Troubled Bones

by Jeri Westerson

  Jack leaned forward. “What kind of ‘flutter’?”

  He shook his head and shrugged. “Talk of nothing but. And much whispering when others drew near. I gathered there had been rumors and threats against them.”

  Jack nodded. “Who do you suppose did it? The murders, I mean.”

  “Who can say? But I can tell you this; a rumor amongst the brothers owes these deaths to the curse of Becket’s bones.”

  Jack’s eyes rounded. “C-curse? I never heard of no curse.”

  “Becket was killed by four knights. Reginald Fitz-Urse, Hugh de Morville, William de Tracy, and Richard le Breton. Their families were torn apart by their betrayal and foul deed. The men were banished from England, doomed to wander the earth in penance for their sin. Many of their descendants changed their names to avoid association. Even two hundred years later, the stain of their sin remains.”

  “So … what is the curse?”

  “No less than calamity to the families of the murderers. And so it happens, that the Prioress, Madam Eglantine was a descendant of Hugh de Morville.”

  “No! You don’t say.”

  “Indeed. And our own Brother Wilfrid who met with the same fate, his surname was de Tracy.”

  Jack gasped. His hands trembled when he lifted the beaker to his lips. He drank gratefully, the ale warming his cold chest. “Two of the four. You think this place is cursed, then?”

  “Not the monastery or church, no. But the circumstances seem to give truth to events now well out of our control.” He sipped the ale, staring into his thoughts until his eyes focused again on Jack. “I told you this only to inform you as to why your fellow monks act as they do. You must forgive them.” He smiled, lightening the dark mood threatening the little cottage. “Of course you can and must forgive. But forgiveness is more difficult in the old.” He rubbed his mud-spotted knees. “But you seem very young to be a monk. How old are you, Brother?”

  Jack’s thoughts furiously spun on the old man’s talk of a curse when he suddenly looked up at his open face. Perhaps it was the man’s gentle way and soft voice, but Jack didn’t want to lie to him more than he already had. “I am … thirteen, sir.”

  “Thirteen! Bless me! It seems they become younger every year.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “You have a way of speaking not unknown to me. From where do you hail?”

  “From London, sir.”

  “Oh yes. But not in its finer halls.”

  Jack reddened and lowered his face. Curse my lowly tongue. “No, sir.”

  “You must have had a master, then, eh?”

  He looked up brightly. The truth came so much easier. He vowed never to lie again. “Aye, sir. A very fine master. He taught me everything. How to read and write Latin, French, and English and even a bit of Greek, though I falter there.”

  The white brows rose. “Indeed. This is quite the master.” He smiled. “You loved him. I can see that in your eyes.”

  Jack’s throat thickened. “Aye, sir.”

  “So was it he who pushed you into the Church?”

  Jack’s mouth curled ironically. “That he did, sir. Most strenuously.”

  “Then he must be proud of you.” His eyes glazed again and he tapped a boney finger on the cup. “I loved my master as well. He taught me all I know.” Taking a deep breath, he lowered his eyes. “He’s been long dead now these two score years. So much time has past. So much we did together. He was like a father to me, for I did not know mine. My sire died when I was quite young and I came to my master a mere whelp of a boy. Was it so with you?”

  “Aye, sir. My master took me in … when no one else would.”

  “Then he saw something special in you and cultivated it. It is a rare man who can see beyond the face of things. What is his name?”

  Jack stiffened. For once in his life he couldn’t think of a plausible lie. His mind simply blanked. The man was staring at him. He couldn’t very well stall too long. “You wouldn’t know him,” he said feebly.

  “It isn’t likely, is it? Still, I should like to remember him in my prayers.”

  “Crispin Guest,” he gasped aloud, but the moment it left his mouth he thought of Gilbert Langton, the tavernkeeper of Crispin’s favorite haunt the Boar’s Tusk. Why didn’t he use that name?

  “Crispin Guest. Crispin Guest. No, it isn’t a name that comes immediately to mind.”

  Jack blew out the breath he was holding.

