“‘Will no one free me of this troublesome priest?’ was King Henry’s cry,” Crispin went on. “And four barons took their king at his word.”
“And then the king humbled himself at the martyr’s tomb,” said Jack. “A humbled king. I would like to have seen that.”
“As would I.” He walked up to the shrine. “Such grandeur. Yet with all its gold, jewels, and magnificence of the craftsmen’s art, the tomb lies empty.”
“What will they do now, Master Crispin?” Jack’s voice was quiet.
“Do?”
“What if … what if you never find them bones?”
He squared his jaw. “I will find them.”
He heard Chaucer’s step along the chapel’s perimeter. “But they are only the bones of a man, after all,” Geoffrey said, his voice echoing hollowly.
“A holy man, sir,” corrected Jack. “A holy saint.”
“A stubborn archbishop who would not accede to the demands of his king.”
Crispin slowly pivoted. “Do you suggest a bishop of the Church should accede to the wishes of his king over the pope?”
“The king is his sovereign lord.”
“And the pope?”
“A foreign prince.”
“Why Geoffrey. You sound like a Lollard.”
The poet made a half smile. “Perhaps I am more parrot than Lollard. I repeat what I hear my master say.”
“Say it too often and you may be summoned by the Church to repeat it. I do not know you can plead that your master says and thus so say you. Torture is not pleasant.”
Geoffrey’s smile faded and he looked at Crispin with a renewal of something he had not wished to elicit: pity.
Crispin turned away and stared up at the many miracle windows instead. The light shone through them and their glorious colors glowed brightly. He stood thus for a long time until he heard, amid the hammers and shouts of masons and artists, the hurried steps of an approaching monk.
Brother Wilfrid, his shiny-tonsured head bobbing over his rumpled cowl, trotted forward, lifting the hem of his cassock to trundle up the stairs. His face opened when he saw Crispin. It wasn’t exactly relief, but something akin to it. “Master Crispin! Praise God. I must tell you—”
Geoffrey stepped out of the shadows and Wilfrid turned at the sound. His eyes rounded and he took a step back. When his eyes turned back to Crispin there was a veil of fear over them. “I thought we were alone,” he said breathlessly.
Crispin looked toward Chaucer. “I think the mummery is over.” He did not mean to have such a sneer of finality to his voice, but this time Geoffrey was visibly taken aback. He flicked his gaze toward the monk and then to Crispin. He merely bowed and turned away. His heavy steps echoed and he soon disappeared down the stairs.
Wilfrid didn’t seem satisfied and trotted to the top of the stair to see where he’d gone. He waited, listening, until there was no more sign of Chaucer. The monk looked at Jack but he seemed unruffled by the boy’s presence. Wilfrid, his back to Crispin, gave a great sigh. At last, he returned and gathered his hands under his scapular. His face was pale and tight. “I could not talk in front of him. You see, I saw him here last night.”
“With the pilgrims?”
“No, Master. Last night. I made my rounds with the keys and locked the doors. And when I was leaving Saint Benet’s chapel, I saw a shadow. One gets used to the shadows here at night, Master Crispin. The faint of heart might take scaffolding and pillars for people or demons. After years in this place, I know the difference, I can assure you. And when I turned I saw the shadow of a man. I called out. I told him the church was to be closed and locked. But he did not answer, perhaps thinking I had deceived myself. But I was not deceived. I said again, louder, ‘You must leave now. I see you there. Behind the pillar.’ It was only then that he came out. The church was dark but I recognized it to be that gentleman.”
“Do you know who that gentleman is?”
“He is Sir Geoffrey Chaucer.”
“And how do you know this?”
“He was here a fortnight ago and someone pointed him out to me.”
He looked back the way Geoffrey had gone, but he saw only the scaffolds and arches. “Was he?”
“Yes.”
“What was he doing here two weeks ago?”
“He came as a pilgrim to the shrine. I remember him.”
“Why do you remember him in particular? Did he speak to you?”
“No, sir. But I do remember his red gown. Such a striking red, sir. Much like the archbishop’s cloak. A color difficult to forget.”
