Troubled Bones

by Jeri Westerson

  “But why, Marguerite?” he cried.

  She turned dull eyes on Jack, where they softened. “Because she was most cruel to my mother. Is God not love? Isn’t that exactly what my Lady Prioress preached? And yet. There seems to be so little love in the world. My mother was not loved by her family and they sent her away all because of a babe. An innocent babe. And my Lady Prioress showed little love to her, treating her cruelly, giving her much penance and hard work, all because of this babe. She was a lady once. My mother. She died a peasant. And she died saddened to her soul. She was not loved. But I loved her. And I swore to her as she lay dying that I would avenge her. And I have. But I am sorry about the monk.”

  Jack closed his eyes. His lashes were dark with tears. Without opening them he asked, “Did you kill Brother Wilfrid?”

  “I regret that I did. You see, he knew the nature of my name. He works in the treasury and the rolls of the church, so he said. He knew my name and knew it used to be Fitz-Urse. He was going to tell. And then everyone would have known it was me.”

  Crispin wanted to be far from this place. But it had to be done. Questions needed to be answered. “How did you get the dagger?” he asked.

  “Master Chaucer was leaving his room when I noticed he had quill and parchment. I begged him if I could borrow a portion of parchment to send a missive to my priory. He was kind and allowed me to write my note in his rooms. But he is also careless. For he left his dagger behind. I took it. It was a pretty thing with gems upon it. The Prioress was fond of pretty things. She had beautiful sleek greyhounds who ate meat and gnawed good bones better suited for soup, while my mother ate rough bread and stale cheese. I’d lost my sword, you see, so I took the dagger in compensation.”

  He glanced back at Chaucer and his face was white and grim. “But how were you able to smuggle the sword into the church?”

  “I told my Lady Prioress that I had forgotten my rosary and I went back for the sword in my things. I have kept it carefully hidden in my trunk. We are not allowed to own anything of our former lives, you see. But I knew I needed my mother’s sword. It was all that was left. And I killed my Lady Prioress, and I killed him. And I have confessed it, and so I am absolved.”

  And Father Gelfridus was the beneficiary of that! He now understood the priest’s agitation. A murderer did confess, just not the one Crispin thought. The priest was not allowed to say. To even warn anyone.

  “I cannot allow you to go free, Dame. And I certainly would never allow you to go away with Jack. You are my prisoner now.”

  She frowned and looked down. She shook her head. “No. I think not.”

  “You have confessed it, Dame, before witnesses. You must pay for these crimes.”

  “But I have confessed it to a priest. I was absolved. I am a nun and I have killed my prioress and a monk. Surely it is a matter for God.”

  “For God, yes. But first for the hangman.”

  Her eyes suddenly took on a wild expression. She looked at Jack, his face marred with tears, and then caught sight of Chaucer and Dom Thomas cringing in the near darkness.

  Like a frightened sparrow, she darted away into the smothering shadows.

  Everyone moved at once. Crispin cursed. “Be still! I cannot hear in which direction she has gone!”

  “That way!” pointed Chaucer.

  But Dom Thomas lifted his arm and aimed at another direction. “No. It was there!”

  “God’s blood! Everyone go off and search!”

  Crispin looked back at Jack. The boy slid to the floor, the sword clutched in his hand. He left him alone. The boy needed to grieve.

  He heard Chaucer retreat toward the quire and Dom Thomas down the nave to the west entrance, but Crispin headed toward the north aisle, ears cocked and listening.

  He made his way up the north ambulatory, spying around corners and pillars, but he saw no one. Darkness had fallen, and the church was draped in deep shadows and a few flickering candles. Starlight shone through Saint Thomas’s miracle windows.

  He crept up the pilgrim stair and carefully entered the Chapel of Saint Thomas, scanning over the many silent tombs. The candles around Becket’s shrine had been extinguished. No need for candles when the relics were not there.

  When he turned back, a shadowy figure stood at some distance. Startled, Crispin squinted. Who was it? He recognized the odd shape of the miter on his head. It was not a tall miter as he usually wore, but a shorter version. His face was a dark silhouette. “Your Excellency? What are you doing here?”

