Harper studied Jack a moment. “Surely it is the Devil that puts a man to such treachery. Ever since Cain slew Abel, Mankind has been so cursed. Who but God is ever certain what lies in a man’s heart.”
Jack remembered a similar discussion with Crispin. Slowly, he said, “But did not Cain kill Abel because of his heart’s sadness? Because the Almighty was not as pleased by his gifts as he was with Abel’s? A man’s heart, then, seems to be a fragile thing, not necessarily a thing of sin.”
Harper laid his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “That is a very compassionate assessment. Perhaps you should consider the priesthood, young man.”
Jack backed away. “Oh no! Not for me! I ain’t worthy of that!”
“Certainly men of less worth have taken vows.”
Jack scanned the planes of Harper’s face, the crags of wrinkles and lines, the ruddy windswept complexion, and considered that this man would have done well as a priest, too, except for all his dabbling in his books and strange parchments. Jack turned toward the colorful drawings and all the lines connecting them. He even raised his hand and ran a finger along the leaf of a book lying open. “Master Harper, I wonder if you can tell me again the names of Becket’s murderers.”
Harper raised his white brows. “Of course. Hugh de Morville, Reginald Fitz-Urse, William de Tracy, and Richard le Breton.”
Jack shook his head. “There’s something about them names. It’s all familiar to me.”
“Surely you have heard them many times before. Who does not know the story of the sainted martyr?”
“Aye. But the names. You’ve got me vexed about this curse, sure enough, master. It’s got me to thinking.”
“Well, don’t let it distract you too much from your duties. Wilfrid was also fond of spending time with me, much to the consternation of Dom Thomas. I would not see you in similar straights.”
“Never fear for me, master. I owe no allegiance to Dom Thomas.”
He nodded. “Will I see you tomorrow, Little Friar?”
“No, good sir. I think this will be our farewell. I hope to leave this afternoon.”
“So soon?”
“Well, with no relics to see it is hardly worth the stay. You see, I am no Lollard.”
“Nor am I. I have seen for myself the power of relics.”
“As have I. If only my former master were as convinced.”
“He is not a Lollard sympathizer by any chance?”
“Oh no, sir. But he has had his fair share of relics and they are sore trying to him. Er…” Jack realized too late that he’d spoken too much yet again. “Well, I must take my leave. God be with you, master.”
“And with you.”
Jack made his way back to the main cloister and saw Cyril across the greensward. He hurried to him with a greeting.
“Brother John.”
“Father Cyril. Where might I find Dom Thomas?”
Dom Thomas Chillenden refused to look up from his books, taking his time carefully scrawling numbers into columns. Jack rocked on his feet, staring at the monk’s bushy brows, his fringe of hair, his gnarled fingers curled around the goose quill. The treasurer had him standing there a long time. Jack wondered how much longer. He didn’t feel it his place to confront the monk, and indeed, if he were a murderer, he’d rather Crispin do the honors. But he must complete his duty so that he could report back to his master. “There are important matters I would discuss with you, Dom Thomas,” he said tightly.
The monk’s eyes looked up. Slowly, he laid his quill aside, folded his hands before him, and raised his chin. “Very well, then. Go on.”
Flustered suddenly at the attention, Jack adjusted his cincture and pulled at the yoke of his cassock. “First of all, I think I have discovered the identity of your Lollard.”
The brows rose. “Have you? That was quick work, Brother John.”
“There’s no need for that,” said Jack with a scowl. “We know who I am. I’d ’a thought you’d be interested to know who the heretic was amongst you. Makes me think that maybe he ain’t the only one.”
Dom Thomas snapped to his feet. Jack cringed back. “You insolent cur! If you did not have the protection of the archbishop I should strike you down!”
“Now that ain’t very Christian, is it?” Jack strained to get his breath under control and pasted on a confident sneer. “What makes you so angry?”
Thomas pushed at his books so violently they skidded across the table. He tramped forward and came to rest a foot from Jack, his nostrils flaring, fists tight to his sides. “Because I have known of these difficulties for quite some time and my pleas for help have gone unanswered. Until now. Now suddenly the archbishop acquiesces to my wishes. Why? I can only speculate and none of it bodes well.”
Jack drew back. He expected an outburst, just not one with those sentiments. “So … you knew there was a Lollard here undermining the shrine?”
“Yes,” he hissed. He eyed Jack with a deepening scowl. “And I don’t need the lackey of the likes of Crispin Guest telling me my job.”
“I ain’t-I’m not telling you your job. I am merely doing mine. Do you wish to know or not?”
Dom Thomas sighed deeply and lowered his head. “Yes.”
Jack moved closer and spoke in a conspiratorial murmur, “It is Brother Martin.”
The monk’s face blotched with fury. “I know that! Do you think I’m a complete fool?”
Jack’s jaw dropped several inches. “If you knew that then why didn’t you do anything about it?”
“What could I do? He is a good worker. He makes no trouble. For the most part, he has kept his opinions to himself, though lately I have noticed his becoming more vocal on … certain topics.”
“Like the martyr’s bones, perchance? And his stealing them away? What about murder? Does that warrant your attention?” Jack hoped to provoke a reaction and kept his hand on his dagger just in case.
The fury on the monk’s face subsided and in fact drained of color. His eyes drew on a sunken, forlorn appearance. He collapsed on the edge of his table, arms hanging limply. “No,” he whispered. “I refuse to believe he had anything to do with these deaths. Least of all for Brother Wilfrid’s.” He raked his hand over his eyes.
Again, Dom Thomas did not react as Jack expected. If speaking of murder did not make Dom Thomas wrought with denials, then what was behind that scene in the church?
Jack lowered his hand from his knife and softly offered, “I have learned through these last two years with my master that anyone can be under suspicion. Perhaps something has changed in Brother Martin to force his hand.”
Thomas shook his head and then stopped. “There was something last year. He was one of several monks to accompany the archbishop.”
“Where?”
“To oversee a trial.”
“God blind me!” Jack straightened. “I’ll wager my last farthing I know which trial that was!” He ran to the door, grabbed the ring and paused. “Oh! I almost forgot. Why is it the monks here don’t trust my master?”
Dom Thomas seemed to have recovered himself and his half-closed lids and customary snarl returned. “Because he is a Lollard sympathizer.”
“Where’d you get that fool notion? He isn’t. He’s just a … a thoughtful man. Likes to ponder new ideas. It was the duke that was the Lollard and my master ain’t-isn’t in the duke’s retinue no more. But my master is a friend of Saint Thomas, of that you can be certain. He came here to root out the evil, not sanction it.”
Something flickered in Dom Thomas’s eyes and then disappeared again. “That has yet to be proved.”
Jack started to make a gesture, but dropped his hand. He shook his head, trying to keep his anger in check. “You’re the fool. He’s not the one harboring secrets. What was it anyway that got Wilfrid so upset that he wanted to come to my master and tell him?”
The monk lurched forward. “What?”