“What other explanation could there be? The saint himself, who witnessed all these terrible things. Oh my Lord and my God!” Dom Thomas fell to his knees. “Forgive me for this deception. Blessed Thomas. Forgive me!”
* * *
FAR TOO MUCH HAD happened that night. Crispin retired to his bed and Jack, as white as a ghost himself, settled on his own cot, though Crispin doubted the boy slept.
Brokhull came early to the inn the next morning. Crispin left Jack huddled by their fire to speak to the sheriff. He carried with him the sword of Fitz-Urse.
Crispin greeted him with a bow, but Brokhull’s greeting was more to Crispin’s liking: He offered a full jug of ale and two cups. They sat together by the hearth and downed a cup each before the sheriff spoke. “All is well, Master Crispin. At least, as well as can be with tidings such as these. Three religious dead.” He shook his head and his face was lost again behind his beaker. He wiped his mouth with his hand. “Saint Thomas’s relics have been restored to their rightful place, thanks to you. I do not know what the archbishop is paying you, but I am certain it is not enough.”
“My payment will be better served by leaving this place and returning to London, for I sorely miss it,” he said, even though such a thought had been foreign to him before.
“Are you certain? I could use a man with your talents. I would pay you well.”
“That is something to consider. Though London is my home.”
“Tracker, eh? Does it satisfy you?”
“In its way.”
“I can see that a man such as yourself would be better served with no master. Perhaps … I envy you.”
“Me? Do not envy me, Lord Sheriff. What you see is the sum total of what I have.”
“Then what I see is a man well armed to take on the world.”
Surprised, Crispin merely drank another. He looked at the sword at his feet and handed it to the sheriff. “Lord Sheriff, I surrender the sword of Fitz-Urse to you.”
The sheriff sneered at the weapon. “You do not own a sword, Master Crispin. Why don’t you keep it?”
Crispin hefted the blade a moment, but then offered it hilt first to Brokhull. “True, I own no sword, but I fear this one would be a poor replacement. It has ill-luck attached to it, to be sure. And more ill-luck, I do not need.”
The sheriff nodded and reluctantly took it.
Harry Bailey thumped down the stairs and when he caught sight of Crispin he hurried down the last several steps and joined the men by the fire. “Master Crispin. Lord Sheriff.” He sat with a heavy sigh. “Bless me! I have never in my life experienced a pilgrimage such as this.”
“Nor, I hope, shall we ever again,” said Crispin darkly.
“I will drink to that,” and he poured himself a beaker and drank it down.
The innkeeper brought a platter with cold meats and bowls of steaming broth. They thanked him and partook of the food.
Crispin sipped at the broth. “By the way.” He set down the bowl and wiped his lips. “Have our friends the Summoner and Pardoner returned?”
Bailey shook his head. “No one has heard or seen a wisp of them.”
Crispin snorted into his beaker. “As I thought.”
The sheriff drew his bowl from his lips. “Were there others you would have me pursue, Master Crispin?”
“Not for the moment.”
Harry Bailey edged forward, an earnest look on his weary face. He seemed much older of a sudden, and Crispin realized what a great strain this whole affair was for all concerned.
“How is young Jack? It was apparent to me—to all of us—that he was enamored of the youthful nun.”
Crispin sighed. “He will recover. As must we all. He is young and resilient.”
They fell silent, no doubt reliving their own first loves. Crispin worried about Jack, but young men suffered disappointments and trials all the time. Jack was certainly no stranger to either. Of course one’s survival was easier to cope with than one’s passions. Dame Marguerite would be burned into his consciousness for years to come. It would help mold him into the man he was swiftly becoming. Crispin only hoped it would make him stronger and not tear him down.
“Whatever happened to our dear Franklin?” asked Crispin.
The sheriff harrumphed. “Sir Bonefey?” He waved with a pullet haunch. “My men apprehended him on his way back to London. Do you still want him?”
Crispin considered. As annoying as the man was, he had done no actual harm. “No. But I fear I must apologize to him. I treated him with little courtesy.”
