Troubled Bones

by Jeri Westerson

  “Sir, sir! You must come away from there!”

  Annoyed, he sneered at a monk gesturing to him and scuttling closer.

  “You must come away. You must not disturb the tombs.” He faced Crispin, his eyes glittering.

  “Worry not, little monk. I will disturb them no more.” Gathering his cloak about himself, he strode away down the pilgrims’ stair and through the nave. Immersed in his thoughts, he reached the courtyard. But with its merchants and milling townsfolk, he almost didn’t hear Jack calling out to him.

  “Master Crispin!”

  He turned. He was more relieved than he expected to be upon seeing the boy again. “Jack! You’re back. You have news?”

  Breathless, Jack stopped, leaned over, and rested his hands on his thighs. But when he straightened, he brought up a scowl.

  “What’s the matter?”

  He threw off his hood and Crispin saw. “Oh dear.” His mood had been so black that he needed the respite of laughter, and Jack’s expression and the gleaming white of his newly shaved tonsure rendered Crispin incapable of suppressing his mirth. But Jack wasn’t amused and Crispin tried to recover in order to at least offer Jack some dignity.

  “What am I supposed to do about this!”

  “Nothing. It will grow back.”

  “You never said—”

  “Jack, I am sorely glad to see you, but aren’t there more important things for you to tell me? Why you’ve left the monastery, for instance?”

  Jack cringed and threw the hood back over his bald scalp. “Very well,” he grumbled. “I did find out a few things.” Crispin urged him back toward the tailor shop as he talked. “For one thing, none of them monks trust you because they think you are a Lollard.”

  “Indeed. Interesting. Who could have told them that, I wonder?”

  “My instinct tells me it was the archbishop. They have no cause to connect you to Lancaster unless he told them.”

  “Quite right, Jack. What else?”

  “Well, the Lollard among them appears to be Brother Martin.”

  “I met him almost the first thing. A sharp-faced fellow. With a dislike for Dom Thomas.”

  “He ain’t the only one,” said Jack, scratching his shaved head over the hood. “But Dom Thomas and the others are already aware of him.”

  “So this big secret that the archbishop would have me discover is not such a secret after all.”

  “That ain’t the big secret,” said Jack eagerly. “For one, there was some ado about Saint Thomas’s bones far before you was called.”

  “The archbishop was anxious about them.”

  “Not so much that. I think it is something else. Something the monks are keeping to themselves.”

  He stopped. “The bones were gone ever before I was called.”

  “That’s it!” Jack shook his head, a wide smile spreading on his face. “Aye. That must be it! They were already missing. I’ll wager anything—”

  “And you’d win. Then why this farce? Why call me all this way to protect something that wasn’t even there?” He paled. “Then Chaucer was right.”

  “Right about what, sir?”

  He looked at Jack and took a deep breath. He related the past day’s experiences, the clues he’d found, and Chaucer’s confession.

  Jack’s eyes grew wider and wider. “God blind me with a poker! Then it’s that Sir Philip what done it!”

  “Yes. But then where are the bones?”

  “You don’t suppose he has them? He is a Lollard, after all.”

  “I don’t know. I have to think about it all. But you said that you had two things to tell me. What was the other?”

  Jack sidled closer and said in soft but excited tones, “I seen that Dom Thomas in the church paying extortion money to one of them masons.”

  “What? Are you certain?”

  “Aye. I saw them and heard them m’self. The mason said, ‘I’d like to know who’s the more dishonest: the man who committed the crime or the one who witnessed it.’” Jack told Crispin all he had heard and seen.

  He listened without interrupting. When Jack finished he said nothing for a long time. “The man in the cassock,” he breathed.

  “But how does that fit with the red gown, sir?”

  “It means that Chaucer did not kill the Prioress or the monk.”

  “And the bones?”

  “Well, that’s another question.”

  “And Sir Philip, sir?”

