“Merely that you have been paid.” He lowered his voice and glanced dramatically at the others. “Or is it a secret from your fellows?”
“You lie.”
He straightened. “A poor game, this. For you know I am not lying.”
Nigel grimaced and pulled his dagger. Crispin expected it and had his out first. His other hand darted forward, gripped the mason’s arm, and slammed his hand against a pillar. The surprise of the action freed the blade from the mason’s fingers. It clattered loudly on the floor and echoed throughout the empty church. Crispin pressed his own blade to the bull-like neck. The man’s eyes widened when he stared down at the steel. “I don’t like men pulling their daggers on me,” he hissed close to Nigel’s face. “It isn’t friendly. It makes my own blade itch for blood. Should I scratch that itch?”
“No, Master,” croaked Nigel. “It … it was ill-advised of me.”
“I will put my dagger away and we will talk, yes?”
The man nodded and Crispin slowly withdrew the dagger from the man’s neck and sheathed it.
“Now. This is what transpired. You received money from Dom Thomas to hold your tongue about something you saw.” The man’s brows rose up his creased forehead. “It matters little to me if you wish to share this boon with your fellow guild members. My interest in it is this: I want to know what it is you saw. Why is Dom Thomas paying for your silence?”
“It has nought to do with you, Tracker.”
“Doesn’t it? I wonder how your fellows would react should I tell them that you have indeed already been paid and choose to keep it for yourself. Could you feign forgetfulness, I wonder, and live?”
Nigel passed a hand over his sweaty face. “It’s not what you think.”
“I believe it is exactly what I think. What did you see? If it was murder and you failed to report it to the authorities then you are as liable as the killer-”
“Murder? Murder?” His sweaty face was suddenly pebbled with perspiration. “Blessed Mother! I am no party to murder!”
His voice rose in volume, alerting the other masons nearby. Heads turned.
“I have no part in murder!” he cried again.
Damn the man! Crispin saw his opportunity slipping away as curiosity turned to concern. Some came away from their posts and headed toward them. Soon the masons were gathered around the two, casting accusatory and threatening looks Crispin’s way. Before Crispin could negotiate the situation, Nigel snatched up his own money pouch in a burst of inspiration. “Look! This man has talked to the good brothers and brought our pay! Let the monks come through, then, as our quarrel with Canterbury is at an end. We will return to our work. Come now!”
The men, acting like a shield around Nigel, cheered and moved as one to meet the others at the cloister door. There was more discussion, some arguments, but the monks were soon allowed in and the dispute appeared to be over.
Nigel looked back with a smirk. Disgusted, Crispin turned away.
He met Jack at the entrance again and the boy was beaming at him. “Don’t be proud of me yet, Jack,” he said with a scowl. “I was not able to extract the information I wanted from Master Nigel. And now I never shall.” He recounted their exchange and Jack’s face fell. “However,” he said, “mention of murder produced a rather profound effect.” Jack didn’t understand. He steered the boy into the nave and bent close to Jack’s ear as they watched the monks’ shadows cross the Chapel of Saint Thomas at the far end. “Dom Thomas does not seem guilty of murder. I thought that would console you.”
Jack nodded. “Indeed it does. A holy brother guilty of the greatest sin? Though I do not much like the man, I am relieved he is no killer. But what, then, did he need to pay extortion money for?”
“That I do not yet know. But I shall ferret it out some other way.” He, too, was pleased that Dom Thomas, pompous as he was, was not guilty of murder, but it drew him no closer to finding evidence against Sir Philip. He shook his head. “Prioress Eglantine, Brother Wilfrid. Such heinous crimes. I wish I knew why-”
“Oh! Oh God’s blessed eyes and ears! I do know why, sir!”
He stared at Jack as though he had sprouted wings. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s that curse, sir,” he said, grabbing Crispin’s arm and searching the shadows.
“What foolish nonsense is this?”
“It’s the curse, Master. What Edward Harper was telling me. The curse of Becket’s bones!”
“I have never heard of such foolishness. I expected better sense from you. After the hours I spent teaching you-”
“But sir! First it was the Prioress, and her name was Eglantine de Mooreville. And then poor Wilfrid, and his surname was de Tracy. Don’t you see, sir? They both have the same surnames as Becket’s murderers. The saint is taking his revenge on their descendants. And Father Gelfridus is next! He’s a Le Breton.”
Crispin paused. He rolled the thought in his mind like dice in his fingers. Was there merit to such an idea? Was someone taking vengeance on the past?
“Why, Jack, that is a very interesting theory. But how could the murderer know that these three people would be at the same place and time?”
“If God wishes a thing done, then it is done.”
“God is not killing these people!”
“Well someone is!”
“Who is this Edward Harper?”
Jack looked relieved at last. “I will take you to him, sir.”
19
Jack led Crispin up through the nave, pulling at his arm. But when they approached the cloister door, a monk stopped them.
“You cannot enter,” said the tall cleric. “This is for the holy brothers alone.”
“Father Cyril!” Jack edged forward, grinning madly. He pushed back his hood revealing his face … and tonsure.
Cyril glared at him until recognition washed over his features. “Brother John, er…”
Sheepishly, Jack fingered his coat. “Ah … alas, no, Father. I am Jack Tucker and this is my master, Crispin Guest.”
Cyril eyed Crispin. “So it would appear. I have heard it from on high that this person must be allowed anywhere he wishes.” He regarded Crispin haughtily and though his words allowed access he did not step aside.
Crispin bowed to him. “I understand the rare privilege afforded me, Father.”
“Privilege,” he muttered, eyes flicking toward a chastened Jack. “Not so rare, it would seem.” He stepped aside and Jack looked back forlornly. Crispin felt a pang of regret for having used Jack so.
The cloister was large. The open greensward was filled with wind-rustled herbs and other medicinal plants. Jack seemed to know his way well after only two days within, but he expected no less from the clever lad. He followed Jack down the colonnade and into deeper shadows until they came to a gate. Jack pushed it open and a courtyard spread before them shouldered by several small cottages. A man with wavy white hair and white beard was hoeing in a little garden of carefully tilled earth.
The man looked up, squinted, and then straightened, leaning on his hoe. He waited until Crispin and Jack approached before setting his hoe against the cottage wall. “Do I have the honor of greeting Crispin Guest?” he asked.
Mildly surprised, Crispin looked down at a red-faced Jack.
“I told him your name, Master. I didn’t think it would do no harm.”
Crispin saw clearly in the old man’s eyes that he knew his name very well. “Proper introductions, Jack.”
Jack scrambled forward and threw back his hood as if doffing a hat. His tonsure gleamed in the sparse sunshine. “Master Harper, you knew me as Brother John and for that deception I am heartily sorry. My true name is Jack Tucker-” and he bowed low. “Here is my master, who is still my master. As you see, I am not a friar. I was sent to the cloister to help discover a murderer.”
“And have you?” he asked tightly.
“No, good sir. Not yet. But my master will have him. He always does.”