“I know what the king declared,” said Lancaster, seeming to read his mind. “But this is a humble post. We would rarely see you. Something similar to what Chaucer sometimes does for me. Small jobs requiring a man of your skills. The compensation would be quite a bit more than you expect now.”
“None of these jobs would have anything to do with treason, would they?”
Lancaster leapt to his feet. “By God, Guest! I should strike you down!”
Crispin slowly rose. It did not do to sit while his lord stood. “It has been tried before. But I am like a cat. Nine lives.”
“How many left, I wonder?”
He shrugged. “No doubt Geoffrey gains from such employment. Though I rather thought he was spying for the king.” Lancaster’s face revealed nothing. “Well,” said Crispin. “King, crown; uncle, nephew. Little difference it makes.”
“You tread too fine a line.”
“Between life and death? Yes, it seems I am always treading that line, my lord.” He moved to the hearth, retrieved the tinder box, lit the small bits of straw, and tucked them under the peat. It only smoldered at first before the dark chunks of dried peat caught a flame. “I do not feel I can trust you, my lord. I would have thought you’d know that by now.”
“Crispin! You were like a son to me!”
“And you sacrificed me. No angel stayed your hand as they did for Abraham when he would have slain Isaac. No, my lord. I have had a taste of the king’s justice. It is not to my liking.”
“I offer you a chance at your rightful place again.”
“And he will not take it.”
They both turned toward the voice at the back of the room. Jack straightened his coat, the one Crispin had bought for him. “He has said his peace, your grace.”
“And what is this place you now inhabit, Crispin, when servants speak for their betters?”
“A place of trust,” Crispin answered, never moving his gaze from Jack’s. “Where the master will never sacrifice the servant for himself.”
Lancaster gathered himself as if he might strike down the both of them, but as quickly as his anger blossomed, his resolve seemed to wilt and he took a step back. “Will you never forgive me, Crispin?” His voice was unexpectedly soft.
He looked up at his lord then, the man who raised him, made him a knight. But as Geoffrey so succinctly put it, he was also a man who, by rights, could just as easily take it all away. Did such a man truly owe Crispin anything?
“On this journey,” said Crispin, “I have seen how the sin of vengeance can seep into the heart of an innocent and shred that life till the soul is left in tatters. I have no desire to see my own soul degenerate to such a state.” He felt Jack’s eyes on him, felt the warmth from his gaze. “And though I … I may find it hard to forgive, your grace, I find that it is not … impossible.” He lowered his eyes, unable to bear the expression in Lancaster’s steady gaze. “Give me time, my lord,” he said softly. “Perhaps in time, our debts to one another will have been paid.”
The slump of the duke’s shoulder and his drooping lids showed a more subdued demeanor. He gave a curt nod.
“Though I thank you for your kind offer,” said Crispin more lightly. “Today seems to be my day for propositions.”
Lancaster, now ill at ease, measured him, the room, and finally Jack. “What is your name, lad?” he said to fill the silence.
Jack straightened his shoulders. “I am Jack Tucker, sir. Apprentice Tracker.”
The corner of Lancaster’s mouth twitched, but he did not smile. Instead, he nodded to them both and gathered his cloak about him. “Then I must say my farewell, Crispin.” He took a step toward the door, paused, and without turning, said, “Whatever you may think of me, I was only doing what was best for the kingdom.”
Crispin looked at the floor. “So was I.”
Lancaster inclined his head. He grasped the door latch and was quickly out the door.
When it closed at last with a final click, Crispin collapsed into his chair. “I have done a very foolish thing. Again.”
Jack touched his arm. “No, sir. You stood up for yourself. I am proud to have witnessed it. ‘The ideal man bears the accidents of life with dignity and grace, making the best of circumstances.’”
He blinked. “Why, Jack. Is that Aristotle?”
“Aye, sir. It seemed fitting, sir.”
It also seemed to be Crispin’s day for blushing. He settled himself on the chair, leaning on the table’s surface. “It is fitting to you, as well, Jack.”
Jack shrugged. “I have had hardships, it is true. And there will be more along the way. That’s a certainty. But this is your day, master. You told that duke. You showed him what your mettle is. No matter what others may say, I think your family would have been proud of you this day, sir.”
“Family. I think you are my only family now, Jack.”
The boy smiled. “If only that were so. But I am pleased to be your apprentice, sir. That is good enough for me. Far better than I could have hoped for.”
Crispin nodded. But the boy started him thinking about his family.
“Jack, fetch my rings.” He knew that the lad knew where they were. Jack hesitated and then went to the loose floorboard beside the wall under the window and brought out the little cloth bundle. Jack handed it to Crispin and he took it. Unwrapping the package, the rings fell into the little well of his palm. Two rings. One belonged to his father and the other to him. He held the gold band to the light of the opened window and studied the signet carefully created on its face. The arms of Guest.
He held it in his hand for a moment longer, feeling its weight, before slipping it on his finger.
Author’s Afterword
Ah, I wish Becket’s bones were still around (Henry VIII had them destroyed when he took over the Church of England, or so it is believed). I wish they were safely tucked away in Prince Edward’s tomb. But wishing doesn’t make a thing true, so it’s best to leave Edward’s tomb alone, all right?
