit, Geoffrey. I wanted no harm to come to you.”

  “And no harm has.”

  “You are still Lancaster’s man.”

  “Yes. And you?”

  Crispin furrowed his brow, toed the mud. “Not as much these days.”

  “Oh? Is the well poisoned?”

  “It’s just that … his grace and I … Lancaster … he … he…”

  “Good Christ. If you’d rather not say—”

  Crispin unclenched his hands and nodded stiffly. “I’d rather not.”

  “So that subject is closed. But what of us? Too many nights we spent drinking together.” They both smiled and then quiet fell between them. The smell of mud and horse dung grew stronger in the rising light. A long time passed before Chaucer whispered, “I’m glad you’re alive and free. Those were the best tidings … and most unexpected, under the circumstances.”

  “Yes,” he muttered. “I am alive.”

  Chaucer toyed with the buttons on his gown. “So. Tracker, they call you. Tell me about this unusual title. Not a metaphor.”

  He shrugged. “I find things. Documents. Jewelry. Even murderers on occasion.”

  “That sounds like the sheriff’s job.”

  “Have you met the sheriffs of London?”

  His friend chuckled. “Indeed.”

  “These are the tasks my clients would rather not trouble the sheriffs with, if you understand my meaning. Consider me a private sheriff, if you will.”

  Geoffrey leaned into Crispin’s shoulder. “This murder was unexpected, but you said you came here on assignment for the archbishop of Canterbury. Are you in his permanent employ, then?”

  “No. The assignment is temporary. And that’s how I would have it.”

  “You always were your own man. You didn’t like following orders.”

  “Do you?”

  “I’ve grown accustomed to it.”

  “That’s not the Geoff Chaucer I knew.”

  “The Geoff Chaucer you knew is eight years older, with a wife
and children.”

  Crispin lowered his eyes. “How fares your good wife?”

  “Well. And the children. We are happy in London.” A pause. “And … where in London do you reside these days?”

  Crispin was used to saying it, but it somehow stung today voicing it. “I live on the Shambles above a tinker’s shop.”

  His friend fell silent. Geoffrey’s hand slid toward his money pouch. It rested there a long time before he allowed his hand to fall away. “Can you … will you tell me your tale?”

  “What tale should I be telling you?” Silence. Crispin looked sidelong at his friend, who seemed to be deciding what to ask.

  Shopkeepers were just opening their doors, sweeping away the dew. Young apprentices and servants brought forth the wares and set them on tables. “Tell me a tale of long ago, Cris. Eight years ago, to be precise.”

  Crispin watched Tucker’s back as the boy made his way toward the cathedral, legs working, arms swinging. “I know that you sometimes serve as the king’s spy. Don’t you know all my tales already?”

  A sly smile curled the poet’s mustache. “By the saints! How did you ever discover that?”

  Crispin snorted. “I’m the Tracker. Remember?”

  “Well.” Chaucer looked behind him. Crispin followed suit. No one of any consequence there on Mercy Lane but the usual merchants and shoppers, from lowly to upper class. “When I do spy for the king,” said Geoffrey quietly, “it is hardly ever on these shores. Only abroad.”

  “Indeed.” Crispin kept his eye on Jack far ahead. He offered an enigmatic smile. “You’ve already told me you are aware of the plot that felled me. The plot devised to depose King Richard and put Lancaster on the throne.”

  “Yes,” Chaucer said steadily, quietly.

  “Then what is your question?”

  The poet kept his voice unnaturally low. “Since you were accused of high treason, if you were truly guilty, why did Richard let you live?”

  “Oh, I was guilty.”

  Chaucer stopped and grabbed Crispin’s arm, pulling him into the shadow of an overhanging eave. All trace of amusement left his face. “I do not understand.”

  “I was guilty, but there was no plot. The plot was a sham to catch the enemies of the throne. I was only one of many fish caught in the net. Lancaster begged the king for my life and the king granted it. With … provisions.”