  Crispin gritted his teeth. Sir Philip. If Dom Thomas was a murderer then what part did Sir Philip play in this chess game? Or was it only his desire to see the arrogant Franklin brought low? He cradled his head. His temple was pounding again. Too many twists. Too many guilty parties. And if he made the wrong move it could be him who sent Chaucer to the gallows.

  “Let’s get to the tailor and then back to the inn as soon as we might.”

  “Good. I can’t wait to get me own clothes back.”

  The sun was just sinking below the rooftops when he and Jack made it back to Master Turpin’s tailor shop. Though the man was about to bar his doors, he opened them for Crispin.

  “We have come to return your property, Master Turpin,” he said, closing the door behind him. He winked to the tailor.

  “Oh yes. Yes, Master. All is ready.” He took Jack aside and told him to strip the cassock off. Jack wore a resigned expression and untied his rope belt and yanked the cassock up over his head. When the tailor returned, he had a blue coat slung over his arm. He shook it out and opened it for Jack to slide his arm into, but Jack shrunk back.

  “That ain’t my tunic, Master Turpin. You’ve made a mistake.”

  “No mistake. I made this especially for you, young man.”

  Jack didn’t move, but his eyes did a wild dance scouring the tailor’s face, then back to the garment, then to his face again. “Why?”

  “Because your master instructed me so to do. And paid me.” He smiled.

  Jack’s jaw dropped several inches. Turpin took advantage of Jack’s limp body to pull on his new cotehardie. He yanked on the collar to straighten the shoulders—waggling Jack’s loose head—and buttoned it up all the way from the hem to his yoke, twenty-three buttons, just like Crispin’s coat.

  Crispin folded his arms over his chest and looked Jack up and down, moving all around him. He nodded approvingly. “Perhaps a bit long at the thigh—”

  “He will grow, Master Guest. I allowed for that.”

  “How about the gusset at the armpit? Is that adequate for growth as well?”

  “Oh yes. See,” and he raised Jack’s flaccid arm. “Plenty of room here. Also the waist. His belt should conceal the small amount of extra material.”

  “Good. Good. I am pleased. And where is mine?”

  “Right here, sir.”

  The tailor scurried to the back room leaving them alone. Jack raised his eyes slowly to Crispin. “You bought me a new coat,” he whispered. “You … you—”

  “That old tunic of yours was an embarrassment. And if you are going to be a Tracker you’d best look the part.”

  He turned at Turpin’s approach but he was thrown nearly to the ground when Jack’s arms flung around him. Jack burst into tears, and though he tried to tell him his heartfelt thanks Crispin couldn’t understand a word he said. He peeled the boy off of him and held him at arm’s length. “Enough!” He stiffened. “The archbishop may be a bastard, but he at least pays me decently.”

  He unbuttoned his cotehardie and flung it to the ground and gratefully shrugged into the new cotehardie Turpin held out for him. The tailor buttoned it for him while Crispin buckled his belt over it and turned to Jack. “Well?”

  Jack sniffed and wiped his eyes with his new sleeve before he assessed Crispin’s coat with a perplexed expression. “It … looks just like your old coat, sir. It’s even the same scarlet color.”

  Crispin adjusted his old leather chaperon hood over his shoulders. “Of course. I like scarlet.”

  Jack shrugged
and grabbed his own hood, seeming to remember he needed it to cover his shaved head.

  With new stockings and new shirts for the both of them slung over Jack’s arm, they left the tailor’s just as dusk softened the streets of Canterbury. Out of the corner of his eye, Crispin noticed Jack stroking his new coat as if it were a pelt of ermine. He supposed Jack couldn’t remember a time when anyone bought him anything. The notion sobered Crispin like none other. He stared straight ahead, doing his best to clear his mind of familial thoughts he’d rather not have.

  “I told the sheriff about Bonefey,” he said conversationally to the boy.

  Jack perked up and nodded like a judge. “Will he arrest him, then?”

  “No, I told him not to.”

  “Why ever not? He sounds like a churl of the worst kind.”

