Crispin bowed low, mostly to shield from view the angry trembling of his hands. He spun on his heel and took long, swift strides to the exit. Not waiting for Chaucer or Jack, Crispin took the stairs two at a time and made his way into the church.
Hard steps conveyed Crispin almost all the way up the north aisle before Jack, out of breath, caught up to him. He held the sword over his shoulder like a shepherds crook. “Master. Please. Master Chaucer is coming, too-”
“Well, where is he, then?” he growled.
“Here!” said Chaucer. He trotted forward and stopped next to Jack. He, too, was short of breath. “Good Christ, Guest. Is that how you conduct an inquiry? It’s a wonder you do not get yourself arrested. Or excommunicated.”
“Aren’t you bored yet, Geoffrey?” he snarled.
Chaucer postured. “Is the mummery over?”
Crispin mumbled a curse and glanced at Saint Benet’s chapel. All trace of the Prioress’s blood had been washed away. No one would ever know that two murders had been committed on the same spot divided by the span of two hundred years. A pang of guilt warmed his chest, but he pressed on before he decided he didn’t know where he was going. He’d have to wait for Dom Thomas to arrive and there was little he could do but wander through the nave, looking like a lost pilgrim.
“Crispin.” Chaucer was suddenly at his side. “What have Lollards to do with the bones of Saint Thomas?”
“Leave it, Geoffrey,” he snapped.
Masons were perched on the scaffolding again. Their interminable hammering echoed throughout the church and stone dust showered in rhythm to their strokes. “Oi!” cried one mason to another on a far scaffold. “Have you spoken to the treasurer, Master?”
The stout man on the far scaffold lowered his hammer and moved to the edge of the platform. “I’m waiting for him,” he said, gesturing with his chisel. “It’s time for another talk.”
The man-a journeyman, most likely-nodded knowingly and went back to his business.
Crispin watched them at their tasks for a span, watched the artists paint the stone, and then pounded a fist impatiently into his palm, pacing. He hated waiting.
Chaucer and Jack stood nearby. Jack hugged the sword, trying not to look at Chaucer. Geoffrey leaned against a pillar but Crispin felt their eyes on him and scowled deeper. Stare, then, if you must. He hadn’t actually accused the archbishop, though he’d seen enough guilty noblemen to know that crimes were committed by the lowest to the highest member of society. Not that he could possibly accuse Courtenay. And if the young nun did see him commit the crime, was she truly at liberty to say so? Her archbishop? It might as well be the pope. It could be that the scrap in his pouch was from the archbishop’s cloak, and it also could be that it was an entirely innocent accident. But in this business, accidents were seldom innocent and coincidences almost unheard of. It would certainly be impossible for him to get the archbishop’s cloak and test it.
He glanced at his young thief, Jack, with a smirk. Well, almost impossible.
A figure hurried through the church from the south aisle but slowed when spotting Chaucer and Tucker. Chaucer smiled and bowed to the man and Tucker belatedly bent his head.
“Master Guest,” said Dom Thomas, his face skewed as if he smelled something unpleasant. “The locksmiths are here. It will take the better part of the day for them to change the locks.”
“Fine. I will collect my key when they are done.”
“Your key?”
“And I will need an old key now. I need to examine the environs.”
Dom Thomas’s jowled face paled. “I do not know that I can give you any keys-”
“Come, come, man. The archbishop already gave me permission. You’re wasting his time now, not mine.” He held out his hand, wiggling his fingers.
The monk stared at Crispin’s outstretched hand for a long moment. He reached for the key ring on his cincture and pulled a long silver key from its brothers on the ring. “I give you the means to all places public and private, Master Guest. Have a care with it.”
He took it solemnly and placed it in his money pouch. “You can trust me, Dom. I am fully aware of my responsibility.”
Chillenden glared from one face to another before looking back over his shoulder toward the shrine with its long line of pilgrims. “The archbishop has given me no instructions as concerns the shrine. I do not know if I am permitted to allow the pilgrims to come forth. I understand that the news that the bones were taken was not made public.”
“Indeed not. Then I suppose you may permit pilgrims to enter.”
“But … there will be nothing there to pray to.”
“Alas, Brother. Yet if the pilgrims are ignorant of that, do you truly think God will mind?”
“But the fees?”
Crispin’s scowl darkened. “Perhaps the fees can be waived.”
“Waive the fees?”
Bless me, but I think I might be siding with these Lollards. “Do what you will, Dom. It is not my affair.” He brushed past the monk and up the aisle before slowing to a stop. “Isn’t the church to be closed?” Dom Thomas stood mutely. He fumbled with his keys. Crispin swiveled toward him. “Well?”
“I have had no instructions on this,” said the monk carefully.
Crispin drew back as if slapped. “Not close the church! But surely it needs to be reconsecrated after a murder-”
Dom Thomas clenched his hands and thrust them into his scapular. “There has been no instructions from the archbishop. I suggest you keep out of it, Master Guest.”
He stared hard at the monk whose apparent frustration colored his face in blotchy red. “I see. This murder is then to be kept very secret.” He tried to inhale a cleansing breath but instead took in stale incense and dust. “Brother Wilfrid needed to speak to me,” he said. “Send him to the Chapel of Saint Thomas.”
Chillenden did not acknowledge this when he spun on his heel, but his progress was halted by the mason yelling down to him. “Oi! Brother monk! Wait a bit.” The large muscled man grabbed a rope and descended the side of the scaffold. It shook with his weight and dusted the floor with particles of stone.
“I ask again, Good Brother, when I and my men may receive their payment. You are overdue.”
The monk glanced hastily at Crispin and set his chin high. “The archbishop must approve all payments from the treasury, Master, and I am sorry to say, he has not yet done so.”
“We have been delayed too long, Brother. If you do not wish to pay-”
“Payment will come to you anon. I suggest you and your men practice patience.”
“We may practice more than that. On the morrow, we may find it difficult indeed to locate the church.”
“Do you threaten me? I can get any number of masons here to do this work.”
“They’d have to traffic with the guild … and get past us to do it,” he said, laying his considerable hammer over his shoulder.
Dom Thomas pressed his lips tightly together and gave one more look toward Crispin. “I’ll see what I can do,” he muttered and hurried away.
The mason watched the monk leave and offered Crispin a curt bow and a smirk before he hoisted himself up the scaffold again.
Over his shoulder, Crispin watched the man climb while his feet took him to the shrine to await Wilfrid. Though he made no motion to Jack or Chaucer, they followed him anyway, silent as shadows, to Saint Thomas’s chapel. Thousands of pairs of feet had passed this same way for two hundred years, hollowing each worn step, all to venerate a saint, an archbishop of Canterbury.
“You’ll find those bones, won’t you, Master?” said Jack at Crispin’s elbow.
He nodded. “I want them back almost as badly as the archbishop does.” He glanced at Geoffrey who remained mercifully silent. “Saint Thomas was martyred because he would not allow crimes against the clergy to be tried in any other than an ecclesiastical court. To King Henry’s mind, this meant treason.” Jack nodded. This much he knew. Treason, thought Crispin. How easy it is to commit. How hard to endure the consequences.