Troubled Bones

by Jeri Westerson

  “So this is the famous trait—” He stopped himself and smiled grimly. “Tracker,” he amended.

  “Indeed,” said Crispin stiffly. “And you are Edward Harper, pensioner.”

  “As you see me,” he said, spreading out his hands. His clothes were not new but were a good weave and fairly expensive cloth. But they were well worn and bespoke his current status as pensioner, using only that which he needed to live. Crispin admired his willingness to live a simple life, to even tend a garden, for surely this man was a gentleman before his retirement.

  “I am aggrieved you had to lie to me, young Jack,” Harper said. “I liked your visits.”

  “Oh sir!” Jack dropped to one knee. “If I could have spared you I would have done so. I had no wish to lie to you. You seemed a right honorable gentleman.”

  “Arise, young squire. You need pay no homage to an old man. These simple furrows are now my lands with only crows for retinue.”

  Jack rose and dusted off his new stockings.

  “It is clear you know of me, Master Harper,” said Crispin. “Why did you not give the game away sooner?”

  “I only just discovered. And it is an interesting game. For instance, am I given to understand that the poet Geoffrey Chaucer is imprisoned within these walls … for murder?”

  Something squeezed inside Crispin’s chest. He must see Geoffrey again today, though he had little in the way of good news to offer him. “This is true,” he said carefully. “But it is not my doing. I do not believe him guilty.”

  “Truly?” Harper’s eyes lit, eyes a cloudy blue like ancient ice. “Then perhaps I was in error about you, Master Guest. I thought perhaps you did it for vengeance.”

  “Master Chaucer is Master Crispin’s old friend, good sir,” said Jack. “He’s trying to free him.”

  “Do you know Geoffrey Chaucer?” asked Crispin.

  “Yes. I met him on several occasions.” Harper thought for a moment, nodded his head, and then gestured toward his door. “Will you come in and take refreshment?”

  With this shift in mood, Crispin took the offer gratefully. He ducked under the low lintel and looked around. Small, humble. What he expected. A pile of books and parchments lay on a table under the window.

  “When young Jack here told me your name it sounded familiar, so I researched it. I wondered why such a boy would work for you … and be proud of it.”

  Crispin fingered the parchments. He recalled similar papers from his past as a knight. “You were a herald, sir.”

  “Indeed.” He placed his hand on his breast and bowed slightly. The crescents of his fingernails were black with dirt.

  Jack looked from one man to the other. “I don’t understand, Master Crispin. I know of heralds but I do not know their calling.”

  But it was Harper who stepped forward. He proffered a parchment and unfolded it. “These drawings are the shields and blazons of our noble peerage. These books and parchments are my Ordinaries of Arms. I have kept a tally over the years, marking down as many as I could and writing also their ancestral lineage.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, young Jack, when a knight competes at tournament it must be established from whence he comes; that he has a right to compete. Likewise, should he die in battle, he must be identified and this is achieved through his colors and blazon. Or if a man wishes to marry a woman they must not be too closely related, and these trees help me to see that.”

  Jack studied the carefully wrought pictures of shields with awe. “Then these are the noble souls of England?”

  “And France and Flanders and a few other places.”

  Jack’s face was scored with admiration. “Then you found my master in these pages.”

  Silently, Harper took another parchment, unfolded it, and laid it over the others on the table. Crispin peered down and followed the old man’s gnarled finger as it climbed the page over shield after shield, finally coming to rest on one shield; one half blue, the other half yellow. A red dragon was set in its center; a dragon looking back over its winged spine and bearing no claws. Above the shield was a drawing of a great helm flanked by a red mantle and crowned with a swan. “And here is Guest. Shield per pale Or and Azure, a dragon passant reguardent unarmed, Gules. I see there were four children: Henry, Robert, Joan … and Crispin, this last the only surviving issue. The parents Henry and Johanna.”

  Crispin stared with prickly eyes at the stark recital of his past, little better than a headstone, just as silent and just as cold.

