Crispin shut his eyes. He didn’t see how he could divert Chaucer. Besides, a small part of him wanted his old friend in his company.
They walked in silence up the long pathway to the cathedral where Jack stood at the foot of the stair to the archbishop’s lodge and waited for them.
7
Behind the quiet Jack Tucker, Chaucer followed at his heels, an annoying smile on his face. They were led to Courtenay’s apartments and when Courtenay saw all of them, his face darkened.
“Master Guest,” he said. The tone in his voice asked many questions. Crispin tried to answer some of them.
“Master Geoffrey Chaucer, my lord,” he said by way of introduction.
Chaucer bowed, stepped forward, and kissed the ring on Courtenay’s hand. “Your Excellency.”
Courtenay’s hand hung limply for a moment as if the archbishop were wondering what to do with such an honor. Courtenay’s heavy red cloak hung about his shoulders, making his larger-than-life figure that much larger. He angled his shoulder, dismissing the presence of Chaucer. “Have you anything to report to me, Master Guest?”
“Yes, Excellency.”
Chaucer looked amused. It irked.
Crispin reached into the pouch at his belt and drew out the bone. “I have recovered only a small portion of Saint Thomas.” He dropped the bone into Courtenay’s open hand just as Chaucer gasped. “I found this by the tomb,” Crispin went on. “Obviously left by hasty thieves.”
“God blind me!” whispered Jack before he slapped his hand to his mouth.
Courtenay did not move but stared into his palm. A fire crackled in the hearth, but no other noise disturbed the archbishop’s reverie. He muttered something. A prayer? A curse? Finally the archbishop closed his hand into a fist, capturing the bone. “I thank you for this at least, Master Guest.”
Crispin bowed. “Your Excellency.” He wondered whether to bring up the red scrap of cloth, his only real clue besides the sword. He couldn’t be certain, of course, if the cloth had been left behind earlier and thus had no relation to the murder and theft, but it was all he had. He reached into his pouch and his fingers eased over one leftover rosary bead before they closed on the scrap. He lifted it just as Courtenay turned, his cloak sweeping across the wooden floor. And there, near the hem, a jagged tear.
Crispin paused and withdrew an empty hand from his pouch. “Excellency, your cloak appears to be torn.”
Courtenay looked down. He dismissed it with a careless brush of his hand. “I am always getting it caught in doorways. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.” He sat and curled one hand around the chair’s arm. The other holding the bone remained tightly closed. His eyes flicked to Jack and Chaucer. “Have you come to any conclusions about the horrific murder of the Prioress?”
“No.” Crispin edged toward the fire and stared into it. His mind ran ahead, working independently of his mouth. “Only that if the Lollards are behind the murder and theft, their peaceful methods have changed.” He looked at Jack clutching the wrapped sword. Tucker’s face turned toward the window and the burgeoning sunlight. “You did not by any chance personally know the Prioress, my lord, did you?”
The archbishop blinked slowly. “As it happens, I was acquainted with Madam Eglantine.”
“Indeed. And may I know the nature of this acquaintance?”
Courtenay’s eyes were a remarkable shade of blue and they fixed on Crispin like gems. He’d seen the like before on necklaces and crowns, but those gems had no more animation than did the archbishop’s suddenly cold glare. “A year ago,” he said stiffly. “I presided over a judgment. The priory’s lands encroached on the land of a Franklin.”
“And that was when you met her?”
Courtenay said nothing. His hand tightened on the chair arm.
“Did you exchange words with her, my lord? Then, or more recently?”
Courtenay’s countenance grew stonier. His mouth curved into a frown.
Chaucer moved hastily in front of Crispin. “I must apologize for my friend,” he said jovially, looking back over his shoulder. “So long from court, he is unused to civilized conversation. Come to think of it, even at court he never proved himself all that well versed in polite discourse.”
What the hell was Geoffrey doing? Crispin had the urge to throw him aside, but he knew the man well enough to recognize the cautionary note in Chaucer’s voice.
“And you are master of polite conversation, are you, Sir Geoffrey?” said Courtenay. “I remember you, too, good sir. Poet to the king. Lapdog of Lancaster.”
Chaucer drew his cloak about him and shivered melodramatically. “Fie! It’s chilly here of a sudden. The mere mention of Lancaster has blown an ill wind through the hall. Pray, your Excellency, why so cold when the discussion turns to talk of my master? He is the king’s uncle, his most trusted counselor, a patron of the arts-”
“You neglected to mention advocate of the Church, Master Chaucer. With good reason. For he is not. I have little trust for his grace’s intentions. Or that of his servants.”
“Oh dear.” Chaucer released his cloak with a flourish. “Is it because my master supported John Wycliffe-”
“The heretical Lollard,” Courtenay injected.
Chaucer raised his hands in a shrug. “I am not a theologian, Excellency. Only a poet. Everything is grist for my mill. Heretics, kings … clerics.”
“Much like a jester does, eh Master Chaucer?”
Geoffrey smiled and bowed in such a way that Crispin could well imagine him in motley. “As you will, Excellency.”
Crispin sidestepped Chaucer and motioned for Jack to come forward. He took the sword from the boy’s hands and unwrapped the pommel. “My lord, have you seen these arms before?”
Courtenay leaned forward. “Is that the weapon that committed this most foul deed?”
“Yes, my lord.”
His spine seemed to conform to the straight back of his chair and his voice fell to a deadly tone. “And you bring it here?”
“My lord, the arms-”
“Have you no delicacy at all, Master Guest? Faith! I should have known better than to go to London’s streets for help and contented myself with the king’s sheriff. Look what has happened under your watch, Guest. A horrible murder. A great theft; a theft you were supposed to prevent!” He snapped from the chair. “This is outrageous. Take your foul weapon from my chamber and never bring it again!”
Trembling, Crispin wrapped the bundle and tossed it across the room to Tucker. The boy barely caught it. “Do you free me from my obligation, then?” Crispin asked tightly.
“Free you? Out of the question. I want you to find those bones!” He thrust his hand forward and displayed the tiny finger bone lying on his reddened palm. “Do you think this will satisfy? I want Becket back! All of him. And I want that murderer to hang. Consider Canterbury your new home.”
“Then I will need the keys to the church.”
The archbishop’s face reddened with new outrage. “What?”
“I want the keys. I must have free rein to explore the cathedral grounds. Has a locksmith been called to change the locks as I instructed? I spoke of this to Dom Thomas Chillenden yestereve.”
“I do not know. You will have to discuss it with him. Go to the church and I will have him sent to you. And Master Guest.” He grasped the edge of his cloak. “Have you made any progress on the … other matter?”
Crispin racked his brain and then remembered. The archbishop was certain one of his monks was a Lollard. This was still within the realm of possibility and it would have to be dealt with soon, but the murder quite drove it out of Crispin’s mind. “No, Excellency. But you can be assured-”
“So far, Master Guest, you have assured me of very little.”
“Excellency, ‘It is possible to fail in many ways, while to succeed is possible only in one way.’”
“Then in future, Master Guest, see that your successes exceed your failures. We’ve had quite enough of those.” He raised a shaky hand and signed a hasty benediction over them, though Crispin thought the man would rather be waving a sword.