“Never fear that. If he would not declare it to you, he certainly feared the king’s justice. He eagerly confessed his entire plot. To serve the Lollards, he conspired to steal the bones with the help of your Summoner and Pardoner. Of course, Dom Thomas ruined that plan with his own plot. Or rather, the archbishop’s.”
Crispin snorted at the machinations of the nobility. Had the archbishop simply left it alone … But alas, Prioress Eglantine and Wilfrid would still be dead. “And his Excellency. What of him?” Crispin sipped his ale and watched the sheriff with steely concentration.
“I cannot bring charges. He is the Archbishop of Canterbury. If he wishes to relocate the relics in his own cathedral there is nothing for me to say to it. As for his calling his own Episcopal trial, well … That is a matter I do not wish to trouble the king with. Or Rome. The cathedral is being re-consecrated. There has been no mention of a theft but the bones will be paraded about Canterbury tomorrow in celebration.”
“I shall be gone by then.”
“Indeed,” said Bailey. “So should we all. We must return to London. We have tarried here long enough.” He set down his beaker and rose. “I’m certain the others would agree with me. Come with us, Master Crispin. Verily, you could do with the company.”
Crispin felt the abrupt weariness of the week’s events and agreed with Bailey. To return to London with an assembly was certainly more companionable. And it might be better for Jack as well. He was about to say just that, when a man burst through the inn’s door, shouting at the top of his lungs.
Everyone jumped to their feet. All Crispin could think was, What is it now?
“There’s murder, Lord Sheriff!” cried the man, little older than Jack, and more ragged. “We have a man cornered. There are witnesses! Come, please!”
The sheriff was almost out the door the moment the man mentioned “murder.” The others followed. Crispin cursed Canterbury. It seemed they simply could not escape death this trip.
Brokhull led the way to the crowd of shouting townsfolk who had seized someone. When the sheriff arrived the people parted for him and Crispin saw what the trouble was.
He wasn’t much surprised.
Peter Chanticleer was being held tight by two men while the others shouted at him. His long gown was covered in blood.
“What is this?” the sheriff demanded.
“I killed him,” said Chanticleer, chin thrust proudly. “He cheated me! He was a foul, loathsome churl and I killed him. And I shall not repent of it, though I know I will hang.” His lips trembled. “God will find forgiveness for me for ridding the world of that vile Summoner.”
Crispin nodded to himself as Brokhull took his leave of him to lead Chanticleer and the others away.
A fitting end for two wicked men.
The Miller was right, though. The Devil had come to roost in Canterbury. Crispin was glad to leave it.
24
THE ROAD SNAKING AWAY from Canterbury was a ribbon of mud. The solemn troupe left the city behind and good riddance to it, but they hadn’t left it very far when they encountered mud-splattered riders with the livery of the duke of Lancaster. With all the emotional turmoil of Dame Marguerite and Becket’s bones, Crispin had quite forgotten he had requested the duke’s help.
Chaucer rode forth to meet them. Crispin wasn’t close enough to hear their exchange but with emphatic gestures and, Crispin suspected, rosy embellishments, the tale was told. Geoffrey
gestured once toward Crispin and the two men fixed their eyes on him for a long moment. They spoke to Geoffrey a few moments more before turning their mounts. The horses kicked up a cockerel’s tail of mud as they galloped away back toward London.
Chaucer rejoined Crispin with a smile. There was a spot of mud on his cheek but Crispin did not tell him of it. “That was my rescue. Cris, I’m touched.”
Crispin rolled his eyes at Geoffrey’s expression. But he was relieved he had not needed Lancaster’s men.
For the rest of the long two days back to London, spring rains continued to drizzle over their quiet company, and often the weary travelers had to dismount and walk their horses through the worst of the mire. Crispin had led Alyson’s horse over the stickiest of muddy places and she smiled that gat-toothed grin at him in gratitude, the first smile in at least a day after the terrible events in Canterbury.
It was two days of watching Jack sitting straight-backed on his horse, sinking into a dull and unfamiliar quietude that worried Crispin.
But it was also two days of reacquainting himself with his friend Chaucer, and he was glad of it.