  Jack turned to look at him. “You had two brothers and a sister, sir? I never knew.”

  “Yes. They died when I was quite young. I barely remember them.” He didn’t know why he said that. It wasn’t exactly the truth. But it seemed to ease some of the hurt from Jack’s features.

  “I had a sister, too,” said Jack without emotion. He leaned over the parchment. “Your father was a knight. A baron.”

  “Yes.”

  “Your mother—” Jack counted on his fingers, his mouth working it out silently, “died when you were six.”

  “Yes.”

  “And your father not long after—”

  “This is all very interesting, Jack, but not to the point.” He stepped back from the table. His hand trembled and to stop it he rested it on his knife hilt. Family. It had been important once, but now … He was the last. The only survivor. And he was a failure, for the name would die with him. Stripped from court, the colors of his shield were gone from the public rolls. His father, once so proud a knight who served a king, would be forgotten except on some dry bit of parchment read by an old pensioner, while his mother was no more than the memory of a horrific fall down a staircase witnessed by her terrified son, that “surviving child.” What would she have said to him now, he wondered? Would she have hung her head in shame as these other families had done, those who had killed Becket? Was he any better than they were?

  “You have filled this lad’s head with nonsense of a curse,” he growled. “From where does such foolishness arise?”

  “It is not foolishness. I found evidence of such a curse in the priory’s archives when I was helping the good brothers organize their records. Many strange incidents are recounted.”

  “Murder?”

  “No. This is the most extreme circumstance yet.”

  “Master Harper,” Jack interrupted, “there is a third descendant amongst the pilgrims. The nun’s priest, Father Gelfridus Le Breton!”

  “Bless me! You don’t say?”

  “No, he doesn’t.” Crispin leaned over the table and pressed his hands to the parchment. He felt their dry stiffness crinkle under his palms. “It is nonsense at best, a coincidence of names at worst.”

  “Then why are you here seeking me out?”

  Crispin tore his eyes from the old man’s and stared down at the drawings again, scanned the long dead names of his family that he had scarce thought of in so many years, and sighed. “Because in myth there is often a grain of truth and I need to know all I can.”

  Harper studied Crispin. “I expected a more foolish and impetuous man,” he said. “I did not expect such a thoughtful and careful gentleman.”

  “I am that, Master Harper. At least, I am now.”

  “Suus Pessimus Hostilis indeed. ‘His Own Worst Enemy.’ Perhaps at one time.”

  “That’s what I told him!” said Jack, grinning madly.

  But Crispin’s mind was suddenly elsewhere. When he turned to Jack he was filled with excited anticipation. “Jack, go get the sword.”

  “The sword?” But the gears finally rotated in Jack’s mind and he snapped his fingers. “The sword! Oh, Master! You are ten times the man I will ever be!” Off he ran. His steps could be heard slapping the stone cloister walk until they slowly disappeared in the distance.

  Harper pored through his parchments and finally went to his books. “Le Breton, Le Breton…” He flipped pages and found what he wanted. “Would you not call this an extraordinary coincidence now, Master
Guest?”

  Three of the four names? “Yes,” he conceded. “I would have to say I would. And yet, the idea that a murderer could conspire to gather all of these together—”

  “Perhaps the Prioress and her priest were lured here. Brother Wilfrid, of course, by virtue of his office, was forbidden from leaving the precincts of the monastery.”

  “But Father Gelfridus has been the nuns’ priest for years. The planning of such a thing is staggering to the mind.”

  Harper shrugged. “Staggering it may be, but vengeance can simmer for years.”

  How well Crispin knew. What years had he wasted in the name of vengeance? But the task at hand was more important than his own sordid history. “Vengeance? The murders were avenged two hundred years ago. Who would seek vengeance now?”

  “The answer to that, I believe, is your task.” Jack was worried that Father Gelfridus would be the next victim. But a tingle down Crispin’s spine told him that the priest was a more likely murderer.

  Harper left his books and retrieved a jug from a shelf. “A poor host am I. I promised you refreshment and I have failed to offer it. Will you take some beer?”