  “He is. But if he has anything to do with the missing bones, I would prefer to watch him to see if he may lead us to them.”

  “Is that likely, sir? I mean, it’s not as if he’d sell them or even need to. If he had them and was a true Lollard, would he not destroy them?”

  Crispin blinked. “Sell them?”

  “I said ‘destroy them,’ sir, not sell them.”

  “No. But I can think of a pair who might sell them. If they had them.”

  “That Pardoner and Summoner. Thick as thieves, them two.”

  “Thick as thieves.”

  “You don’t mean they might have stolen the bones?”

  “Since it isn’t exactly clear when the bones disappeared, it is difficult to say. I wish I knew when they went missing.”

  “Perhaps you should call on Master Edward. He’s a pensioner in the monastery. He has his theories.”

  “Perhaps later. My concern is to talk again with Dame Marguerite. I must fix these circumstances in my mind and quickly in order to clear Geoffrey of all charges.”

  “What will you speak with Dame Marguerite about, sir?”

  “To see if she is any clearer on Madam Eglantine’s assailant. With some time past she might be more lucid.”

  “May I … may I go with you when you do? So’s I can, er, see how you do it.”

  “I suppose so.”

  They reached the inn when the shadows had fallen completely and entered into the golden warmth. Harry Bailey greeted Crispin with a salute from his perch by the stairs. Obviously he had taken to heart Crispin’s admonition to watch Bonefey. “Master Bailey. Is all well?”

  “Indeed, Crispin, it is. Sir Philip expressed an interest in leaving the inn and Canterbury once he knew you were gone. Our friend Gough disabused him of that notion. Rather heartily, I think.”

  “Oh? Where is Master Gough now?”

  “Edwin is sitting on Sir Philip.”

  “Not literally?”

  Bailey’s face broke into a wide smile. “Yes. Quite literally.”

  He beamed. “Well then. There is no fear that he bolted or will any time soon. Is Dame Marguerite about?”

  Bailey’s face fell. “Poor soul. She wanders in the back garden or stays in her room. I feel quite aggrieved for her.”

  He measured the time. She was probably in her room. Maybe tomorrow would be better. He looked at Jack and decided. “It has been a long day. I think I will retire.”

  “What of food?” said Bailey. “Shall I have the innkeeper send victuals to you?”

  “Yes. Thank you, Master Harry.”

  He trudged up the stairs with Jack in tow and entered his room. He realized he had scarce spent any time there in all the days he’d been in Canterbury.

  Jack sat hard onto his cot. “I miss our London lodgings.”

  “I never thought I’d say it, but so do I.” He sat on his own bed and wondered if he wanted to bother undressing.

  * * *

  IN THE MORNING, CRISPIN stared at the sword. He had spent the early hours cleaning it with an oiled cloth, taking all the blood and bits of bone from the blade. Still scratched and worn, the sword at least looked more presentable. He studied the pommel, wondering how on earth he was going to find the owner.

  Jack was up, making a wide path around the sword and straightening the room and clearing away last night’s supper things.

  He reluctantly set the blade aside and stood. “Come, Jack. It is time to ask our questions.” They left the room and he was about to head toward Dame Marguerite’s room when he heard raised voices below. Crispin leaned down over the stair rail to see what the matter was and sprinted down the steps.

  16

  LIKE DOGS IN AN alley, Maufesour and Chanticleer were at each other’s throats, brandishing their knives.

  “What goes on here?” bellowed Crispin above their voices.

  They turned, but neither lowered their daggers. “He’s a thief!” cried Chanticleer, gesturing with his blade at the Summoner.

  “Ha!” the Summoner rejoined. “Look who speaks! A master thief if ever there was one.”

  Chanticleer lunged for him, but Crispin grabbed his arm and spun him about. “Now, now. Is there no honor amongst thieves? Keep it civil.”

  Even with mouths poised to speak, they both seemed to realize something at the same time and fell silent, eyeing each other.