  The archbishop said nothing. He raised an arm and pointed toward the Corona tower door. Crispin looked. The door hung open.

  “Much thanks,” he called over his shoulder and ran for it. He reached the door and gently pushed it open. The stairwell was empty. Crispin felt like a fool, but decided that “better a live fool then a dead one” and pulled his dagger. Slowly, he climbed the stairs, sliding his back along the stone wall. The dark stairwell was cold from a draught swirling down from the open door above. He could see stars through the opening and finally reached it. He peered around the doorpost and spied the nun standing by the battlements, looking out across the city.

  “Dame Marguerite.”

  She did not turn. “Look at all the houses down there. See the little candles in the windows? Is it lovely having a family, all homely together, I wonder?”

  “I am sorry for the cruelness of your life, Dame, but it is never a matter for murder. Surely you could have left the priory when you came of age and found your own husband.”

  “Who would take me? No dowry, no name. I am no one.”

  Crispin flinched. Yes, how cruel the world could be to those without a name. “And so, too, did I lose all. But I have made a life.”

  She turned then and studied him with deadened eyes. “You find criminals and bring them to justice.” Her voice was unsteady.

  He nodded. “I do.”

  “Am I a criminal?”

  “I fear, Dame, that this is so.”

  She seemed to consider this. “Will the sheriff hang me?”

  He hesitated. “Justice … must be served. Would you see another die in your place? Master Chaucer was accused of these crimes. He was slated to die tomorrow for them. Would you see that happen to an innocent man?”

  “Master Chaucer? And he is such a merry fellow. I would not see that happen.”

  “And so. You will have to accompany me to the sheriff and tell him your tale.”

  She sighed and turned back to the sparkling city with its torches and candlelight glittering on the evening air. “I shall never have a family. Not a proper one. I wish … Alas. Wishes are sometimes like prayers, are they not? They are as lost and as futile.”

  “Prayers are not futile, Dame. God listens to us.”

  “He listens, but does He act?”

  Crispin fingered his dagger before sheathing it. “I am no theologian.”

  “No. You are a man. I am a woman. And I have sinned. Death is the only course for sinners, no?”

  “Dame…”

  He should have suspected; he should have been better prepared, but it happened so fast.

  Marguerite gave him a sad smile before she pivoted on the stone, stepped up between the merlons, and flung herself over the edge.

  “No!” Crispin leapt and slammed hard against the tower floor, grasping at air.

  Her gown fluttered in the wind, lifting her for only a moment, before she fell into the blackness of the night. She made no sound in her descent.

  He strained his neck looking up at the empty place where the nun had stood, feeling the uneven paving dig into his chest. He gradually drew himself up, dragged his feet to the edge, and looked down, but the tower’s foundations were lost in darkness.

  There was a scramble at the stairs and Jack’s white face appeared. “Where is she?”

  “Jack…”

  The boy looked quickly around and made an abrupt run for the edge. Crispin grabbed him and held him tightly. “It’s too lat
e, Jack. It’s too late.”

  Jack gripped Crispin’s coat. He struggled, but it was only for a moment. All at once he slumped and sobbed into Crispin’s chest. He held the boy tighter, hoping to make it better, knowing he could not.

  23

  THEY MET, ALL OF them—Crispin, Jack, Chaucer, Dom Thomas—in Courtenay’s study. The archbishop was not pleased to be summoned out of Vespers, but Crispin insisted, and with the sheriff and his men nearby, it was easy to persuade him.

  “What is he doing out of his cell?” Courtenay pointed at Chaucer. Geoffrey, mustering his dignity even with several days of beard growth on his cheeks and a dirty gown, spoke for himself.

  “Your Excellency, God Himself has released me.”

  “Is that so? I think, rather, it is a disobedient monk.” He swiveled his glare and landed it squarely on Dom Thomas.

  The monk did not cower, and for that Crispin held a new respect for him.

  “Your Excellency,” said Dom Thomas, “I did what was right and proper. Master Chaucer was not guilty. We have seen the proof of it this night.”