Geoffrey regaled him with stories of court and of his own adventures as the king’s spy, though he kept those stories close for their ears alone. They laughed together. Crispin laughed, and he felt the sharp pang of regret rasping behind it, because he knew this renewed camaraderie could not last. So he clutched at it like a cherished object, keeping it in his heart for now, a heart almost as broken as Jack’s.
London’s spires and rooftops came into view, masked by thin layers of smoke and mist. They reached the Tabard Inn and dismounted their horses in the courtyard, the remaining company of Thomas Clarke, Alyson, Father Gelfridus—who had stayed by himself for the ride back—Edwin Gough, Harry Bailey, Geoffrey Chaucer, and finally Crispin and Jack. They were certainly not the jovial party that had set out from this little inn a sennight ago. All had been sorely tested and they entered the inn for a last beaker of ale and to bid their farewells.
“Drink, my friends,” said Bailey, lifting his own horn. “We will drink to the grace of God for delivering us safely home, to the souls that did not return with us, and to a brighter morrow.”
Everyone lifted their cups in solemn silence. Bailey’s wife watched curiously from a doorway.
Jack turned slowly toward Crispin. “Can we go home now, Master Crispin?”
“Yes, Jack. Let us say our farewells.”
He shook Clarke’s hand and thanked him for his candidness. He gripped the Miller’s strong arm and wished him well. Father Gelfridus glanced up at him with guilty eyes but Crispin clutched his shoulder reassuringly. “Father priest, do not look so saddened. I knew full well you could not divulge what you heard confessed under the sacramental seal.”
“I know I have fulfilled my office.” He rubbed his hands and clutched at the crucifix dangling from his neck. “But I prayed for guidance. I failed that lost soul.”
“She was lost far too long ago, Father. You might have been her next victim.”
He shook his head. “And such would have been a blessing compared to the feelings I must carry with me now.”
He nodded to the priest. There was little left to say to that. He watched the priest move away, shutting himself within his rich cloak. Crispin wondered what the man would tell the priory when he returned to it. Crispin didn’t envy him.
A touch. He turned and gazed into the glowing countenance of Alyson. She smiled. The grin was frayed by the sadness of recent events. “Ah, Crispin,” she said. Her fingers slid down his arm and entangled with his own. “You are a fine man and a clever one. You and I, eh? We are a pair of mules, are we not? Stubborn to the last.”
He chuckled in spite of himself. He regretted very much that they had not had one more night together.
“I tell you what you must do,” she said, her smile broadening. “Marry me.”
Crispin jerked with surprise. “What?”
“Marry me, man. You’d be number six. And you’d be happy, too.”
He sorted through his shock and tried to form words. “I … it’s a generous offer.”
Instead of being insulted by his hesitation, Alyson gave a full-bodied laugh. “All my husbands, young and old, died before me. I’ll warrant that you do not eagerly rush to that! Aye, it’s a genuine gospel puzzle, that is. Whose wife would I be in heaven? And you don’t relish standing next to those fellows. Well, bless me, I don’t blame you. I tell you, Crispin. You are a lusty and vigorous bedmate!” She said the last a little too loudly and the Miller, Edwin Gough, chortled. Crispin glanced guiltily at Jack who was doing his best to pretend he hadn’t heard.
“I have never been presented with so magnanimous a suit,” he said. “But … I regret to say that I am not ready for such a commitment.”
“Alas! Such a loss. You would have liked it well, Crispin.” She reached up and planted a moist kiss to his cheek. “Then fare you well. God keep you. May the saints watch over you.” She patted the spot she had kissed, and swept from the inn, calling her good-byes and advice to the others.
Finally, there was only Crispin and Chaucer left. They thanked Harry Bailey and left the inn together. Crispin’s heart felt heavy, for he knew that he and Geoffrey would now part, perhaps never to cross paths again. Geoffrey mounted alongside him and the three of them rode out of the courtyard together. Crispin said nothing as they traveled across London Bridge, but finally had to speak. “I must return these horses to Newgate. And then I’m returning to my lodgings. I suppose…” He sniffed the heavy air of London, feeling a strange pang of familiarity and regret that he was home at last. “I suppose that this is where we part.”
