“‘Will no one free me of this troublesome priest?’ was King Henry’s cry,” Crispin went on. “And four barons took their king at his word.”
“And then the king humbled himself at the martyr’s tomb,” said Jack. “A humbled king. I would like to have seen that.”
“As would I.” He walked up to the shrine. “Such grandeur. Yet with all its gold, jewels, and magnificence of the craftsmen’s art, the tomb lies empty.”
“What will they do now, Master Crispin?” Jack’s voice was quiet.
“Do?”
“What if … what if you never find them bones?”
He squared his jaw. “I will find them.”
He heard Chaucer’s step along the chapel’s perimeter. “But they are only the bones of a man, after all,” Geoffrey said, his voice echoing hollowly.
“A holy man, sir,” corrected Jack. “A holy saint.”
“A stubborn archbishop who would not accede to the demands of his king.”
Crispin slowly pivoted. “Do you suggest a bishop of the Church should accede to the wishes of his king over the pope?”
“The king is his sovereign lord.”
“And the pope?”
“A foreign prince.”
“Why Geoffrey. You sound like a Lollard.”
The poet made a half smile. “Perhaps I am more parrot than Lollard. I repeat what I hear my master say.”
“Say it too often and you may be summoned by the Church to repeat it. I do not know you can plead that your master says and thus so say you. Torture is not pleasant.”
Geoffrey’s smile faded and he looked at Crispin with a renewal of something he had not wished to elicit: pity.
Crispin turned away and stared up at the many miracle windows instead. The light shone through them and their glorious colors glowed brightly. He stood thus for a long time until he heard, amid the hammers and shouts of masons and artists, the hurried steps of an approaching monk.
Brother Wilfrid, his shiny-tonsured head bobbing over his rumpled cowl, trotted forward, lifting the hem of his cassock to trundle up the stairs. His face opened when he saw Crispin. It wasn’t exactly relief, but something akin to it. “Master Crispin! Praise God. I must tell you-”
Geoffrey stepped out of the shadows and Wilfrid turned at the sound. His eyes rounded and he took a step back. When his eyes turned back to Crispin there was a veil of fear over them. “I thought we were alone,” he said breathlessly.
Crispin looked toward Chaucer. “I think the mummery is over.” He did not mean to have such a sneer of finality to his voice, but this time Geoffrey was visibly taken aback. He flicked his gaze toward the monk and then to Crispin. He merely bowed and turned away. His heavy steps echoed and he soon disappeared down the stairs.
Wilfrid didn’t seem satisfied and trotted to the top of the stair to see where he’d gone. He waited, listening, until there was no more sign of Chaucer. The monk looked at Jack but he seemed unruffled by the boy’s presence. Wilfrid, his back to Crispin, gave a great sigh. At last, he returned and gathered his hands under his scapular. His face was pale and tight. “I could not talk in front of him. You see, I saw him here last night.”
“With the pilgrims?”
“No, Master. Last night. I made my rounds with the keys and locked the doors. And when I was leaving Saint Benet’s chapel, I saw a shadow. One gets used to the shadows here at night, Master Crispin. The faint of heart might take scaffolding and pillars for people or demons. After years in this place, I know the difference, I can assure you. And when I turned I saw the shadow of a man. I called out. I told him the church was to be closed and locked. But he did not answer, perhaps thinking I had deceived myself. But I was not deceived. I said again, louder, ‘You must leave now. I see you there. Behind the pillar.’ It was only then that he came out. The church was dark but I recognized it to be that gentleman.”
“Do you know who that gentleman is?”
“He is Sir Geoffrey Chaucer.”
“And how do you know this?”
“He was here a fortnight ago and someone pointed him out to me.”
He looked back the way Geoffrey had gone, but he saw only the scaffolds and arches. “Was he?”
“Yes.”
“What was he doing here two weeks ago?”
“He came as a pilgrim to the shrine. I remember him.”
“Why do you remember him in particular? Did he speak to you?”
“No, sir. But I do remember his red gown. Such a striking red, sir. Much like the archbishop’s cloak. A color difficult to forget.”
A strange and uncomfortable feeling rumbled in Crispin’s belly. “I see. Did he do anything else here then, that fortnight ago?”
“No, sir. He came with the pilgrims, as I said. He kept his hood up, but I did remember him.”
“He did not meet with the archbishop, for instance?”
“No. At least, I do not think so.”
“And last night?”
“He came out of the shadows and chuckled. He said to me, ‘But is not God’s house open to all?’ ‘Indeed, sir,’ I answered him. ‘But the chapel of Saint Benet is open for that. Surely you must understand that the shrine must be kept safe at night.’ But he would not move. ‘You must come with me,’ I told him more insistently. But still he did not move. I told him I would go and get the chaplain. I did so. When I returned he was gone.”
“Are you certain of that?”
“Yes, Master. I searched in all the usual places. You see, I know of certain thieves in this town and I have learned some things. All the doors were locked. But no one was here. Until the Prioress and her chaplain came in. And then you, sir.”
“Well…” Crispin looked back the way Chaucer had gone. “Master Chaucer is a … he is the king’s poet and is often-” He shrugged. “Imaginative men. Who can understand their ways?”
“Lurking in the shadows of a church? At night? What is imaginative in that?” He shook his head. “No, Master Crispin. I do not think him up to any good.”
“Here, now,” said Jack pressing forward. He gestured with the wrapped sword. “Master Chaucer is Master Crispin’s friend.”
The monk was startled and his eyes widened. “Oh. Oh … I…” He backed away. “I meant no offense, Master Guest.”
“I am not offended. You had a tale to tell me and I thank you for doing so.”
“You mustn’t-” Wilfrid was shaking his head and backing away. “You must forget I said aught, Master Guest. Please. Disregard my words. Surely … surely…”
“Wilfrid, it is well. You did nothing wrong.”
“You mustn’t tell the archbishop I told you. It is nothing, after all. I knew I shouldn’t have come to you. My brother monks told me not to. They warned me to leave it alone. But I don’t think it fair. But it’s only about Master Chaucer that I told you. I’ll say nothing about-” He clamped his lips shut. His rounded eyes ticked from Crispin to Jack before he simply fled. The morning shadows swallowed him and soon his footsteps, too, vanished.
“What do you suppose that was all about?” asked Jack.
“Secrets, Jack. I don’t like them. I never have. I will deal with Wilfrid anon. But for now…” He made for the steps and trotted down. Walking up the aisle, he didn’t see Chaucer at all until he found him on the steps outside in the courtyard. Geoffrey turned and hooked his thumbs in his belt. “And so. What did your little clerical friend have to say?”
Crispin tried to hold at bay the uncomfortable feeling in his gut. He knew Geoffrey acted as a spy-he admitted as much. He spied for the king and, no doubt, Lancaster, who had ultimately betrayed Crispin.
If foster fathers could do such, then why not friends?
“He told me that he saw you lurking in the church last night.”
Chaucer laughed. “‘Lurking,’ was it? Now why would I have cause to do that?”