Troubled Bones (12 page)

“Spoken like a Lollard.”

“And what if I am? I follow the dictates of my liege lord who is also a Lollard.”

“Lancaster.” He scowled.

“For a man whose life was purportedly saved by him, your opinion of Lancaster seems unnaturally low.”

He bared his teeth. “Saved my life. And would that life have needed saving if he had not schemed and plotted?”

“I don’t understand you. He raised you. He knighted you. He made you—”

“What I am today? Indeed, yes.” Chaucer, in all his finery, stood with his fist at his waist, a courtly posture. It annoyed Crispin. “Our liege lord, the man to whom we both swore oaths of allegiance, the man for whom I would have gladly laid down my life … this man betrayed me! I was used. To discover his enemies
he
engineered the treasonous plot. And I, the loyal servant that I was, fell into the web.”

Chaucer’s face blanched. “No! It is a lie!”

“I heard it from his own lips.”

Geoffrey paced in stunned silence. He looked once at Jack huddled on the stone steps clutching the wrapped sword to his bosom. “Are you telling me that my Lord of Gaunt
tricked
you into committing treason? Do you actually have the temerity to say that?”

“Temerity? I not only say it, I avow it. It happened. Jack is my witness.”

Chaucer looked at Jack again who suddenly shrunk under their scrutiny. “
This
is your witness?” he cried, raising his arm and pointing toward Jack. “This … this
beggar
? This pathetic excuse for a
protégé
?” He laughed unpleasantly. “You may very well blame Lancaster for your misfortunes. God knows the great Crispin Guest would never blame himself!”

“I
have
blamed myself. Over and over in my mind. Don’t you think I do? Don’t you think I would rather have died for Lancaster than smear his name? If he had but told me before it all happened, explained it! But no.” Geoffrey’s expression infuriated him. “Fie! It’s wasted breath on you. I’ll never make you see that I have paid my penance. But has he?”

“You speak of payment and penance as if they are owed you.”

“They
are
owed me! Look at me, Geoffrey. Look at me! Do you have any idea what my stinking lodgings on the Shambles are like?”

“You chose your lot, Guest. You chose to throw in with traitors. You swore your life to Lancaster, and suddenly you forget that he may do as he wishes with it. Even throw it away. He owes you nothing.” Geoffrey straightened his gown and climbed the steps, skirting Crispin and Jack. “I have business within. Go back to your inquiries. Find your murderer and your bones. That’s where it seems to suit you best. Amongst the dead.”

Chaucer’s footsteps receded.

Crispin lowered his head and panted. What was the matter with him? Why was he suddenly fighting with Geoffrey?

All this for one scrap of cloth that may not be a clue at all. He dug into his pouch and pulled out the bit of fabric, rubbing it between his calloused fingers.

“He won’t stay angry,” said Jack quietly. He had crept up beside Crispin without notice. “You haven’t seen each other in years. There are bound to be misunderstandings.”

“You don’t have to mollify me,” he grumbled, but he was grateful that Jack tried.

“What’s that, Master Crispin?” He switched the sword to the crook of his arm and took the cloth scrap out of Crispin’s hand.

“A clue. I found it stuck in the door of the Corona tower last night.”

Dawn broke on Jack’s face. “Is that why you asked about the archbishop’s robe? Master Crispin! You don’t think—”

“I don’t know what to think. His robe might have been used as a disguise by any monk here. Remember, the archbishop suspects one of his own.”

“But he ain’t the only one with a scarlet robe.”

“My friend Chaucer.”

“Aye. But I was thinking of Sir Philip Bonefey.”

Crispin stared at Jack. “So he does.”

“And Rafe Maufesour the Summoner, for good measure.”

Crispin chuffed a breath. “Perhaps we had best make a list of those who do
not
have a scarlet gown. It’s a smaller roll.”

“Now Master, it’s not so difficult. We will examine their robes one by one to see how this scrap may fit. That will eliminate the innocent.”

Crispin smiled in spite of himself. “That is very orderly thinking, Jack.”

“Well, I was taught by the best, now wasn’t I?” His pale cheeks flushed. “Now then. You’ve got this key, do you? Shouldn’t we use it?”