Chaucer stared at him forlornly. He wound his reins around his gloved hand. The horse shook out its head, jangling the bridle. “Oh.” He bit his lip and furrowed his brow. “Curse it, Cris. I have seen so little of you. And now I owe you my life.”
Crispin yanked his hood lower over his forehead, hiding his eyes. “You owe me nothing. We are friends, Geoffrey. Whether … whether we see each other again or not.”
Chaucer considered this and stared at his saddle pommel. “We will. You can be certain of that.” He wheeled his horse about and Crispin watched his mount saunter away into the dense crowds of Thames Street.
* * *
AFTER THEY RETURNED THEIR horses, Crispin and Jack walked silently back from Newgate down the Shambles. Looking up, he caught sight of the pot hanging from a hook overlooking the tinker’s door. Home. He hailed the tinker Martin Kemp, who was showing a customer his work. The man smiled back in greeting.
Crispin trudged up the stairs, weary in body and spirit, and abruptly pulled up short when he saw his door ajar.
He motioned for Jack to step back, drew his dagger, and kicked the door open.
A figure turned from the cold hearth. He was shadowed at first, but when the door opened wider and shed new light, Crispin nearly dropped his knife.
“Your grace!” He dropped to his knee to the duke of Lancaster and hastily sheathed his knife. Rising, he stepped in, pulling Jack along, and quickly closed the door. “My lord, why are you here?” And suddenly, Crispin felt his face go scarlet. Lancaster was seeing for himself the conditions in which he lived. The incongruous spectacle of the velvet-gowned duke standing in his lowly residence made him cringe with shame. “Why are you here?” he asked again, desperately.
Lancaster looked Crispin over before his eyes settled on Jack. The duke pulled out the one chair and sat. He laid his gloved hands on the rough surface of the table. Ruddy spots tinged his cheeks over a dark beard. “Well? Have you no wine?”
Crispin blinked, woke himself, and went to fetch his jug, hoping it still contained something drinkable. His heart clenched when he saw there was very little left in the chipped clay jug. He raised it and must have looked so stricken that the duke waved him off. “It doesn’t matter. Sit with me.”
Crispin slowly extracted the stool from its place beneath the t
able and gingerly sat. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Jack making himself as small as possible in the corner.
The duke wasted no time. “I received your missive and dispatched a representative as soon as possible, but you had already left Canterbury.”
“Our business there was done. We encountered your riders and told them … told them…”
“Indeed. They arrived a day before you did and told me all.”
Crispin picked at the edge of the table with his fingernail. “I was only doing my job. It is what I do.”
“Yes.” Even though he would not look up he could tell the duke was studying him attentively. “You are still angry with me.”
Should he lie? It didn’t seem to matter. “Yes,” he answered.
Lancaster chuckled. “Subtle as always, I see.”
“You used to value my honesty.”
“So I did.”
“And I yours.”
“Now Crispin. I never professed to be honest. Honesty in a prince is not his most highly prized commodity. It can, in fact, be to his detriment. I suppose the last time a monarch was truly honest was our own Saint Edward the Confessor. And look where it got him? Invasion by William the Conqueror.”
He rolled his fists on his thighs beneath the table. “History lesson duly noted. Why are you here?”
“Very well.” He settled back. “You have saved the life of my very valuable servant and have recovered the honor of my house that would have been scandalously damaged by that cur Courtenay, had his plot succeeded. Secreting the bones of Saint Thomas in my own brother’s tomb! The gall of the man!”
Crispin said nothing. Why are you here? WHY ARE YOU HERE! he screamed in his head.
“Deeds such as these require more than mere compensation.”
What?
“Indeed, I could pay you in coins, but…” He looked around the shabby room. His brows said it all. “Instead, I wish to offer you a post in my household.”
Crispin’s fists whitened under the hiding shadows of the table. “But…” The king had been explicit about his orders. No one was to succor him. No one. True, he had saved the life of the king and Richard had offered him back his knighthood and riches … if he would ingratiate himself in front of all the court. He had naturally refused and this had set Richard off on another tirade. He had told Crispin—shouted at him—that he would never be trusted, never be allowed back at court. What was different now?
Troubled Bones Page 24