“Oh. Is that his name?”
“He holds great store by family curses. I fear certain monks have given him notions.” He finished his business and washed his hands in a nearby bucket, shaking them out.
“Who was the monk who was killed?”
Cyril took a deep breath and his face fell to a solemn configuration. “Young Wilfrid. The horror of it.” He crossed himself. “He was the treasurer’s assistant. You might have met the treasurer in the prior’s lodge.”
“Aye, we’ve met.”
He gauged Jack’s expression. “Yes, I see you have. Wilfrid was Dom Thomas’s assistant. They had many secrets, those two. But I do not think poor Wilfrid was up to the task. Perhaps in time and with more experience. But alas.”
“Not up to what task, Brother?”
Cyril smiled and continued through the cloister. “You are a very curious fellow. It does not do well to ask too many questions here. My brothers keep a closed lip.”
Jack put on a merrier face. “I am a traveling friar, Father Cyril. I am more used to a loosened tongue, I fear. You must pardon me if I seem to ask too much.”
He patted Jack’s shoulder again. “I do not fear your questions. It is good to talk to someone new.”
“I wonder, Brother, if you can direct me to my quarters. Dom Thomas neglected to tell me where they are.”
“I’ll show you.” He took Jack through a door and down a long, dark corridor lined with many cell doors. He went to the last one and opened the door. Jack peered in at the dismal surroundings, not much better than a cell in Newgate. A bare cot, a fireplace, a tiny window, a shelf, a table with a stool, and a crucifix on the wall.
Jack brought up a smile. “It’s wonderful,” he said weakly.
Cyril’s drooping lids rose only momentarily. “Is it? You must come from a very poor place indeed.”
“Father Cyril-”
“Sorry, Friar, but I must return to my work now. Sit next to me at the Divine Office at None. That place is empty now. It belonged to Brother Wilfrid.”
He bowed to Jack, stuffed his hands within his scapular, and trudged away. Jack turned to the cold little room and shuffled to the stool. He sat and stared into the dead hearth. So far, he’d found out a few things. One: No one there trusted Crispin, and in fact, all wondered why he was even called to Canterbury. Two: There was still some hidden secret among the brothers. And three: Brother Martin might prove to be a problem. Tricky business, this tracking.
12
Crispin awakened in a strange bed, his face buried in long strands of brown hair. Hand resting on a plump, pink hip, he paused, thinking about it for a moment before he remembered. He snaked his hand around her thick waist and nuzzled the back of her neck. A female moan emerged from the cloud of hair, and she turned over to look him in the eye. She smiled and sighed lustily, stretching her arms up around his neck. “Crispin Guest,” she purred.
“Ah, so you remember me.”
“Very well indeed.”
“And you are Alyson, as I recall.”
“Mmm.”
“The both of us had a bit to drink last night.”
“We managed quite well anyway. Several times.”
He smiled. “So we did.”
“That’s why I prefer a younger man. More stamina! ‘Rejoice O young man, in thy youth!’ I shall never marry a man my age again. Only younger men.”
“‘Men’?”
“Five times a widow now, Crispin. I expect there will be more than one husband hence.”
He rolled to his back and pillowed his head in his intertwined fingers. “Perhaps you wear them out.”
She laughed. Her ample breasts shook and he watched them. “Perhaps I do.” She drew the blankets to cover her chest and propped herself against the wall. “But at least it takes our mind off our troubles, if only for a while.”
“Yes.” He shifted upward and leaned against the wall beside her.
Her gaze was sympathetic. “Is this the normal course of things during an inquiry? This waiting. Searching. Worrying.”
He breathed deeply. “Yes. Especially when murder is involved. The culprit rarely confesses. And I must use all means and cunning to ferret him out.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Do you truly think the culprit is Sir Philip?”
He laid his head back against the wall and stared up at the beams. “I know he has something to do with it. Blood is on his hands, I am certain. As for the rest, I am puzzled.”
“The rest?”
Crispin nearly spoke of the missing relics but caught himself. He said nothing instead and let his lids fall closed.
“And what of your friend Chaucer?”
He snapped open his eyes. “Geoffrey,” he breathed. “I … I must arrest him when he shows himself again.”
“Arrest him? Lancaster’s poet? Whatever for?”
“Murder,” he growled.
Alyson shifted upward. “Murder?”
“Geoffrey’s dagger was found in the neck of Brother Wilfrid. He must face the sheriff and explain it.”
She leaned toward him. He felt her radiating warmth and all he wanted to do was sink down into the mattress again and wrap his limbs around her. The smell of their coupling was strong within the bestirred sheets. His eyes roved longingly over her bare, white shoulders and décolletage. “Do you believe he did it?” she asked softly.
“No. I can’t imagine it. But it was his knife. And he had the opportunity. And he is hiding something.” He stared at the blankets for a moment before he threw them off and stood up. He retrieved his stockings, still tied to his braies, and slipped them on one at a time, drawing them up. He shrugged into his shirt and searched for his coat.
“I’m sorry you have to leave,” she said, still clutching the sheets to her bosom.
He grabbed his coat from under the bed, dug an arm into a sleeve, and glanced back at her. He offered a crooked smile. “I’ll be back. Will I be welcome?”
“Most heartily,” she said. She smiled broadly, revealing her gat-toothed grin.
Buttoning his coat, he leaned over the bed and kissed her, tasting her generous mouth. It was soft and moist. “Bath must be a very accommodating city. I must visit it sometime.”
“You would be welcome there, too.”
He made his farewells and left, standing outside Alyson’s room a long time. Finally, he stared down the gallery toward Bonefey’s room and decided to pay him another visit, despite the early hour. Raising his fist, he pounded on the door. He heard grumbling and shuffling and then the bolt was thrown. Bonefey’s squinting face appeared when the door opened a slit and then his eye widened when he saw who it was. Crispin stuck his foot in before Bonefey could slam the door. He pushed the door open and backed the man to his bed where he stumbled and fell onto it. “Where’s your sword now?”
Bonefey’s eyes darted to the chair where his clothes and scabbard lay.
Crispin smiled. “Mind if I look at your dagger?” He went to the pile of clothes and pulled forth the dagger, examining the blade. Good condition. Very sharp. He was tempted to toss it in the coals on the fire but resisted and instead sheathed it again and tossed the belt aside.
Bonefey trembled with fury. “Your insolence, knave, will cost you.”
He spared him only a glance. “I doubt that.”
Grasping the chair with Bonefey’s sword and clothes, he tipped it, dumping its contents to the floor. Setting it upright, he sat and studied Bonefey. “Tell me your exact whereabouts the night the Prioress was slain.”
“I will do no such thing.”
Staring for a moment at Bonefey’s hairy, bandy legs below his long chemise, he drew a breath, then pulled his dagger free from its sheath and looked the Franklin in the eye. “I don’t believe in wasted time, Sir Philip. I mean to get my information. By any means necessary.”
Bonefey’s eyes grew to great white-edged disks. “What do you mean to do with that?”
“Whatever I need to. Now, I suggest you start talking.”
Bonefey never took his eyes from Crispin’s sharp blade. “I … I was here. At the inn. The whole time.”