  “Proof? I see only another death. A suicide, you say? I should lock you up, Crispin Guest. You have brought nothing but trouble to us.”

  “I have brought you truth, Excellency. A quality this parish has sorely lacked.”

  “You dare—”

  “Enough!” Crispin’s voice stilled the others. He brought his scowl all the way to the foot of Courtenay’s chair. “I have had enough of your lies and trickery. You didn’t bring me here to guard the bones of Saint Thomas. You called me here to discredit the duke of Lancaster! And when Geoffrey’s dagger was found in Brother Wilfrid’s throat, you found a better revenge. You thought to execute Lancaster’s pet, never thinking, never dreaming that lives were in peril. What sort of shepherd are you?”

  Courtenay said nothing. He squirmed on his chair.

  Crispin straightened his coat. “I will explain events here as I reckoned them, and then I will be leaving this place. Canterbury does not feel as welcoming as it once did.” He turned to Geoffrey. “Master Chaucer lost his dagger by mischance. He left it in his room where Dame Marguerite easily found it and took it.”

  “The poor soul,” said Dom Thomas. “We heard her confession,” he said to Sheriff Brokhull. “There is no question she was the killer of both her prioress and our brother monk. But why did she kill her prioress?”

  “Cruelty,” said Crispin. “She lived under the Prioress’s roof and witnessed every day the cruelty the Prioress inflicted against her mother. Every word of scorn, every touch of the rod, must have chipped away at Dame Marguerite’s sanity until she became the sad and confused woman we encountered today. I am certain Prioress Eglantine thought she was serving God’s will by treating the sinful woman as she did. But after penance, there must be a time of reconciliation and healing. Surely that is what God intended.”

  “You speak with your own authority, Master Guest,” said Courtenay. “You know nothing of the hardships that one endures in the confines of a monastery. Discipline must be maintained.”

  “Indeed. Saint Benet devised the rule under which your own monks as well as Prioress Eglantine’s nuns live. But even he cautioned that those who have power over other souls must make a reckoning on Judgment Day. Prioress Eglantine’s day … came early.”

  Courtenay scowled. “You walk very close to the line, Master Guest. But let us put an end to this discussion. Our poor daughter Marguerite was insane when she committed these crimes and died by her own will. We will pray for her soul, but she may not be buried in consecrated soil. The matter is at an end. Your duty has been discharged.”

  “Then I am a free man,” said Chaucer, smiling at the sheriff.

  “There is still a matter of heresy,” said the archbishop.

  Geoffrey scowled. “My lord! I am a loyal son of Mother Church. But I am sworn to serve in his grace the duke’s household. If Lollard he is, it does not make it so for me.”

  Courtenay glared at him, chin burled. “Very well, Master Chaucer. The charge of heresy is dismissed. But mark me, should you set foot on Canterbury soil again, the eye of the Church shall be upon you.”

  “Your Excellency, should I ever be fool enough to venture to Canterbury while you live, I will be in sore need of the Church’s benefit.” He smiled at Courtenay’s expression and rushed to take Crispin’s hand, shaking it vigorously. “Cris! By God! Tracker? No indeed! You are a Miracle Worker!”

  “Nothing of the kind,” he said with a rush of heat to his cheeks. He stepped away from Geoffrey, stamping down the pleasure he felt in his chest.

  “My treasurer will fetch you the remainder of your fees, Master Guest. If you will, Dom Thomas?”

  “One moment, Excellency,” said Crispin, stopping Dom Thomas as he turned. “There is still the matter of Saint Thomas’s bones.”

  “Oh, er … that is a matter we will content ourselves to solve on our own, Master Guest.”

  “There’s no need,” said Crispin. “I know where the bones are.” He hooked his thumbs in his belt and stepped forward. Amid all the horrors of this inquiry, he felt an uncommon satisfaction at the expression on the archbishop’s face. “Shall we repair to the Chapel of Saint Thomas?”

  He could tell Courtenay was about to say no, but Brokhull spoke up. “I for one would be pleased to see an end to this. Lead on, Master Crispin.”

  Crispin bowed to him. He didn’t wait for anyone to follow.

