Back in his room he tossed the sword on the cot and closed the door. The nun spoke of someone who perhaps wore a cassock, and this troubled him. He, too, saw a vague cloaked figure who struck at him, but it happened so quickly he couldn’t tell if it was a cassock or not. Could the archbishop be right about one of his monks? What was it that Brother Wilfrid wanted to say to him?
He lay on the bed, still in his clothes, and closed his eyes. But Dame Marguerite’s words kept playing in his head. Fortis et Patientia: Strong and Enduring. The little scrap of red cloth. Becket’s finger bone. Sleep seemed a useless exercise.
Crispin groaned, snapped awake, and sat up. He glared perplexedly at the open window and the sunlight splashing on the floor.
Jack’s writing things were spread across the table. A broken quill and scraps of parchment made up his small retinue. There were no Latin texts to copy, only those parchments with Crispin’s careful penmanship to guide the boy in his practice. At least Jack had taken some time for his studies, though his haphazard script looked nothing like Crispin’s.
The boy was no longer at the table but by the fire, singing a ribald tune he’d no doubt learned at the inn. He looked up from over the steaming pot on the hearth.
Crispin eased his legs over the bed and scratched the sleep from his head.
“I’ve made hot water for your shave, Master,” said Jack.
Dressed, shaved, and reasonably clean, Crispin trod downstairs to the inn’s hall. The pilgrims were talking together, but when they noticed him they fell silent. He called for wine and food and sat on a bench by the fire, doing his best to take no notice of them. He drank his bowl slowly and ate his fill, perhaps not with relish, but with dignity.
The Franklin’s shadow fell over him. “The great Tracker. Is that all you’re going to do? Just sit and eat while we are trapped in this accursed inn?”
He glanced up at their faces. “Some of your fellow travelers do not feel, as you say, ‘trapped.’ They are not here, in fact. Where are Master Chaunticleer and Master Maufesour? Or Chaucer?” They looked at one another. Crispin shook his head. “Truly, Sir Philip, if my orders to remain at the inn cannot be obeyed, then there is little hope of my succeeding.”
“So they are orders now?”
The young merchant waved a shaky finger in the air. In a clear but broken voice, he said, “Master Guest made that very admonishment last night. I heard him quite d-distinctly.”
Bonefey glared at the youth.
Crispin smiled. “So says our merchant.”
“Er … Thomas Clarke, master. Manciple.”
“Ah. Forgive me. Why debate the point, Sir Philip?”
“I am an important man,” said Bonefey, chest puffed. “I cannot wile away my time in Canterbury indefinitely. I want to know and I want to know now. Do you suspect us of these crimes?”
Crispin dabbed at his lips with the linen tablecloth and brushed bread crumbs from his coat. He rose, adjusted his belt and dagger, and shimmied his cloak over his shoulders. “If you are not guilty, what is there to fear?”
Sir Philip huffed through his cheeks and spun on his heel.
Alyson pointed a finger at Bonefey and quoted Scripture. Clarke stuttered some point of law while the Miller quaffed cup after cup of ale alongside Harry Bailey. They all stopped abruptly at the creak of the stair.
Dame Marguerite, shaky and white, took wilted steps down the stairs, leaning heavily on Father Gelfridus on one side and Jack on the other. Alyson moved first, and then the others met the nun at the bottom step.
“My dear Marguerite,” cooed Alyson. The lady from Bath had been awake almost as long as Crispin. Her cheeks were not as rosy as they were yesterday and her eyes were rimmed with red. Even her coif was slightly askew revealing shiny brown hair. “You should not be out of bed.”
The nun, her cleaned brown veil affixed to her stained wimple again, shook her head. “Father Gelfridus thought it best I do. And in all obedience…” She stepped away from his grasp as if to prove the truth of it. Jack edged forward, his face pale, hands open to catch her.
Bonefey threw up his arms. “Christ wounds, Gelfridus! Can’t you see the wench has had a shock?”
Marguerite waved him off. “There is nothing as wastrel as lying about in bed. I have learned this lesson well from my Lady Prioress.” She crossed herself unsteadily. “Requiescat in pace.” She made her way to the bench and melted into it. Jack knelt beside her and whispered something. The nun raised her eyes to him and seemed to see him for the first time.
Crispin watched the exchange with concern. “Come along, Jack. We must see the archbishop. Go up to our room and get the … the object.”
Jack glared at him. It was a new face for Tucker. The boy seemed to be blossoming into a man before his eyes, but at a most inopportune moment with an equally inopportune object of affection.
“Jack,” he repeated gently.
Tucker snapped out of his mood and his eyes were shaded with embarrassment. He took a moment to gather himself and loped up the stairs, returning only a moment later with the wrapped sword. He scampered ahead of Crispin to open the door for him but the way was blocked.
“Good morrow, Cris,” said Chaucer, standing in the doorway. He was as loud as usual but his voice struck Crispin as a little overenthusiastic for the hour.
He narrowed his eyes at Chaucer’s ankle-length red gown. “Geoffrey. Where have you been? I wanted to talk to you.” He took the poet by the arm in a firm grip and steered him back outside.
Standing on the stone threshold, Chaucer shook him off. “What do you think you are doing?”
“I said I want to talk to you.”
“That’s a rather accusatory tone, Cris.” He straightened his houppelande. His thin brows lowered over his eyes. “What vexes you?”
“Have you not heard?”
“By God’s toes, heard what?”
“Last night. The Prioress was murdered.”
Chaucer recoiled. “Madam Eglantine? Are you jesting?”
“No jest. Last night. In Saint Benet’s chapel.”
“God’s wounds!”
Crispin strode quickly up the avenue. Chaucer did his best to keep up. “And more. Becket’s bones were stolen.” Chaucer stopped. Crispin turned to face him. “And so I ask again. Where were you?”
Chaucer stared for several heartbeats before an uncertain smile slackened his taut face. “By Christ! You’re not accusing me? Say you are not.”
“No. But I need to know-”
“Are you sheriff now? Or coroner?”
“Neither. I am commissioned by the archbishop-”
“Oh, I see! It all falls into place.” He laughed without mirth. “The Tracker! You feel the need to ‘track.’ And you have tracked … me?”
Crispin crooked his eye at the very public street. “Don’t be a damned fool!” He took Chaucer’s arm again and pulled but the man refused to budge.
“I’m not one of your chessmen, Guest. You think you can manipulate me?” He ran a finger around the collar of his houppelande. “I don’t need you to make a mockery of me. I can do the job quite adequately on my own.”
“You are damnable, Geoffrey!”
“Yes, I know.” He glared a moment more before he offered a brief smile. “I was in town. On business.”
“All night?”
“Yes, all night.”
“I thought you were here for the pilgrimage.”
“Among other things.”
If Chaucer wished to keep silent on a subject, Crispin was no match to drag it out of him. He gave a conciliatory nod and Geoffrey’s face drew on a flat expression, though he also had that sharp look in his eye that Crispin remembered from long ago, a look that proved he meant to get something out of Crispin.
Chaucer suddenly whirled on Jack, who had run to catch up, the linen-shrouded bundle tight in his arms again. Jack dug his heels in the road. “I’m sure Young Jack here can go on ahead to whatever mischief you had in mind.”
Jack eyed Chaucer and then looked to Crispin for confirmation. “I’ll … go on ahead, shall I?”