  “My master was William Baldwin. I married his daughter and we had a good life together, though there were no children. She died three years ago.” His eyes flicked to a jug of dried flowers. Jack’s heart stabbed with the thought of this lonely man cultivating flowers to keep in memory of his dead wife. “I was happy to follow in my master’s footsteps, become the man he made. I hope that he smiles down on me from heaven, for surely he is there.”

  “I am certain that is so,” said Jack quietly. Looking at this old man, he couldn’t help but feel as if he was peering into his own future. He swallowed more ale before he said, “But sir, you were telling me about the martyr’s bones. What is it I should know about them?”

  “Alas. I have no proof, but I have every reason to believe they are no longer in the shrine.”

  Jack blinked. “And why would you say that, sir? What might you have heard or seen that would lead you to reckon it?”

  His eyes focused suddenly and sharpened on Jack. “These are personal matters amongst the brothers here. I do not wish to commit the sin of gossipmongering. None of it may have any foundation in fact. And I am a man who lives by such.” He rose. It was Jack’s cue as well. “I hope you will come back to visit me. You bring to mind very pleasant memories.”

  “I shall. And I thank you, good sir, for your hospitality.” He put the cup on the table and looked up with a pinched expression. “Might I ask one thing more?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you by any chance know where the privies are?”

  * * *

  ONCE JACK RELIEVED HIMSELF he straightened his cassock and blinked at the shadowed arches that seemed to march away in an infinite redundancy of perfectly designed architecture. “Now where, by Christ, am I?” He scanned the buildings rising above him, but they all looked the same with their buttresses and reticulated windows. Startled at the sound of the bells suddenly tolling, he looked up though he couldn’t see the bell tower from where he stood. Bells meant something. They called the monks to prayer and to everything else. It was past noon, so it wasn’t the Angelus, but it might just mean dinner.

  He lifted his head and tried to follow his nose, but the constant breeze whisking throughout the cloister grounds made finding the kitchens impossible. He shrugged to himself and just started walking. How far could the great hall be? He turned a corner, and as luck would have it, he found several monks heading in the same direction. His belly growled. He hoped they were heading toward the hall. It seemed a long time ago since breakfast.

  Some monks greeted him cordially but without speaking, while others eyed him with wide stares and pursed lips. Jack made a mental tally of those faces.

  As a herd—or, he supposed, flock—the monks meandered down the long walkways and left the cloister precincts. Jack began to wonder just where they were going when they all entered a large hall and the smell of food touched his senses. A long table at the front of the hall was probably set for the prior. There were many tables and benches perpendicular to the head table. Jack moved slowly forward, uncertain where he was to go when he noticed Father Cyril motioning to him. Gratefully, he picked up his cassock and trotted forward, then slowed when he realized everyone else took on a slower pace.

  Cyril motioned for him to stand before an empty wooden plank and Jack turned to watch the rest of the monks file in. There were more than he realized and his heart sank. How was he to question all of these? He’d be stuck here till Doomsday!

  Finally, three entered and strode right up to the head table: the prior, another monk that Jack t
ook to be the sub prior, and Dom Thomas. They sat in their places and the prior began by intoning a string of Latin prayers. The assembly crossed themselves, responded, and then all, with the loud scraping of benches on the wooden floor, took their seats. Jack watched the head table as the prior leaned in toward the sub prior and spoke to him. Dom Thomas’s glare directed toward Jack. Jack made a dismissing gesture, and looked at his plate and that of his fellow diners. No one spoke a word, and if they needed anything, they made a series of hand gestures to get across their meaning. All over the room was a fluttering of hands and moving cassocks like small dark waves. One monk stepped up onto a raised platform and sat before a lectern. A large book lay open there, and with his finger the monk traced over the page, cleared his throat, and began to read the Latin in a loud, clear voice.

  Platters on the table were filled with dried fish, cooked leaks, and hunks of cheese. A small wooden bowl of pottage and a round loaf of barley bread just for him sat before his place. A leather beaker and a jug of ale also stood at the head of his place setting. At least these monks ate well, he thought, and took out his eating knife to stab a fish. He scooped up a handful of leeks and placed it on his plate and took them up in his fingers to chew them down like a rabbit.