“Let’s begin with that tower stair.” He took the cloth scrap from Jack’s fingers and led the way back into the church. Pilgrims had already gathered with other faithful who came into the disorderly dust and work of the church to pray. Crispin shook his head and mouthed a few choice words describing the archbishop. Why had he not closed the church? A murder certainly required reconsecration. But the archbishop flouted canon law. Why? Greed? How much did they take in from the martyr’s shrine? He guessed it was a goodly sum, possibly half of their income for the year. If that coin flow should be cut off for a year or more…? He glanced up at the masons hammering, mortaring, pulling up stones by ropes and pulleys. The master mason said their payments were overdue. Was there a possibility of a shortfall in the cathedral books? If that were the case then the treasurer had some answering to do. Crispin wondered vaguely if Dom Thomas had a scarlet cloak as well.

A monk was giving a tour to the pilgrims on their slow progression toward the shrine. Crispin avoided them by taking the south aisle and climbing the steps opposite, near Prince Edward’s shrine.

“It was here, Jack, that I found the scrap of cloth. Let us see what lies beyond this door.”

He pulled the key from his pouch, fit it in the lock, and turned it twice. The door pushed open and Crispin stepped in. He expected a narrow spiraling stair and found it much wider, enough for two men side by side. It did spiral upward and was made of stone with carved niches along the curved walls. He looked down at the door and found only a few red threads.

“No blood,” he said.

Jack nodded. “So he didn’t come here
after
the murder but before.”

“Very good, Jack. Hiding and waiting for the moment. Except—” Crispin looked up the tower. Slit windows slanted golden light down the tower and revealed another door near the top. “If he hid in here he would first have encountered me by the shrine. Why wasn’t
I
attacked, then? Why go directly to the Prioress?”

“Well, he might have seen you and thought to create a distraction— No, that sounds poor even to me.”

“
If
Madam Eglantine was the intended target.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that perhaps the bones were merely a distraction.”

“So he stole the bones as an
afterthought
?” He stared hard. Crispin was making his way up the stairs. “That’s cruel work getting that canopy off the casket. And more work to move the lid.”

“Not as an afterthought,” Crispin confirmed.

“No, eh?” He followed up the stairs. “I’m stumped, then. If he did not mean to kill you and take the bones first, but he meant to kill the Prioress, then I do not understand his intentions.”

“Perhaps the
murder
was a distraction to keep our eyes away from the bones.”

“Blind me! That’s … that’s … horrible!”

Crispin nodded, climbed, and made it to the door at the top. It had no lock, so he grasped the ring and pulled the door open and stepped out onto the wide, round tower. The wind whipped at his hair, sending it stinging into his eyes. He looked out past the battlements across plowed fields to the east bordered by dark hedges and more meadows. Sheep grazed, looking like little white pods far below. Moving along the edge and peering between the merlons, Crispin gazed southwest toward Canterbury and its many red-tiled roofs. Smoke lingered above the rooftops, embracing chimneys and spires. Jack stood beside him, drew up his fretted hood, and fell silent. His cloak flapped against his flanks as he, too, assessed the church and abbey grounds.

Jack’s head came to Crispin’s shoulder. The boy was gaining height and a broadening of his chest. He hadn’t noticed before how big Jack was getting. He seemed to have shot up like a bean sprout. His body didn’t swim in his tunic any longer and his arms were overreaching their sleeves. He still thought of the lad as a child. Though Jack’s voice had begun to change, he still sported the soft, rounded cheeks of childhood. At nearly thirteen, Jack walked the fine line between his formative years and adolescence.

Crispin turned his attention from Jack to the tower floor, looking for anything that might yield something useful to his investigation.

“Master Crispin.” Jack stood at the tower’s edge, the sword he grasped in his hand now hanging by his thigh. His gaze was fixed somewhere in the distance but his voice was strong against the wind. “I heard what Master Chaucer said … said about me. You ain’t—
aren’t
—ashamed to have me as your protégé, are you? If you were, I’d understand if you weren’t to call me that no more—
any
more.”

Crispin rose and clapped the dust from his knees and hands. “Who said I was ashamed of you?”

