“Indeed,” Courtenay went on, “your skills investigating crimes make you highly desirable and quite the only one I wished to consider.”
Crispin drank in silence.
Courtenay’s eyes fixed on him. Suddenly, he offered, “I remember tales of Sir Henry Guest. He was a valorous knight and a devoted baron to the crown as well as servant of Lancaster and the old king.”
Crispin straightened at Courtenay’s unexpected words. He cleared his throat. “I do not recall much of my father,” he said carefully. “He was often gone to war, where he died.”
“Yes. And that was when you were fostered into Lancaster’s household, I believe.”
“Yes, when I was seven. No mother and no father, save Gaunt.”
“Your liege lord raised you well, making you a knight.”
Crispin moved against the seat, trying to find a comfortable spot. “Lancaster is no longer my liege lord.” He wished he could leap to his feet and cast over the chair. Instead, he gripped the arm. “Situations change. Particularly of late.” I came all this way, dammit. Get to the point!
“Lancaster has staunch views on religious matters. One might even say they lean toward heresy.”
“My religious views do not necessarily mirror that of my former mentor.”
“Well then. Can I assume that you are a friend of the Church?”
The comfortable spot on the chair still eluded him. He edged forward. “I am neither friend nor foe of the Church.”
“Am I mistaken about you, Master Guest? I heard from my brother monk, Abbot Nicholas of Westminster Abbey, of his high regard for you. Of deeds you have performed for the sake of Mother Church.”
“He is a friend.”
“And the relics?”
He couldn’t help cringing. Did it always come to that? The chair proved too uncomfortable. He snapped to his feet, started to pace before the fire, and then thought better of it. He stood before it instead, keeping his back to the flames. “Simply because a holy relic falls into my hands-for whatever reason-does not mean I believe in its power.”
Courtenay took a sip of wine, his gaze never leaving Crispin. “Then why do these relics come to you?”
He threw up a hand. “I know not. Perhaps it is God’s plan. Or jest.”
“I suppose a man like you can be trusted, if the Almighty finds you worthy.”
“You can trust me. For a shilling you can buy all the trust you desire.”
“For money? I don’t believe you.”
Crispin set the goblet down hard, spilling some of the wine. “You know my history. I have learned that the only thing that can be trusted is gold.”
“That is not a godly sentiment. Aren’t you a good Christian, Master Guest?”
He raised his chin, staring up at the ribbed ceiling and decorative bosses. “I believe … in belief.”
“Master Guest-”
He squared on the archbishop. “Forgive me, Excellency. But these niceties get us nowhere. I have come a long way. What do you want with me?”
Courtenay slowly nodded and set his wine aside. He stood. “You are a candid man, so I shall be forthright with you. The Lollard heretics have made threats against the martyr’s relics.”
At last! Firm ground. “What kind of threats?”
“Letters. Rumors. All indicate that they wish to do harm to Becket’s tomb and remains.”
“May I see these letters?”
“Alas. I destroyed them. There were only two, and I took them as nothing but the anonymous mischief of a disingenuous rabble. But then there were rumors and incidents. Broken locks and petty thievery. It was only then that I began to take these threats seriously. And as you know, I am no friend to the Lollards.”
Crispin remembered. Ten years ago, Courtenay and Lancaster faced off like two cockerels in a barnyard fight. Crispin stood beside Lancaster as he was wont to do. Courtenay no doubt remembered Crispin from that occasion. Courtenay’s attempt to suppress the Lollards, and their attacks on papal authority and the doctrines of the Church, outright opposed Lancaster, who took it upon himself to support John Wycliffe, the Oxford theologian and the father of the reform movement, who was also the duke’s personal preacher.
“Then you believe it is the Lollards who seek to despoil Becket’s tomb?”
“Who else? They dare call the sacred shrine and others like it idolatrous.”
“They may hate more the fees charged to the pilgrims.”
Courtenay’s sharp glare replaced his earlier and more controlled demeanor. “It is just such talk, Master Guest, which produces violent rabbles. Do you suggest that the maintenance of such a holy place be solely on the poor church that is forced to house it?”
“Forced, my lord? Many a monastery would happily go to war to own such a profitable venture.”
Courtenay’s face reddened. “And you call yourself a son of the Church!”
“Be at ease, my lord. I do not say I approve of such infighting. Can you tell me this does not occur within the Church?”
Courtenay’s breathing evened, and he gripped the back of the chair. His rings sparkled in the tinted light of the flames and stained-glass windows. “You are right, of course. Such does occur, and it grieves me to see it.”
Crispin sighed and took up his goblet again. “Tell me, then, how do you suggest I protect the bones.”
“That, Master Guest, I leave to you.”
“Then I propose that you post a guard on them day and night.”
“Naturally. But the letters indicated that there would be an attempt made at the beginning of the season. Which is now upon us.”
“And so?”
“My hope, Master Guest, is that you would personally guard the tomb.”
Crispin choked on the wine. “Me? Sleep alongside Saint Thomas?”
“I trust you, Master Guest. This is my charge to you.”
“My lord, I have no wish to play nursemaid to Becket’s bones for the rest of my days. I have lodgings in London. I have my life there.”
“Certainly I did not expect that you would give up all to spend eternity by a tomb,” he said. Except that by his tone, Crispin thought that this was exactly what Courtenay expected. “But I wish it guarded, and I will pay you well.”
“You have an entire community of faithful monks, my lord. Surely they can be expected to be obedient in this.” Courtenay was silent, and Crispin studied his tightening shoulders. The archbishop left the chair and strode across the room to stand below a large crucifix. He rested his hands behind his back and stared up at the corpus, its limbs carved with care, showing stretched sinews and even scars from flogging.
“A monastery is a wonderful haven, Master Guest. I wonder if the layman can truly appreciate it.”
“I have seen it carve great and holy men within its confines.”
“As have I. But it can also cripple a weak man.”
“Your Excellency?”
“Master Guest, have you ever led an army?”
Crispin’s nimble mind tried to keep up with the archbishop’s more agile one. “Not an entire army. A garrison.”
“But you rely on the competence of your men to win the day.”
“Naturally. And their loyalty.”
“Their loyalty. Indeed. The battle cannot be won without it.”
“My lord, I am at a loss as to your meaning.”
He turned. His blue eyes were deep sapphires. “You asked about my monks.”
“Yes. The monks of the priory. This is their church.” He sensed Courtenay’s hesitation. “They are faithful monks, my lord, are they not?”
“They call you the Tracker.” Courtenay moved from the crucifix and returned to his table. He trailed his fingers along the documents piled there. He picked one up, glanced at it, and set it down again. “My treasurer and his assistant do much of the task of guarding the relics, but I must tell you an unpleasant truth.” His hand dropped away from the desk and fell against his robe. He raised those sapphire eyes to Crispin again. They burned with a cold fire. Crispin suddenly had a feeling of raw power emanating from those eyes, reflecting the true heart and soul of the man who owned them. “I believe one of my monks to be a Lollard heretic, Master Guest. I want you to root him out and bring him to me.”