Troubled Bones (26 page)

“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 Prioress’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.

“Yes. It keeps me fed.”

“Not as well as it should.”

Crispin made a noise in his throat.

“And so. How does this exonerate me?”

Crispin shrugged. “As of yet, it doesn’t. At least, not to the satisfaction of the archbishop.”

“But if there is another murder while I am locked in here—”

“Tut, Geoffrey. Would you wish that on poor Gelfridus?”

“No, no. Of course not.” Chaucer dropped his face into his hands. “I make a very poor prisoner. If put to torture I fear I would spill all.”

Crispin quashed memories of his own torture.
He
had said nothing, volunteered no name. But in the end, it had not helped him.

“Have you warned Gelfridus yet?” asked Geoffrey. “Or do you suspect him?”

“I will … talk to him.”

“And Bonefey?”

He scowled. “He is a player. Of this I have no doubt. But is he the puppet or the puppeteer?”

“Speaking of puppets, those rascally fellows—the Summoner and Pardoner. I trust them not.”

“Nor do I. I have issued them an ultimatum, though now I do not expect it to be carried out.”

“You speak in riddles.”

“I work in riddles.”

Suddenly, it felt like old times; the two of them plotting, wrestling with an idea, some point of philosophy. He saw in Geoffrey’s eyes that he sensed it, too. They both fell silent, regarding one another.

Finally, Geoffrey said, “I never believed you were guilty.”

“I was.”

“But dammit, Cris. Would you truly have killed the king?”

Crispin had wondered that himself over the years. He hoped that Lancaster would not have asked that of him, but now, knowing it was all a sham, made his guilt somehow worse. He sighed and shook his head. Too many years ago to ponder now. He had been three and twenty at the time. Young and idealistic. The world had been his, spread out before him like one of Harper’s parchments. He had been in his majority, at the height of his strength and his wits—or so he had thought. To have been spared execution was both bane and blessing. “I was Lancaster’s man. I would have done anything he asked of me.”

Geoffrey cocked his head and studied his friend silently.

Crispin rose. “Worry not, Geoffrey. I will see you freed.”

As he neared the door, he heard Geoffrey’s voice softly say, “And who will free you?”

He resisted glancing back and stepped into the archway when he was suddenly surrounded by men-at-arms. He reached for his dagger but did not draw it. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

“Step aside, my lord,” they said to him, obviously having no idea who he was. “We are here for Geoffrey Chaucer.”

“What?”

He saw Geoffrey through the doorway back away from the men who entered.

“What is this?” Crispin persisted. “Are you the sheriff’s men?”

“No,” said the one who seemed to be in charge. He was taller than Crispin and broad-shouldered and a little too formidable to take on. “I belong to the archbishop’s retinue. His Excellency has called for an Episcopal inquisition.”

“God’s blood! He can’t do that! This is not a heresy trial. This is the jurisdiction of the crown.”

He pushed Crispin back. “Not anymore. His Excellency says this man confessed to Lollardism and murdered because of it. He must be brought before the bishops before he is executed for heresy.”

“But—” He glared desperately at Geoffrey whose wrists were being bound by two guards. “He has only confessed to me. The archbishop does not even know the nature—”

“His Excellency says he does not need to hear it. Only that it is so. The hearing is only a formality. The execution is tomorrow. Now stand aside.”

Breath caught, Crispin watched as the men ushered Chaucer forth. He stumbled once, looked back at Crispin, and followed helplessly.

21

CRISPIN WASTED NO TIME
getting to Courtenay’s lodgings, but the stern-faced chaplain said the archbishop was not there.

His voice was tightly controlled though his muscles were coiled for action. “Where is he?”

“He is unavailable, Master Guest. I suggest you return—”

Crispin lunged and slammed the defenseless cleric into the wall. He felt the man’s bones jar against the stone. “Don’t make me ask again.”

The chaplain’s rounded eyes watered from pain. “Please … have mercy!”