  “I thank you,” said Crispin, still captivated by his thoughts as well as the colorful shields and achievements on the parchments and in the books. He took the cup offered and drank. The beer was flat and a little stale but he had drunk worse. “How long have you known about me?” he asked quietly.

  “On the second day of Master Tucker’s subterfuge. Our little friar named you as his former master and as I said, it was a simple thing to research. You were not long from court.”

  “You remained civil to him in spite of it all. For this I thank you.”

  “I knew he must be at the beck and call of his master, but I could not reckon the nature of his deception.” Harper took a drink, looked at his chipped cup, and winced from the stale beer. “He spoke highly of you and of the learning you gave him. From the pattern of his speech I would think that he was more suited to the kitchens rather than the garb of a squire.”

  “Since I am no knight he is not a squire. But I saw no reason not to teach him. He came from humble beginnings. But he is sharp and learns easily.”

  “And you speak well of him. It is the measure of a man how he speaks of his servants.”

  “Jack … is a special case.” But before he could say more, Jack himself returned to the courtyard at a trot and, panting, entered the cottage, bowed a greeting again to Harper before handing Crispin the wrapped sword.

  “And what is this?” Harper’s eyes ran over the object as Crispin unwound the linen from the hilt.

  “This is the murder weapon, that which dispatched Prioress Eglantine.” The last of the cloth fell away and Crispin held up the pommel, showing Harper the red field with the muzzled bear head. “It would be most helpful, Master Harper, if you can find the name that belongs to this blade. It may help me drop the noose around the neck of a killer.”

  But Harper was staring wide-eyed at the pommel. His face had gone white.

  “Master Harper?”

  “I need no book or parchment to place this, Master Guest, for I know it well.”

  “Well then?”

  “It is perhaps the worst of the four, the first to strike a blow against the sainted martyr. This, Master Guest, is the blazon for the fourth of Becket’s murderers: the Fitz-Urse family.”

  20

  “THE FOURTH NAME!” GASPED Jack.

  Crispin’s patience thinned. “Are you certain?” But it seemed foolish to even ask.

  “Yes. Oh, yes. Since I first suspected and found the Prioress’s surname and then Wilfrid’s, I found the others. This is the most notorious of them all. I am not mistaken, Master Guest.”

  “Didn’t I tell you, Master! Didn’t I say!”

  “Be still, Jack, and let me think.” This was impossible! An incredible conspiracy of such unlikely circumstances that no mere mortal could have brought it about. No mere mortal …

  He drew himself up and paced the small space. No. He refused to entertain the notion. Each time he was confronted with these supernatural events they could always be explained away. It was the mark of a foolish and unreasonable man who believed in superstitious happenings. No man with the logic of Aristotle could entertain the notion. Some men are just as firmly convinced of what they think, as others of what they know.

  Logic, Crispin. Stick to the facts. “Then this sword belonged to the Fitz-Urse family. It may not be the same—”

  “Surely you can see for yourself that it is old. The blade itself is not cared for. The scratches are aged. The enamel on the pommel—”

  “Yes, yes. I have seen all this.” He sucked in his lower lip. Then something else occurred to him. “Is the Fitz-Urse family motto Fortis et Patientia?”

  “No, it is quite different.”

  Crispin deflated. “No?”

  Harper consulted his papers. “I do not immediately recognize this motto. Shall I find it for you?”

  Crispin nodded. “Yes. That might be helpful.” Was someone indeed taking some sort of revenge, as far-fetched as it seemed? But was a Fitz-Urse a killer or an as yet unknown victim-to-be? “What happened to the Fitz-Urse family?”

  “Much the same as happened to the others. The four murderers were excommunicated by the pope and forced into exile, a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. It is said they all died within three years of their quest. Their families faired little better. They were disgraced. Their fortunes failed. Many changed their names in hopes of changing their fortunes or at the very least hiding their past, and some were more successful at this than others.”

