A monk was giving a tour to the pilgrims on their slow progression toward the shrine. Crispin avoided them by taking the south aisle and climbing the steps opposite, near Prince Edward’s shrine.
“It was here, Jack, that I found the scrap of cloth. Let us see what lies beyond this door.”
He pulled the key from his pouch, fit it in the lock, and turned it twice. The door pushed open and Crispin stepped in. He expected a narrow spiraling stair and found it much wider, enough for two men side by side. It did spiral upward and was made of stone with carved niches along the curved walls. He looked down at the door and found only a few red threads.
“No blood,” he said.
Jack nodded. “So he didn’t come here after the murder but before.”
“Very good, Jack. Hiding and waiting for the moment. Except-” Crispin looked up the tower. Slit windows slanted golden light down the tower and revealed another door near the top. “If he hid in here he would first have encountered me by the shrine. Why wasn’t I attacked, then? Why go directly to the Prioress?”
“Well, he might have seen you and thought to create a distraction- No, that sounds poor even to me.”
“If Madam Eglantine was the intended target.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that perhaps the bones were merely a distraction.”
“So he stole the bones as an afterthought?” He stared hard. Crispin was making his way up the stairs. “That’s cruel work getting that canopy off the casket. And more work to move the lid.”
“Not as an afterthought,” Crispin confirmed.
“No, eh?” He followed up the stairs. “I’m stumped, then. If he did not mean to kill you and take the bones first, but he meant to kill the Prioress, then I do not understand his intentions.”
“Perhaps the murder was a distraction to keep our eyes away from the bones.”
“Blind me! That’s … that’s … horrible!”
Crispin nodded, climbed, and made it to the door at the top. It had no lock, so he grasped the ring and pulled the door open and stepped out onto the wide, round tower. The wind whipped at his hair, sending it stinging into his eyes. He looked out past the battlements across plowed fields to the east bordered by dark hedges and more meadows. Sheep grazed, looking like little white pods far below. Moving along the edge and peering between the merlons, Crispin gazed southwest toward Canterbury and its many red-tiled roofs. Smoke lingered above the rooftops, embracing chimneys and spires. Jack stood beside him, drew up his fretted hood, and fell silent. His cloak flapped against his flanks as he, too, assessed the church and abbey grounds.
Jack’s head came to Crispin’s shoulder. The boy was gaining height and a broadening of his chest. He hadn’t noticed before how big Jack was getting. He seemed to have shot up like a bean sprout. His body didn’t swim in his tunic any longer and his arms were overreaching their sleeves. He still thought of the lad as a child. Though Jack’s voice had begun to change, he still sported the soft, rounded cheeks of childhood. At nearly thirteen, Jack walked the fine line between his formative years and adolescence.
Crispin turned his attention from Jack to the tower floor, looking for anything that might yield something useful to his investigation.
“Master Crispin.” Jack stood at the tower’s edge, the sword he grasped in his hand now hanging by his thigh. His gaze was fixed somewhere in the distance but his voice was strong against the wind. “I heard what Master Chaucer said … said about me. You ain’t-aren’t-ashamed to have me as your protégé, are you? If you were, I’d understand if you weren’t to call me that no more-anymore.”
Crispin rose and clapped the dust from his knees and hands. “Who said I was ashamed of you?”
“It ain’t-isn’t what was said. It was the way he said it. He’s an important man, isn’t he? You meet other important men all the time for your work, sir. It’s hard to impress them. There is only your reputation as the Tracker. We both ain’t got fine clothes, like you was used to.” He clenched his eyes in frustration. “Were used to. And here I am. A beggar. I told him so m’self, didn’t I? And that’s what I am. And that’s what I look like. Maybe you’d be better off without me in the way. I’d still want to be your servant, mind. But … I’d stay out of the way. So’s they wouldn’t know.”
Crispin sighed and measured the broad horizon that disappeared in a misty gray fringe of trees. “That was a fine speech. Worthy … But I think you’re a fool.”
Jack whipped his head toward Crispin. His hood flung back and his red hair flared in the wind like flames. “A fool?”
“You must not allow men like Geoffrey to intimidate you. It is their chief weapon. For the last time, I am not ashamed of you. You are my protégé. I am proud to call you so and I don’t want to hear anything more about it again, either to gain sympathy or a raise in your wages.”
Jack raised his hood against the wind. His face broke into an uncertain smile before he grinned wide, freckles and all.
Crispin wrapped his cloak about him. “I’m cold and there is nothing here. Let’s go back down.”
He trotted down the steps with Jack at his heels. They reached the bottom, stepped through the door, and Crispin locked it again. “I believe he hid there waiting for the appropriate time to strike. And the cloth must be from that night. Someone would have noticed it before then. Some monk scrubbing the floors. See how clean they keep the stairs? Let me see that sword again.” Jack handed it to him and he unwrapped the pommel. A muzzled bear’s head on a red field. Crispin ran memories of his jousting days through his head but he could not recall ever seeing this blazon before. “Fortis et Patientia,” he muttered.
“Latin, right, Master? Fortis. Strong. Patientia. Patience?”
“Enduring. Do you suppose it is the motto to this blazon?”
Jack snapped his fingers. “Course it is. Isn’t that something like your motto, sir?”
Crispin eyed Jack. “And how would you know what my family motto is?”
Jack’s face slackened. Caught. “Well … I came across them rings you got hidden, sir. Came across them last year.”
“Indeed.” A blend of emotions crossed his heart. Was he angry? Jack was prone to find secret places in their lodgings. He had his own cache of hidden goods, so he supposed it was not unlikely Jack could find Crispin’s meager treasure. Two family rings with the Guest blazon on them. His father’s ring and his own. It was all that was left of the Guests. All the memory allowed him. Their family banners had been struck from the Great Hall in Westminster Palace. His surcote of colors long gone.
Crispin lowered his brows. “Are those rings still there?” Even as he asked it he knew the answer.
Jack looked aggrieved. “Master Crispin! What do you take me for? I would never touch your family rings, sir. I know what they are.”
A corner of Crispin’s mouth drew up. “Anyway, my motto is Suus Pessimus Hostilis.”
“‘His Own Worst Enemy,’” Jack recited. “What does that mean, sir?”
“As I understand it, the arms were first granted to my ancestor by King Henry Fitzempress.”