“It ain’t—
isn’t
what was said. It was the way he said it. He’s an important man, isn’t he? You meet other important men all the time for your work, sir. It’s hard to impress them. There is only your reputation as the Tracker. We both ain’t got fine clothes, like you was used to.” He clenched his eyes in frustration. “
Were
used to. And here I am. A beggar. I told him so m’self, didn’t I? And that’s what I am. And that’s what I look like. Maybe you’d be better off without me in the way. I’d still want to be your servant, mind. But … I’d stay out of the way. So’s they wouldn’t know.”

Crispin sighed and measured the broad horizon that disappeared in a misty gray fringe of trees. “That was a fine speech. Worthy … But I think you’re a fool.”

Jack whipped his head toward Crispin. His hood flung back and his red hair flared in the wind like flames. “A fool?”

“You must not allow men like Geoffrey to intimidate you. It is their chief weapon. For the last time, I am not ashamed of you. You
are
my protégé. I am proud to call you so and I don’t want to hear anything more about it again, either to gain sympathy or a raise in your wages.”

Jack raised his hood against the wind. His face broke into an uncertain smile before he grinned wide, freckles and all.

Crispin wrapped his cloak about him. “I’m cold and there is nothing here. Let’s go back down.”

He trotted down the steps with Jack at his heels. They reached the bottom, stepped through the door, and Crispin locked it again. “I believe he hid there waiting for the appropriate time to strike. And the cloth must be from that night. Someone would have noticed it before then. Some monk scrubbing the floors. See how clean they keep the stairs? Let me see that sword again.” Jack handed it to him and he unwrapped the pommel. A muzzled bear’s head on a red field. Crispin ran memories of his jousting days through his head but he could not recall ever seeing this blazon before. “
Fortis et Patientia
,” he muttered.

“Latin, right, Master?
Fortis
. Strong.
Patientia
. Patience?”

“Enduring. Do you suppose it is the motto to this blazon?”

Jack snapped his fingers. “Course it is. Isn’t that something like your motto, sir?”

Crispin eyed Jack. “And how would you know what my family motto is?”

Jack’s face slackened. Caught. “Well … I came across them rings you got hidden, sir. Came across them last year.”

“Indeed.” A blend of emotions crossed his heart. Was he angry? Jack was prone to find secret places in their lodgings. He had his own cache of hidden goods, so he supposed it was not unlikely Jack could find Crispin’s meager treasure. Two family rings with the Guest blazon on them. His father’s ring and his own. It was all that was left of the Guests. All the memory allowed him. Their family banners had been struck from the Great Hall in Westminster Palace. His surcote of colors long gone.

Crispin lowered his brows. “Are those rings still there?” Even as he asked it he knew the answer.

Jack looked aggrieved. “Master Crispin! What do you take me for? I would never touch your family rings, sir. I know what they are.”

A corner of Crispin’s mouth drew up. “Anyway, my motto is
Suus Pessimus Hostilis
.”

“‘His Own Worst Enemy,’” Jack recited. “What does that mean, sir?”

“As I understand it, the arms were first granted to my ancestor by King Henry Fitzempress.”

“Saint Thomas Becket’s King Henry?”

“The very same. My ancestor was Welsh but fought for England, thus becoming his own enemy. Or so the story goes.”

“How come you don’t wear your ring no more—
any
more, sir?”

“You know why, Jack.”

“But I don’t, sir. You’ve still a right to it. No one else’s name is Guest. It’s yours and will always be so. It’s your family, sir. And you weren’t no bastard. The king can’t do that to you, now can he?”

Crispin sighed. “‘Dignity consists not in possessing honors, but in the consciousness that we deserve them.’” He stared at his feet. “My name is my name, true, and he cannot take that away. But what good is a blazon without a proper dynasty? No, they are better kept safe in their not-so-secret hiding place.”

He handed Jack the sword and straightened his coat. He raised his head to take in the chapel and the nave beyond it. “I wonder what business Geoffrey had in the cathedral.” He did not see the poet and when he moved past the pilgrims poised in rapt attention around the shrine, he did not see him in the south aisle either. But something in the aisle did catch his attention. His careful steps toward it soon became a trotting run.

He heard Jack’s footfalls behind him and then the muffled clang of the sword dropping on the tiled floor. Crispin bent over the dark lump of clothes that wasn’t a lump of clothes at all. A monk lay on the floor and an all-too-familiar dark pool grew around him. He turned the body and saw the young white face of Brother Wilfrid, quite dead.