  “Can you find the Fitz-Urse family amongst your books and parchments, Master Harper? I know that heralds are paid for their services. I can pay your fee.”

  Harper waved his hand. The creases of his palms were still etched with dirt from his hoe. “I will take no fee for finding a murderer.” He picked up a large journal and opened the thin leather covering. “I know that a century ago they dropped the use of the Fitz-Urse name and took another. But my memory is not what it once was. It will take time.”

  Crispin thought of Geoffrey in his cell. “Time, Master Harper, is a commodity we do not have in abundance.”

  “I will do my best.”

  “We are staying at the Martyrs Inn. And I thank you for your hospitality and your kindness.”

  “Not at all, Master Guest. It is good to feel useful again.”

  Crispin took his leave and after looking at the sword once more, he handed it to Jack. “Take this back to our room. I must see Geoffrey.”

  “Aye, Master. Are we any closer to knowing the truth, sir?”

  “I wish I knew.” He looked back at the little cottage as they crossed the courtyard. “Jack, how well do you know this Edward Harper?”

  “As well as any man under such short acquaintance.”

  “He knows a great deal about this. Tales of a curse might be a stratagem to throw a man off the scent.” Jack’s openmouthed glare slowed Crispin but he did not stop. “It is not inconceivable, Jack—”

  “Are you accusing Master Harper? That nice old man?”

  “Nicer old men have been murderers before this.”

  “No. No! What cause would he have to—”

  “I do not know.” He shook his head and pinched his fingers over the bridge of his nose. “Perhaps I am grasping at straws. The very nature of this crime is enough to pummel a man’s good sense. And now Sir Philip begins to seem less likely with this new information.” He sighed. “Fear not. I do not intend to arrest Master Harper.” But to himself he thought, yet.

  Jack left to accomplish his task. Crispin still had the skeleton key to the church and monastery and was fairly certain no one had bothered to change the locks on the monk’s cells, so he would be able to open Geoffrey’s cell without assistance.

  He walked slowly, thinking. After he talked to Geoffrey he wanted to return to Saint Benet’s chapel and see the place of the Pr
ioress’s murder once more.

  And he was beginning to get an idea about the fate of Becket’s bones.

  He reached the door to Geoffrey’s cell, took out the key, and unlocked it. He stared at the shut door and then abruptly kicked it open.

  Geoffrey stood by the archway, a stool raised above his head ready to cosh whoever came in. When he saw Crispin standing safely on the other side of the threshold he lowered the stool.

  “Damn.”

  “That would not have helped your cause, Chaucer.”

  “I don’t know about that. Freedom can help a man accomplish much.”

  Crispin stepped into the small cell. “And here I am close to freeing you for good.”

  Geoffrey rushed him. “You are? How? When may I leave?”

  “Patience, Geoffrey. Not yet.” He sat on the stool and surveyed the four walls. The last time he was here, Geoffrey had punched him in the jaw. He thought about returning the favor, but he reckoned being incarcerated for two murders was probably retaliation enough.

  “I have an interesting tale to tell. It seems to concern the descendants of four murderers.”

  Chaucer sat on the cot. “What murderers?”

  “Keep up, Geoffrey. Thomas à Becket’s murderers, of course.” Geoffrey gasped and hunched forward. “Madam Eglantine and Brother Wilfrid were both descendants of the killers, and, as it turns out, so is Father Gelfridus.”

  Chaucer shook his head in long sweeps. Crispin noticed that his carefully trimmed beard was getting shaggy and blending with a scruffy jawline. His hair was unkempt and his gown rumpled. There was a certain amount of satisfaction with this, but after a moment it didn’t sit well with him. What sort of friend was he to find joy in the misery of those he loved?

  “This must be a jest,” Chaucer was saying.

  He shook his head. “And the best of all, the murder weapon belonged to Fitz-Urse, and so the fourth is among us. But I do not know who it is.”

  “This is incredible. Amazing. Why would such a thing be?”

  “I do not know. But I will find out.”

  A new respect emerged from the poet’s features. “You are very good at this,” he commented softly.