  Crispin smirked. “Will you not speak of your troubles, gentlemen? There was an accusation of thievery.…”

  But neither would say a word. They shared a look again and even offered artificial smiles. “A, er, minor disagreement over the sharing of funds,” said Maufesour. He urged Chanticleer to respond with a waggling of his brows.

  Chanticleer got the hint. “Oh yes! A disagreement. To be sure.”

  Crispin slid his arms over both sets of shoulders. “See how much better it is when two talk it out rather than fight? Sheath your daggers, gentlemen. And sit. I would speak with you two.”

  “Oh, but we have more business to conduct in the city, Master Guest,” sputtered Maufesour. “We must attend to that.”

  “Oh yes,” Chanticleer agreed, trying to edge out from under Crispin’s grasp. “You would have no argument to that, certainly.”

  Crispin strong-armed them to a bench and forced them down. “We’ll see. After I speak to you.”

  Both men stared sourly at the table. The other tavern patrons moved guardedly away to their own tables.

  Crispin drew his knife and toyed with the sharp blade. “It is interesting that I have repeatedly enjoined the pilgrims to remain at the inn, yet time and time again, you two have flouted my orders.”

  Maufesour turned a frown on him. “You cannot stop us from doing our duty.”

  “Indeed,” said the other. “We are on the Church’s business.”

  Crispin continued to toy with the blade. “I must tell you a truth about me, gentlemen. I am intolerant of liars. Less so of thieves. Not at all of murderers.”

  Maufesour sputtered again. “We are not murderers, sir!”

  “Thieves, then?”

  “No!”

  “Liars?”

  Maufesour huffed. “It is clear you insist on accusing us of ill deeds. Accuse, then. Say your peace.”

  He leaned toward them, close enough to smell Maufesour’s foul breath and Chanticleer’s overly perfumed hair. “You two are as guilty as they come,” he said softly. They stiffened at his words. “I am of the mind that you have something to do with the theft in the cathedral.” They both tried to rise but he shoved them back down. “I will give you exactly till sunset to return that item to me or I shall have both your heads on a platter. Have I made myself clear?”

  Maufesour tried a “But—”

  “Have I made myself clear?”

  Slowly, they both nodded their heads. Crispin released them and straightened. “Good. Now. Begone to whatever devilry you had planned.” In a flash, they were up and out the door.

  He straightened his new coat and looked back toward Jack, waiting by the stairs. Time to speak to Dame Marguerite. But as he approached the stairs Alyson was making her way down. Her face broke into a wide smile on seeing him and she
gave a coy lilt to her shoulder. “Crispin,” she said. “I missed you last night.”

  He didn’t look at Jack, who was making himself scarce at the other end of the hall. “Alas. I was far too agitated to be of good company, Alyson.”

  Slowly she descended the stairs until she was at the foot. “But that is when such company can do you the most good.”

  He smiled. “Sometimes. But murder and the involvement of old friends makes for a troubled mind, which leads to troubles … elsewhere.”

  “Bless me, Crispin! But no man has ever had those troubles in my bed.”

  He suddenly longed to embrace her, but knew it would not be proper in such a public place. “I do believe you,” he said softly. “Unfortunately, I am working at the moment and need to talk to Dame Marguerite. Is she still abed, do you think?”

  “Oh no. She is much better these days and has taken to spending time in the inn’s back garden amongst the herbs and flowers. I think the fresh air is good for her.”

  “Can you show me the way?”

  She took his hand and led him through the hall to a narrow alley to the kitchens. Jack followed at a discreet distance.

  The innkeeper and his staff watched warily as the entourage filed through, and then Alyson opened a back door. At first they encountered a dirt yard with hewn stumps no doubt used for beheading poultry as evidenced by its bloodstains and scattered feathers, but beyond that lay the greening of a garden. “There,” she said with a raised arm, pointing. “There is a bench beyond that myrtle. Would you like me to stay?”