Though the characters in Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales all revealed specific themes and lessons of morality, I’d like to think that some might be based on actual individuals. The original number of pilgrims in his story was thirty-four, including Chaucer, but I chose to cut that amount down considerably to a much more manageable number. The descriptions come directly from the text, with some added help from the Ellsmere Manuscript with its extraordinary illustrations of all the characters.
So who was real and who was fiction in this piece? Well, certainly Chaucer is real, though he was planted firmly in this fictional play, one he might have been heartily amused to be involved in. He indeed worked for Lancaster as a spy, as a comptroller for the ports, and as a poet, of course. And his sister-in-law was the duke’s longtime mistress, Katherine Swynford, whom Lancaster eventually married after his second wife died.
The Archbishop of Canterbury, William de Courtenay, was also a real figure and did have animosity for the duke of Lancaster as was described herein, with a strong dislike for the Lollards. Dom Thomas Chillenden was indeed the treasurer and eventually became the prior of Christchurch Priory. And just what did he say in Latin to Crispin when he said, “Ecce iterim Crispinus”? Translated: “Lo, Crispin again.” It’s from the first-century Roman poet Juvenal who also coined “bread and circuses,” and means “we’re back to this again!” Been wanting to use that phrase for a while.
I’ve also been wanting to get to Chaucer in my series. I grew up with The Canterbury Tales. I was probably the only American five-year-old who could recite the first few lines of the Prologue. In Middle English, no less! I just assumed school kids in 1960s Los Angeles all knew the story of Chaunticleer. They didn’t. I had a children’s version of The Canterbury Tales, which I pored over during my childhood with its Bosch-esque illustrations. I have it still. Later, of course, when I was older I could enjoy the Fabliuex of the Miller’s Tale and the finer points of the Wife of Bath’s Tale. I haunted the Huntington Library in San Ma
rino, California, when I was a kid and later as a teen, where they have, among other wonderful things, the Ellsmere Manuscript on display.
In this book I have strayed from a firm point of view through Crispin’s eyes and offered a look through Jack’s. I hope, dear Reader, that this didn’t throw you and that, indeed, you found a new pleasure in the reading, having a rare glimpse into Jack’s psyche. I love Jack. He’s Peter Pan, the Artful Dodger, Huck Finn, and every other smart little boy we’ve ever known who just needed a chance to prove himself. Where would Crispin be without Jack? Jack is growing up, though, and in no other previous novel has this been more apparent.
There is more murder afoot, sly deceptions, a mysterious relic, an irresistible femme fatale, the return of Geoffrey Chaucer, and more stirring adventure in Crispin’s next tale, Blood Lance.
Glossary
CANONICAL HOURS Also called the Divine Office, these are specific hours for certain prayers by monastics, though the church bells that called each canonical hour helped divide the day for the laity as well.
CHAPERON HOOD A shoulder cape with a hood attached.
CHAPLAIN In the context of The Canterbury Tales, the Prioress’ chaplain is a personal assistant rather than a confessor.
CHEMISE A shirt for both male and female, usually white. All-purpose, used also as a nightshirt.
COMPLINE The last canonical hour of the day.
COTEHARDIE (COAT) Any variety of upper-body outerwear popular from the early Middle Ages to the Renaissance. For men, it was a coat reaching to the thighs or below the knee, with buttons all the way down the front and sometimes at the sleeves. Worn over a chemise. Sometimes the belt was worn at the hips and sometimes the belt moved up to the waist. This is what Crispin wears.
DEGRADATION This is when knighthood is taken from a man, usually because of treason or other crimes against the crown.
FRANKLIN Ranked below the gentry, he is a freeholder of land.
HOUPPELANDE A fourteenth-century upper-body outerwear for men or women, with fashionably long sleeves that touched the ground.
INDULGENCE A remission of punishment (in Purgatory, for instance) after sacramental absolution.
LATTEN An alloy resembling brass.
LIRIPIPE The long tail on a hat or hood.
MANCIPLE Servant responsible for supplying provisions for a college or inn; in this case for law students.
NEWGATE A city gate in London as well as a prison.
NONE One of the canonical hours of the day, about two pm.
PARDONER A purveyor of indulgences, a pardoner of sins.
ROUNCEY A riding horse.
SENNIGHT A period of seven days, a week.
SHRIVE/SHRIVEN To make confession in the penitential sense.
SORREL Chestnut brown color, commonly used when referring to horses.
SUMMONER Official of ecclesiastical courts who calls upon religious offenders to attend.
VESPERS One of the canonical hours, sunset.
WHELP A young dog.
The Crispin Guest Novels by Jeri Westerson
Veil of Lies
Serpent in the Thorns
The Demon’s Parchment
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
TROUBLED BONES. Copyright © 2011 by Jeri Westerson. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:
Westerson, Jeri.
Troubled bones : a Crispin Guest medieval noir / Jeri Westerson. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-312-62163-6
1. Guest, Crispin (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Knights and knighthood—England—Fiction. 3. Theft of relics—Fiction. 4. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 5. Great Britain—History—14th century—Fiction. 6. London (England)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3623.E8478T76 2011
813'.6—dc22
2011018785
e-ISBN 9781429977586
First Edition: October 2011
Troubled Bones Page 25