A strange and uncomfortable feeling rumbled in Crispin’s belly. “I see. Did he do anything else here then, that fortnight ago?”
“No, sir. He came with the pilgrims, as I said. He kept his hood up, but I did remember him.”
“He did not meet with the archbishop, for instance?”
“No. At least, I do not think so.”
“And last night?”
“He came out of the shadows and chuckled. He said to me, ‘But is not God’s house open to all?’ ‘Indeed, sir,’ I answered him. ‘But the chapel of Saint Benet is open for that. Surely you must understand that the shrine must be kept safe at night.’ But he would not move. ‘You must come with me,’ I told him more insistently. But still he did not move. I told him I would go and get the chaplain. I did so. When I returned he was gone.”
“Are you certain of that?”
“Yes, Master. I searched in all the usual places. You see, I know of certain thieves in this town and I have learned some things. All the doors were locked. But no one was here. Until the Prioress and her chaplain came in. And then you, sir.”
“Well…” Crispin looked back the way Chaucer had gone. “Master Chaucer is a … he is the king’s poet and is often—” He shrugged. “Imaginative men. Who can understand their ways?”
“Lurking in the shadows of a church? At night? What is imaginative in that?” He shook his head. “No, Master Crispin. I do not think him up to any good.”
“Here, now,” said Jack pressing forward. He gestured with the wrapped sword. “Master Chaucer is Master Crispin’s friend.”
The monk was startled and his eyes widened. “Oh. Oh … I…” He backed away. “I meant no offense, Master Guest.”
“I am not offended. You had a tale to tell me and I thank you for doing so.”
“You mustn’t—” Wilfrid was shaking his head and backing away. “You must forget I said aught, Master Guest. Please. Disregard my words. Surely … surely…”
“Wilfrid, it is well. You did nothing wrong.”
“You mustn’t tell the archbishop I told you. It is nothing, after all. I knew I shouldn’t have come to you. My brother monks told me not to. They warned me to leave it alone. But I don’t think it fair. But it’s only about Master Chaucer that I told you. I’ll say nothing about—” He clamped his lips shut. His rounded eyes ticked from Crispin to Jack before he simply fled. The morning shadows swallowed him and soon his footsteps, too, vanished.
“What do you suppose that was all about?” asked Jack.
“Secrets, Jack. I don’t like them. I never have. I will deal with Wilfrid anon. But for now…” He made for the steps and trotted down. Walking up the aisle, he didn’t see Chaucer at all until he found him on the steps outside in the courtyard. Geoffrey turned and hooked his thumbs in his belt. “And so. What did your little clerical friend have to say?”
Crispin tried to hold at bay the uncomfortable feeling in his gut. He knew Geoffrey acted as a spy—he admitted as much. He spied for the king and, no doubt, Lancaster, who had ultimately betrayed Crispin.
If foster fathers could do such, then why not friends?
“He told me that he saw you lurking in the church last night.”
Chaucer laughed. “‘Lurking,’ was it? Now why would I have cause to do that?”
“And so, too, did I wonder.”
The poet’s laughter subsided. “This has gone far enou
gh. I am your oldest friend, Cris. You can’t honestly believe—”
“Nor have I received a satisfactory answer from you.”
Geoffrey’s face darkened. “Very well. I was in the church. But I certainly wasn’t ‘lurking.’ I was praying. Isn’t a man allowed his time with God?”
“The church was closed—”
“Isn’t that the best time? When all is silent and dark? His holy presence is most notably felt at such times. Certainly even you can appreciate that, Master Guest.”
“Noted. But why did you not mention being in Canterbury a fortnight ago?”
Chaucer’s face, bright with triumph, suddenly fell. He tried to hide it by turning toward the sky and adjusting the liripipe tail trailing from his hat to his shoulder. “Is that what he said? I was here a fortnight ago?”
“Yes. He remembered you well. You wore a scarlet houppelande, much like the one you are wearing now. I wonder if I may examine it.”
Geoffrey slowly pivoted. “Why?”
“Does it matter?”