  It was quite late now. Dame Marguerite’s body had been recovered and the monks had taken her to their infirmary. Crispin had suggested calling upon the help of Alyson again and she had come, exchanging with Crispin the saddest look he had yet seen her jovial face wear. She said she would keep vigil with the nun’s remains until dawn and Crispin left her to it. He had asked Jack if he wished to join her, but Jack had silently shaken his head. No doubt there was much on Jack’s mind, and Crispin did not wish to interfere with the labyrinth of emotions the boy had to face on his own. Jack had chosen instead to accompany Crispin, strangely holding the unwrapped sword tight to his chest yet again.

  Crispin situated himself by Saint Thomas’s empty shrine and waited while the others gathered, carrying candles. But Crispin was only interested in Courtenay’s face. The man was angry but there was something more. He had seen that expression many a time on countless culprits. The man was caught. And he knew it.

  “I know it is late, but I shan’t keep you long,” said Crispin. “I worried over many things when I began to make my inquiries. I worried that a murderer and thief had escaped and absconded with these most precious relics. But I soon came to understand that the one had little to do with the other.

  “Dom Thomas was seen paying extortion money to a master mason who had seen something. Was it murder? I was soon disabused of that notion when I put together the facts. No, what the mason saw and what Dom Thomas was no doubt ordered to do, was remove the bones of Saint Thomas before I ever arrived. I do not blame your loyal monk, Archbishop. A man is only at the power of his superiors. Had he the presence of mind, the fortitude at the time, he would have refused to follow your orders as petty and small-minded.”

  “Now see here—”

  “Protest if you will, Excellency. It does not change the facts! He was ordered to remove the bones before my arrival.”

  Brokhull shook his head in amazement. “If that is true, Master Guest, then where are they now?”

  Crispin walked several strides to the tomb of Prince Edward. “I regret to say, that the bones of the sainted martyr are housed in the late Prince Edward’s tomb.”

  “How could you have possibly known?” gasped Dom Thomas.

  “Only later. I recalled being shooed away unceremoniously from his tomb not once but twice. The lid of the casket is slightly askew. And I found the finger bone of Saint Thomas between his own shrine and Prince Edward’s tomb. Obfuscation notwithstanding, this is the only possible answer.” He looked sharply at Courtenay. “Am I right,
Excellency?”

  Courtenay sucked in his lips but said nothing.

  “It is true,” sighed Dom Thomas. “Poor Wilfrid. It was too great a burden to lay upon his young shoulders. To keep such a secret! He was greatly troubled by the deception. I should have taken my conscience from him. Too late.”

  “You talk too much,” growled Courtenay.

  Thomas raised his head. “I should have spoken earlier. I am ashamed at how I used all of you. You can be assured I shall do much penance in recompense.”

  Crispin nodded. But he saved his iciest glare for Courtenay. “Have you nothing to say?”

  The archbishop remained his aristocratic self. “Well, naturally I moved the bones.”

  Silence followed this pronouncement. Crispin snorted. He’s playing it that way, is he?

  “I feared a Lollard threat,” Courtenay said, red-faced. “I felt it the wisest course to protect the bones.”

  Still no one spoke. Crispin doubted anyone believed the archbishop.

  “At any rate,” said Crispin after a long pause, “I have you to thank, your Excellency, for helping me find Dame Marguerite when she escaped from us.”

  “Me? I do not know your meaning.”

  “In the cathedral. You pointed out where she had gone. To the Corona tower.”

  “Are you mad? I was at Vespers.”

  Crispin shook his head. “But I saw you there. You were wearing a short miter and you pointed. From there.”

  They all looked to the edge of Saint Thomas’s shrine where Crispin indicated.

  “But I tell you I was at Vespers with my monks. They can all attest to that.”

  “But then … what bishop did I see?”

  As soon as Crispin said it, coldness crept over him, starting at his temples and trickling downward.

  Dom Thomas was the one to say it though Crispin well knew they were all thinking it. “It was Saint Thomas!”

  “No,” said Crispin, the words coming to his lips without thinking them. He refused to believe it.