The two monks who stood by the ropes stared suspiciously at Crispin before they set to work cranking the canopy away from the casket. Slowly, with the sound of the rope squealing over the pulley, and with bells tinkling, the canopy lifted higher and the first motes of light struck the casket’s gold. The sun revealed it, brushing along its box of carved pillars.
Crispin stood off to the side, waiting in the shadows for the pilgrims to pass. The visitors murmured and were slowly ushered forward one at a time by two monks.
Out of the silence, a sharp voice rang out, incongruous in the silent presence of tombs and the ancient stone chair of Saint Austin standing in a shaft of sunlight. “Well, I’ll be damned. Cris Guest!”
It couldn’t be. That unmistakable voice. A sinking feeling seized his gut and Crispin slowly turned.
God’s blood. Geoffrey Chaucer.
2
Chaucer clapped Crispin on the shoulder and stood back. “Cris! By God! Let me look at you. I have not seen you in … Holy Mother. How long has it been?”
“Eight or so years,” he answered stiffly.
“You look very thin.”
“Starvation will do that.”
Chaucer gave an embarrassed laugh. “Indeed. Well.”
Crispin eyed the monks, glaring in their direction. He took Chaucer’s arm and directed him out of the chapel area.
“Must you speak so loudly?” Crispin muttered.
“You know me, Cris,” said Chaucer, his voice just as loud. “It is my way.”
“I remember.” He tried to suppress his initial shock. He wasn’t successful. He looked at Chaucer, now with a curly beard and mustache. He wore a red ankle-length gown trimmed in dark fur. His belt was dotted with silver studs and held a dagger with a bejeweled pommel. A familiar dagger. One Crispin had gifted to Chaucer too many years ago to count. “What brings you here, Geoffrey? Shouldn’t Lancaster’s poet be at court?” He released Geoffrey, though all he wanted to do was clap him in his arms.
“The duke’s poet cannot go on a pilgrimage for the sake of his soul?” Chaucer talked in a nervous rush, too jocular, too carefree. “And what brings you here, Master Guest? I thought you’d sworn off pilgrimages.”
Crispin forced himself back to the present. It had been many a year since he and Chaucer called themselves friends. He weighed how much to reveal. Slowly, he said, “I’m here on a task for the archbishop.”
“Task?”
“I must find employment where I can.”
If Chaucer was embarrassed, he no longer showed it. “Where are you staying? I am at the Martyrs Inn. I assume there will be ample opportunity to catch up with each other’s news. It has been a long time, after all. We’ve gone our separate ways from those long ago days serving Lancaster, eh? And I … well.” He paused, his eyes alive and searching every crease and plane of Crispin’s face. The rush of words finally hit a stopping point. First he eased back, looking at the long tips of his shoes. Then he edged forward again, raised his face, and said more quietly, “In truth, I would know how you have fared. I remember our days together fondly.”
Crispin softened but didn’t quite relax. “As do I.”
The moment was broken when Chaucer gave a familiar smirk. He stepped back again to boldly appraise his friend. His hat flapped against his back, its long liripipe tail across his chest holding it in place. “Where do you stay? We will meet, will we not?”
“No doubt. I am at the Martyrs, too.” His gut roiled with emotions he did his best to tamp down. “I … I must go. Later, Geoffrey. Later.”
Chaucer tried to speak but Crispin slipped away without looking back. He did not know exactly why he felt so uncomfortable seeing Chaucer again. He reckoned it was mostly because he always felt a certain amount of unease and embarrassment when encountering someone from his former days when he was still a knight and lord. And Chaucer had been one of his best friends; a friend whom Crispin had made certain to abandon.
He strode quickly through the church and out, feeling a sense of relief to walk in the sunshine and leave Chaucer behind. He headed toward the great hall where the archbishop’s lodgings were situated and encountered a locked gate at the stair. He pulled the bell rope and soon a monk appeared.
“Benedicte,” said the monk.
“I have come at the bidding of his Excellency the Archbishop. Tell him Crispin Guest is at the gate.”
The monk looked less than inspired with this request, but he turned, trudged back up the stairs, and disappeared around the landing.
Crispin rubbed his chapped hands together and stomped his feet to ward off the chill. He’d met his Excellency William de Courtenay once years ago. How did the archbishop come to think of him for this assignment? It warmed a place in his chest to think that his fame as the Tracker had reached Canterbury, but he squashed the thought just as quickly. If Courtenay remembered him at all, it was as a protégé to John of Gaunt and consequently Courtenay’s enemy.
He startled when the monk hurried back down the steps. The monk took a key from a ring at his cincture, unlocked the gate, and pulled it open. He seemed surprised to find himself saying, “His Excellency will see you immediately.” He locked the gate again and Crispin followed him up the staircase, through a corner of the great hall, and to a large arched door. The monk knocked, listened a moment, then ushered him through.
Courtenay looked up from his reading with striking blue eyes set in a fleshy but earnest face. A classical nose found on many a Roman statue rose over well-carved lips and a prominent chin. He rose at his place behind a large table and ornate chair. Courtenay wore the long robes of his office. A red cap fit snugly on a head of curled brown hair.
The archbishop pushed the chair aside and strode around the table. He seemed to be a man in his full capacity, fully aware of his role and his position in society. He, like the martyred Becket, had once served as chancellor to a king, but resigned after serving King Richard only four months. Crispin had no reason to suspect that he left the king’s services due to any lack of affection for the young king, but he did wonder.
He knelt, kissed Courtenay’s ring quickly, and stepped back.
The cleric openly inspected him. Over the years, Crispin expected a certain amount of scrutiny, especially from those who were aware of his history, but knowing this never seemed to dull the sensation that he was a horse at market.
“Crispin Guest,” said the archbishop in a clipped and patrician tone. Courtenay hooked his thumbs into his embroidered belt. “We’ve met before, you know.”
“Yes, your Excellency. I thought we might have done.”
“But those circumstances are best forgotten.”
He agreed. “But if that is so, my lord, then why did you send for me in particular?”
Courtenay smiled. He gestured to a sideboard before he sat in a chair beside the fire. “Pour some wine, Master Guest.”
He bowed and moved to the sideboard. He poured wine from a silver flagon into two silver goblets and took them to the fire, giving Courtenay one and keeping the other. Courtenay offered him a wooden chair beside him, and Crispin sat.
“You are well known in certain circles, Master Guest,” said Courtenay. His jeweled ring glittered as he turned the goblet in his hand. “And your recent doings at court have made association with you less of a disadvantage than it might have been before.”
Crispin raised a brow. Saving the king’s life? He supposed that made him less of a pariah, though he was still not welcomed at court. No one forgot treason, he supposed.