“It damn well does!” Chaucer tossed his cloak aside and strode briskly back and forth before the immense west door.
That pang in Crispin’s heart struck again, the feeling of distance between those he loved and the reality of their betrayal. Would these wounds ever heal? Where was honor? Where loyalty? He ran his hand over his brow. “Harken to me, Geoffrey. We must be frank with each other. I know you deal in secrets. It is not my intention to make them known. But I must venture into all avenues to solve this heinous crime. Surely you can see that.”
Chaucer raised his head but did not look at Crispin. “I might as well tell you now, for it will surely come out eventually. I, too, knew Madam Eglantine prior to this pilgrimage. In fact, I was also at the trial mentioned by the archbishop.”
Crispin’s hand dug deeper into his brow. “And why were you at this trial?”
“Because … I was a witness for the petitioner … Sir Philip Bonefey.”
8
CRISPIN TOOK A BREATH and raised his eyes to his friend Chaucer. “So then you knew the Prioress. Did you speak to her at the trial?”
“Oh yes. We exchanged words, to be sure. Very heated ones. She is—was—a formidable woman. Bonefey was furious and still is. The archbishop did not help matters. At first he sided with Bonefey. In the end he and the judges ruled for Madam Eglantine, but no one in that chamber was satisfied.” Crispin watched his face change. “Do you suppose I was so angry at her words that I bided my time, followed her to Canterbury, and took a sword to her? For something that happened a year ago?”
The wind gusted through the courtyard, winging blossoms into the air. Crispin buttoned his cloak over his chest. “Well, I concede that you don’t seem to have had a vested interest in it.”
“No. But Bonefey does. I defended Bonefey because I was asked to. And because it was another instance of the Church treading where it should not go.”
“Spoken like a Lollard.”
“And what if I am? I follow the dictates of my liege lord who is also a Lollard.”
“Lancaster.” He scowled.
“For a man whose life was purportedly saved by him, your opinion of Lancaster seems unnaturally low.”
He bared his teeth. “Saved my life. And would that life have needed saving if he had not schemed and plotted?”
“I don’t understand you. He raised you. He knighted you. He made you—”
“What I am today? Indeed, yes.” Chaucer, in all his finery, stood with his fist at his waist, a courtly posture. It annoyed Crispin. “Our liege lord, the man to whom we both swore oaths of allegiance, the man for whom I would have gladly laid down my life … this man betrayed me! I was used. To discover his enemies he engineered the treasonous plot. And I, the loyal servant that I was, fell into the web.”
Chaucer’s face blanched. “No! It is a lie!”
“I heard it from his own lips.”
Geoffrey paced in stunned silence. He looked once at Jack huddled on the stone steps clutching the wrapped sword to his bosom. “Are you telling me that my Lord of Gaunt tricked you into committing treason? Do you actually have the temerity to say that?”
“Temerity? I not only say it, I avow it. It happened. Jack is my witness.”
Chaucer looked at Jack again who suddenly shrunk under their scrutiny. “This is your witness?” he cried, raising his arm and pointing toward Jack. “This … this beggar? This pathetic excuse for a protégé?” He laughed unpleasantly. “You may very well blame Lancaster for your misfortunes. God knows the great Crispin Guest would never blame himself!”
“I have blamed myself. Over and over in my mind. Don’t you think I do? Don’t you think I would rather have died for Lancaster than smear his name? If he had but told me before it all happened, explained it! But no.” Geoffrey’s expression infuriated him. “Fie! It’s wasted breath on you. I’ll never make you see that I have paid my penance. But has he?”
“You speak of payment and penance as if they are owed you.”
“They are owed me! Look at me, Geoffrey. Look at me! Do you have any idea what my stinking lodgings on the Shambles are like?”
“You chose your lot, Guest. You chose to throw in with traitors. You swore your life to Lancaster, and suddenly you forget that he may do as he wishes with it. Even throw it away. He owes you nothing.” Geoffrey straightened his gown and climbed the steps, skirting Crispin and Jack. “I have business within. Go back to your inquiries. Find your murderer and your bones. That’s where it seems to suit you best. Amongst the dead.”