“I’m not in a merciful mood. God’s blood! You will tell me or I shall grind you into this stone!”

“H-he is in the great hall … with his clerics. They are holding a h-hearing for the prisoner.”

He pushed the man back and stomped through the corridors, turned the corner, and came upon the large doors to the great hall. They were closed, naturally, but there was no guard. He hoped they weren’t barred.

Pushing them open he strode in. The archbishop sat in the center of the head table flanked by the prior and sub prior and two other monks from Christchurch Priory. Chaucer stood before them as an inquisitor, the archbishop’s chaplain, paced back and forth, speaking in a measured manner in such a way as to suggest his oration would go on for a long time.

Suddenly, everyone turned. He wished for the thousandth time he had a sword.

Courtenay jolted to his feet. “What is the meaning of this, Guest?”

“I would ask the same of you, Excellency.”

The monks gasped. Courtenay slammed his hand to the table. “This is not to be borne! You are insolent in the extreme.” He motioned for a guard and the man advanced on Crispin, his spear lowered toward him.

Crispin rushed forward, sidestepped the spear, and grabbed it. He swung the spear with the guard still attached and slammed him into the wall. The man staggered and released his hold on the weapon. Crispin turned it and brandished the point toward the assembly, effectively stopping the other guard from approaching. “I wish to address this hearing, Excellency.” He did not lower the spear and kept his eyes darting from guard to guard.

“You are a churl, Guest,” said Courtenay in a darkly pitiless tone. “I should have known. A traitor can never be trusted. Lancaster taught you your heresy and now we see the proof of it.”

“Whatever you think of me, your Excellency, is your affair alone. But I am here to see justice done under the eyes of God. Geoffrey Chaucer is not guilty of these crimes. This was not his confession to me. If you condemn him then it is you who are committing a most heinous offense against God and Man.”

The archbishop raised his arm and pointed a shaking finger toward the door. “Get him out of here!”

Crispin jabbed his spear toward the guard who seemed reluctant to take him on. “Your Excellency, I beg of you. Grant me one more day to prove his innocence. How can it be wrong to deny a man his chance at life? This body—this
holy
body—cannot mean to condemn a man unjustly.”

“And you make your plea at the point of a spear?”

He tightened his grip on the weapon and measured both guards and the clerics. Most had risen in their seats and were anxiously watching the outcome.

Crispin had made many decisions in his life. Some had been terribly wrong, and some had proved his instincts. He had to rely on those instincts now.

With a hurried prayer, he tossed the spear aside and held up his empty hands.

He glanced at the guard. The man hesitated. It was enough. Crispin dropped to his knees. “My lord! Grant me this boon. I make this oath to you. I will find those guilty, and you will have been spared executing an innocent man.”
Never mind that you have no right to do so!

No one moved. No one breathed. He felt his heart hammering within his chest.

Courtenay was livid. But Crispin knew the man had no choice. No prince of the Church could turn down a plea like this. He could tell that the monks were moved and appeared more than willing to comply with his petition.

The archbishop licked his lips. The hand he pressed white to the table lifted and caressed the bejeweled cross pendant lying on his chest. “This is a matter of heresy, Master Guest,” he said hoarsely. “Can you disprove that?”

Crispin paused, glancing toward Geoffrey. Of course. This was no civil murder trial. The Church would only deal in heresy.
Think fast, Crispin,
he told himself. “Of course, your Excellency. This rather
rushed
gathering would seem to benefit from the wisdom of your peers, bishops like yourself—” Courtenay’s face darkened. “But since you felt the need to hurry the proceedings—fearing for the soul of Master Chaucer, no doubt—you must realize that the king’s uncle would surely never harbor a heretic.”

His words were well chosen, for he saw Courtenay blanch at the mention of the king.

“You have one day Master Guest. By sunset tomorrow, if you have brought no new evidence to me, then Chaucer hangs.”