  He glanced sidelong at Cyril, wishing he could ask a question or two, but plainly, speaking was forbidden during meals. While he ate, he looked at the other diners. Dom Thomas had turned his attention to the prior and sub prior, but when Jack swept his gaze across the hall, a monk sitting close to the head table seemed to be staring at him. Brother Martin. He scrutinized Jack with narrowed eyes, and Jack worried the monk might recognize him. The monk squinted at him a bit longer, and then turned to his meal.

  Jack concentrated on eating slowly. He wished the monk would stop reading. His low drone was annoying, like the buzz of an insect. He tried to ignore it, and when he did, surrounded by all these silent diners in their cassocks, his mind unbidden lit on the young nun, Dame Marguerite.

  Never had he met a more refined and gentle lady. And so beautiful. Her hands were delicate and her face had the look of a stone saint. He reckoned she was his age or a few years older. When she talked to him, she used a soft voice with demure eyes always aimed downward. He wished she would look up more often because those eyes were very dark and sympathetic. Crispin didn’t like his talking to her, but he didn’t care. Didn’t Master Crispin say Jack had a choice to obey him or not? Though probably not in all things. Still, the saying of it was easier than the doing of it. He still felt obligated to the man who rescued him from Newgate Prison and gave him a decent life.

  He sighed, thinking of Dame Marguerite. Marguerite. When he got out of this monastery, he vowed to speak to her, tell her how he felt. Perhaps she really didn’t want to be a nun anymore. His brow wrinkled. Was a body allowed to stop being a nun? He wasn’t certain. He could make her forget the horror of the murder, take her back to London, and then … Then what? Crispin paid him a wage but it wasn’t very much. He sipped his beer and rested his arm on the table. Wasn’t he getting ahead of himself? First things first. He’d have to talk to her.

  Benches scraped back and Jack looked up alarmed. The meal was over and the monks were standing for their benediction. Jack scrambled to his feet and bowed his head, looking up through his fringe at the others. The monks filed out and Jack followed, staying close to Cyril. He stood outside the hall and Brother Martin skirted past him, eyeing Jack the whole time.

  Cyril, too, watched Martin go. “Oaf,” murmured Cyril under his breath. Jack whipped his head around to stare at the man, who shrugged. “So he is.”

  The monk moved on back to the cloister and Jack followed. “I thought fellow monks always spoke well of each other.”

  Cyril exhaled a snorting laugh. “We live in close proximity for all the years of our lives. There’s only so much forgiveness to share. As Benedictines we are not allowed to traipse all over the countryside as you and your Franciscan brothers do.” He looked at Jack’s expression and patted his shoulder. “Don’t vex yourself, Little Friar. We live in relative harmony. It’s just that some of us are more harmonious than others.”

  The monks seemed to mill about and Jack guessed this was the time of day for leisure, since the rest of the monk’s day was devoted to prayer and work. “Father Cyril,” Jack ventured. “I have heard the rumors—”

  “Bless me, but I brace myself.”

  “Well, that there is something amiss with the martyr’s bones.”

  Cyril stopped and suddenly grabbed Jack and dragged him into the shadows. “Best not to say these rumors too loud, Friar.”

  “Brother John,” muttered Jack.

  The monk nodded disinterestedly. “As you will.”

  “But I heard that they may no longer be in the shrine. Is this true?”

  Cyril sighed and kept an eye peeled for anyone who might overhear them. “I fear it is.”

  “How can we find them?”

  “His Excellency has hired a man from London. A sour-looking fellow named Crispin Guest. Though I do not know why the archbishop should put his trust in a traitor.”

  Jack clenched his fists and kept them at his sides. “Traitor, Brother?”

  “That’s what I hear. I do not know much about him. The other monks do not trust him.”

  “Because he is a traitor?” Jack sputtered on the word.