Chaucer’s footsteps receded.
Crispin lowered his head and panted. What was the matter with him? Why was he suddenly fighting with Geoffrey?
All this for one scrap of cloth that may not be a clue at all. He dug into his pouch and pulled out the bit of fabric, rubbing it between his calloused fingers.
“He won’t stay angry,” said Jack quietly. He had crept up beside Crispin without notice. “You haven’t seen each other in years. There are bound to be misunderstandings.”
“You don’t have to mollify me,” he grumbled, but he was grateful that Jack tried.
“What’s that, Master Crispin?” He switched the sword to the crook of his arm and took the cloth scrap out of Crispin’s hand.
“A clue. I found it stuck in the door of the Corona tower last night.”
Dawn broke on Jack’s face. “Is that why you asked about the archbishop’s robe? Master Crispin! You don’t think—”
“I don’t know what to think. His robe might have been used as a disguise by any monk here. Remember, the archbishop suspects one of his own.”
“But he ain’t the only one with a scarlet robe.”
“My friend Chaucer.”
“Aye. But I was thinking of Sir Philip Bonefey.”
Crispin stared at Jack. “So he does.”
“And Rafe Maufesour the Summoner, for good measure.”
Crispin chuffed a breath. “Perhaps we had best make a list of those who do not have a scarlet gown. It’s a smaller roll.”
“Now Master, it’s not so difficult. We will examine their robes one by one to see how this scrap may fit. That will eliminate the innocent.”
Crispin smiled in spite of himself. “That is very orderly thinking, Jack.”
“Well, I was taught by the best, now wasn’t I?” His pale cheeks flushed. “Now then. You’ve got this key, do you? Shouldn’t we use it?”
“Let’s begin with that tower stair.” He took the cloth scrap from Jack’s fingers and led the way back into the church. Pilgrims had already gathered with other faithful who came into the disorderly dust and work of the church to pray. Crispin shook his head and mouthed a few choice words describing the archbishop. Why had he not closed the church? A murder certainly required reconsecration. But the archbishop flouted canon law. Why? Greed? How much did they take in from the martyr’s shrine? He guessed it was a goodly sum, possibly half of their income for the year. If t
hat coin flow should be cut off for a year or more…? He glanced up at the masons hammering, mortaring, pulling up stones by ropes and pulleys. The master mason said their payments were overdue. Was there a possibility of a shortfall in the cathedral books? If that were the case then the treasurer had some answering to do. Crispin wondered vaguely if Dom Thomas had a scarlet cloak as well.
A monk was giving a tour to the pilgrims on their slow progression toward the shrine. Crispin avoided them by taking the south aisle and climbing the steps opposite, near Prince Edward’s shrine.
“It was here, Jack, that I found the scrap of cloth. Let us see what lies beyond this door.”
He pulled the key from his pouch, fit it in the lock, and turned it twice. The door pushed open and Crispin stepped in. He expected a narrow spiraling stair and found it much wider, enough for two men side by side. It did spiral upward and was made of stone with carved niches along the curved walls. He looked down at the door and found only a few red threads.
“No blood,” he said.
Jack nodded. “So he didn’t come here after the murder but before.”
“Very good, Jack. Hiding and waiting for the moment. Except—” Crispin looked up the tower. Slit windows slanted golden light down the tower and revealed another door near the top. “If he hid in here he would first have encountered me by the shrine. Why wasn’t I attacked, then? Why go directly to the Prioress?”
“Well, he might have seen you and thought to create a distraction— No, that sounds poor even to me.”
“If Madam Eglantine was the intended target.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that perhaps the bones were merely a distraction.”
“So he stole the bones as an afterthought?” He stared hard. Crispin was making his way up the stairs. “That’s cruel work getting that canopy off the casket. And more work to move the lid.”
“Not as an afterthought,” Crispin confirmed.
“No, eh?” He followed up the stairs. “I’m stumped, then. If he did not mean to kill you and take the bones first, but he meant to kill the Prioress, then I do not understand his intentions.”
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