Three of the four names? “Yes,” he conceded. “I would have to say I would. And yet, the idea that a murderer could conspire to gather all of these together-”
“Perhaps the Prioress and her priest were lured here. Brother Wilfrid, of course, by virtue of his office, was forbidden from leaving the precincts of the monastery.”
“But Father Gelfridus has been the nuns’ priest for years. The planning of such a thing is staggering to the mind.”
Harper shrugged. “Staggering it may be, but vengeance can simmer for years.”
How well Crispin knew. What years had he wasted in the name of vengeance? But the task at hand was more important than his own sordid history. “Vengeance? The murders were avenged two hundred years ago. Who would seek vengeance now?”
“The answer to that, I believe, is your task.” Jack was worried that Father Gelfridus would be the next victim. But a tingle down Crispin’s spine told him that the priest was a more likely murderer.
Harper left his books and retrieved a jug from a shelf. “A poor host am I. I promised you refreshment and I have failed to offer it. Will you take some beer?”
“I thank you,” said Crispin, still captivated by his thoughts as well as the colorful shields and achievements on the parchments and in the books. He took the cup offered and drank. The beer was flat and a little stale but he had drunk worse. “How long have you known about me?” he asked quietly.
“On the second day of Master Tucker’s subterfuge. Our little friar named you as his former master and as I said, it was a simple thing to research. You were not long from court.”
“You remained civil to him in spite of it all. For this I thank you.”
“I knew he must be at the beck and call of his master, but I could not reckon the nature of his deception.” Harper took a drink, looked at his chipped cup, and winced from the stale beer. “He spoke highly of you and of the learning you gave him. From the pattern of his speech I would think that he was more suited to the kitchens rather than the garb of a squire.”
“Since I am no knight he is not a squire. But I saw no reason not to teach him. He came from humble beginnings. But he is sharp and learns easily.”
“And you speak well of him. It is the measure of a man how he speaks of his servants.”
“Jack … is a special case.” But before he could say more, Jack himself returned to the courtyard at a trot and, panting, entered the cottage, bowed a greeting again to Harper before handing Crispin the wrapped sword.
“And what is this?” Harper’s eyes ran over the object as Crispin unwound the linen from the hilt.
“This is the murder weapon, that which dispatched Prioress Eglantine.” The last of the cloth fell away and Crispin held up the pommel, showing Harper the red field with the muzzled bear head. “It would be most helpful, Master Harper, if you can find the name that belongs to this blade. It may help me drop the noose around the neck of a killer.”
But Harper was staring wide-eyed at the pommel. His face had gone white.
“Master Harper?”
“I need no book or parchment to place this, Master Guest, for I know it well.”
“Well then?”
“It is perhaps the worst of the four, the first to strike a blow against the sainted martyr. This, Master Guest, is the blazon for the fourth of Becket’s murderers: the Fitz-Urse family.”
20
“The fourth name!” gasped Jack.
Crispin’s patience thinned. “Are you certain?” But it seemed foolish to even ask.
“Yes. Oh, yes. Since I first suspected and found the Prioress’s surname and then Wilfrid’s, I found the others. This is the most notorious of them all. I am not mistaken, Master Guest.”
“Didn’t I tell you, Master! Didn’t I say!”
“Be still, Jack, and let me think.” This was impossible! An incredible conspiracy of such unlikely circumstances that no mere mortal could have brought it about. No mere mortal …
He drew himself up and paced the small space. No. He refused to entertain the notion. Each time he was confronted with these supernatural events they could always be explained away. It was the mark of a foolish and unreasonable man who believed in superstitious happenings. No man with the logic of Aristotle could entertain the notion. Some men are just as firmly convinced of what they think, as others of what they know.
Logic, Crispin. Stick to the facts. “Then this sword belonged to the Fitz-Urse family. It may not be the same-”
“Surely you can see for yourself that it is old. The blade itself is not cared for. The scratches are aged. The enamel on the pommel-”
“Yes, yes. I have seen all this.” He sucked in his lower lip. Then something else occurred to him. “Is the Fitz-Urse family motto Fortis et Patientia?”
“No, it is quite different.”
Crispin deflated. “No?”
Harper consulted his papers. “I do not immediately recognize this motto. Shall I find it for you?”
Crispin nodded. “Yes. That might be helpful.” Was someone indeed taking some sort of revenge, as far-fetched as it seemed? But was a Fitz-Urse a killer or an as yet unknown victim-to-be? “What happened to the Fitz-Urse family?”
“Much the same as happened to the others. The four murderers were excommunicated by the pope and forced into exile, a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. It is said they all died within three years of their quest. Their families faired little better. They were disgraced. Their fortunes failed. Many changed their names in hopes of changing their fortunes or at the very least hiding their past, and some were more successful at this than others.”
“Can you find the Fitz-Urse family amongst your books and parchments, Master Harper? I know that heralds are paid for their services. I can pay your fee.”
Harper waved his hand. The creases of his palms were still etched with dirt from his hoe. “I will take no fee for finding a murderer.” He picked up a large journal and opened the thin leather covering. “I know that a century ago they dropped the use of the Fitz-Urse name and took another. But my memory is not what it once was. It will take time.”
Crispin thought of Geoffrey in his cell. “Time, Master Harper, is a commodity we do not have in abundance.”
“I will do my best.”
“We are staying at the Martyrs Inn. And I thank you for your hospitality and your kindness.”
“Not at all, Master Guest. It is good to feel useful again.”
Crispin took his leave and after looking at the sword once more, he handed it to Jack. “Take this back to our room. I must see Geoffrey.”
“Aye, Master. Are we any closer to knowing the truth, sir?”
“I wish I knew.” He looked back at the little cottage as they crossed the courtyard. “Jack, how well do you know this Edward Harper?”
“As well as any man under such short acquaintance.”
“He knows a great deal about this. Tales of a curse might be a stratagem to throw a man off the scent.” Jack’s openmouthed glare slowed Crispin but he did not stop. “It is not inconceivable, Jack-”
“Are you accusing Master Harper? That nice old man?”
“Nicer old men have been murderers before this.”
“No. No! What cause would he have to-”
“I do not know.” He shook his head and pinched his fingers over the bridge of his nose. “Perhaps I am grasping at straws. The very nature of this crime is enough to pummel a man’s good sense. And now Sir Philip begins to seem less likely with this new information.” He sighed. “Fear not. I do not intend to arrest Master Harper.” But to himself he thought, yet.
Jack left to accomplish his task. Crispin still had the skeleton key to the church and monastery and was fairly certain no one had bothered to change the locks on the monk’s cells, so he would be able to open Geoffrey’s cell without assistance.
He walked slowly, thinking. After he talked to Geoffrey he wanted to return to Saint Benet’s chapel and see the place of the Prioress’s murder once more.