  “No, because he used to be the duke of Lancaster’s man. The duke is said to be a Lollard sympathizer. For the most part, my fellow brothers would have great objections to helping such a man. But there may be one or two … well. Perhaps I have spoken too much already. I think the ale has gone to my head. I should go to the privy.”

  “I will go with you.” Jack walked alongside him, occasionally passing other monks along the way. “If the monks do not trust this man Guest, why did the archbishop hire him?”

  Cyril gave another snorting laugh. “Why indeed!”

  “I do not get your meaning, Brother.”

  “Well, it’s just a curiosity, isn’t it, that he hired this fellow to guard the bones and the moment he arrived they disappeared. And then the murders.”

  “Do you think it the curse?”

  They reached the privy stalls and Cyril hitched up his cassock. Jack did likewise beside him. “Oh ho! You’ve been talking to Edward Harper.”

  “Who?”

  “Our pensioner.”

  “Oh. Is that his name?”

  “He holds great store by family curses. I fear certain monks have given him notions.” He finished his business and washed his hands in a nearby bucket, shaking them out.

  “Who was the monk who was killed?”

  Cyril took a deep breath and his face fell to a solemn configuration. “Young Wilfrid. The horror of it.” He crossed himself. “He was the treasurer’s assistant. You might have met the treasurer in the prior’s lodge.”

  “Aye, we’ve met.”

  He gauged Jack’s expression. “Yes, I see you have. Wilfrid was Dom Thomas’s assistant. They had many secrets, those two. But I do not think poor Wilfrid was up to the task. Perhaps in time and with more experience. But alas.”

  “Not up to what task, Brother?”

  Cyril smiled and continued through the cloister. “You are a very curious fellow. It does not do well to ask too many questions here. My brothers keep a closed lip.”

  Jack put on a merrier face. “I am a traveling friar, Father Cyril. I am more used to a loosened tongue, I fear. You must pardon me if I seem to ask too much.”

  He patted Jack’s shoulder again. “I do not fear your questions. It is good to talk to someone new.”

  “I wonder, Brother, if you can direct me to my quarters. Dom Thomas neglected to tell me where they are.”

  “I’ll show you.” He took Jack through a door and down a long, dark corridor lined with many cell doors. He went to the last one and opened the door. Jack peered in at the dismal surroundings, not much better than a cell in Newgate. A bare cot, a firepl
ace, a tiny window, a shelf, a table with a stool, and a crucifix on the wall.

  Jack brought up a smile. “It’s wonderful,” he said weakly.

  Cyril’s drooping lids rose only momentarily. “Is it? You must come from a very poor place indeed.”

  “Father Cyril—”

  “Sorry, Friar, but I must return to my work now. Sit next to me at the Divine Office at None. That place is empty now. It belonged to Brother Wilfrid.”

  He bowed to Jack, stuffed his hands within his scapular, and trudged away. Jack turned to the cold little room and shuffled to the stool. He sat and stared into the dead hearth. So far, he’d found out a few things. One: No one there trusted Crispin, and in fact, all wondered why he was even called to Canterbury. Two: There was still some hidden secret among the brothers. And three: Brother Martin might prove to be a problem. Tricky business, this tracking.

  12

  CRISPIN AWAKENED IN A strange bed, his face buried in long strands of brown hair. Hand resting on a plump, pink hip, he paused, thinking about it for a moment before he remembered. He snaked his hand around her thick waist and nuzzled the back of her neck. A female moan emerged from the cloud of hair, and she turned over to look him in the eye. She smiled and sighed lustily, stretching her arms up around his neck. “Crispin Guest,” she purred.

  “Ah, so you remember me.”

  “Very well indeed.”

  “And you are Alyson, as I recall.”

  “Mmm.”

  “The both of us had a bit to drink last night.”

  “We managed quite well anyway. Several times.”

  He smiled. “So we did.”

  “That’s why I prefer a younger man. More stamina! ‘Rejoice O young man, in thy youth!’ I shall never marry a man my age again. Only younger men.”

  “‘Men’?”