“You are a churl, Guest,” said Courtenay in a darkly pitiless tone. “I should have known. A traitor can never be trusted. Lancaster taught you your heresy and now we see the proof of it.”
“Whatever you think of me, your Excellency, is your affair alone. But I am here to see justice done under the eyes of God. Geoffrey Chaucer is not guilty of these crimes. This was not his confession to me. If you condemn him then it is you who are committing a most heinous offense against God and Man.”
The archbishop raised his arm and pointed a shaking finger toward the door. “Get him out of here!”
Crispin jabbed his spear toward the guard who seemed reluctant to take him on. “Your Excellency, I beg of you. Grant me one more day to prove his innocence. How can it be wrong to deny a man his chance at life? This body-this holy body-cannot mean to condemn a man unjustly.”
“And you make your plea at the point of a spear?”
He tightened his grip on the weapon and measured both guards and the clerics. Most had risen in their seats and were anxiously watching the outcome.
Crispin had made many decisions in his life. Some had been terribly wrong, and some had proved his instincts. He had to rely on those instincts now.
With a hurried prayer, he tossed the spear aside and held up his empty hands.
He glanced at the guard. The man hesitated. It was enough. Crispin dropped to his knees. “My lord! Grant me this boon. I make this oath to you. I will find those guilty, and you will have been spared executing an innocent man.” Never mind that you have no right to do so!
No one moved. No one breathed. He felt his heart hammering within his chest.
Courtenay was livid. But Crispin knew the man had no choice. No prince of the Church could turn down a plea like this. He could tell that the monks were moved and appeared more than willing to comply with his petition.
The archbishop licked his lips. The hand he pressed white to the table lifted and caressed the bejeweled cross pendant lying on his chest. “This is a matter of heresy, Master Guest,” he said hoarsely. “Can you disprove that?”
Crispin paused, glancing toward Geoffrey. Of course. This was no civil murder trial. The Church would only deal in heresy. Think fast, Crispin, he told himself. “Of course, your Excellency. This rather rushed gathering would seem to benefit from the wisdom of your peers, bishops like yourself-” Courtenay’s face darkened. “But since you felt the need to hurry the proceedings-fearing for the soul of Master Chaucer, no doubt-you must realize that the king’s uncle would surely never harbor a heretic.”
His words were well chosen, for he saw Courtenay blanch at the mention of the king.
“You have one day Master Guest. By sunset tomorrow, if you have brought no new evidence to me, then Chaucer hangs.”
Crispin was about to argue but saw that it would do no good. “Thank you, Excellency. Thank you.” He rose and only then did he dare glance at Geoffrey.
His friend’s face was wet with perspiration. He felt a constriction in his throat. Chaucer looked frightened. He wasn’t the only one.
Crispin bowed low to the assembly, threw his cloak behind him, and marched out. His mind worked furiously. Today and tomorrow. That was all he had to prove Geoffrey innocent. But what evidence was there? A charge of murder he could elude, but one of heresy?
He stopped. He had to get a message to Lancaster. It would certainly never reach him in time but he had to make the effort. He owed Geoffrey that much.
He needed someone with a swift horse.
Crispin hurried out of the cathedral precincts and then he ran. The Westgate. If the sheriff was there he had a chance …
He barely took note of the streets as he passed through them. He could be in London as any other place, though he did not know these streets as well as he did London’s.
His gaze rose above the rooftops, searching for the round tower gate, and he turned the corner of many twisting lanes to keep in the right direction.
Finally, he rounded the last corner and the stone gatehouse loomed above him. The Westgate was surrounded by scaffolding while still under construction and he hoped the sheriff, or at least someone who could help him, was there.
“The sheriff,” he told the guard, trying to catch his breath. The man only motioned him inside. Crispin looked around, saw a stairwell, and took it.
The first door he came to he peered within. A clerk sitting at a desk and penning careful words on a parchment looked up.
“The sheriff. Is he here?”
“Aye. He is within,” and the clerk gestured to the closed door.
“I must see him. Now.”
The man stood. “And who are you, sir? And your business?”
“I am Crispin Guest, and my business-”
“Oh!” The man seemed to know well Crispin’s business and he scrambled to the door, knocked once, and entered, closing it behind him.
He paced. He couldn’t stand still. Each moment that ticked by was another moment he wasn’t using to find the killer.
At length, the door opened and Thomas Brokhull strode through. “Master Guest. What is it you require?”
“Praise God. Lord Sheriff, I need your swiftest messenger sent to London immediately.”
“Why so urgently?”
“Because-” He suddenly noticed the clerk peering at both of them. The sheriff noticed as well, and led Crispin into his room. He closed the door.
“Tell me.”
“The archbishop, like any wily fox, has taken advantage and has condemned Geoffrey Chaucer for heresy.”
“What? He cannot do that! Even if it were an ecclesiastical matter he hasn’t the jurisdiction to execute a prisoner.”
“And so, too, would I think. But I do not put it past the man to use any means at his disposal.”
“That is the crown’s jurisdiction,” Brokhull went on indignantly. “My jurisdiction!”
“Indeed. But can we argue the point later? The messenger, Lord Sheriff.”
“Oh yes.” He went to the door again and told the clerk to send for a man.
“Have you quill and paper?”
The sheriff offered his own desk for his use. Crispin circled to the other side, fetched a quill from its pot, and took the square of parchment offered. Hastily, he scribbled a note:
Your grace,
I write this in haste without room for pleasantries. Your servant, Geoffrey Chaucer, is in danger of his life. He is accused of murders for which I know he is innocent but a charge of heresy will be his end. In all God’s speed, send your emissaries to stop Archbishop Courtenay from this course. Urgency is utmost.
Your servant,
Crispin Guest
He blotted it, sealed it with the sheriff’s seal, and clutched it in his hand until the messenger arrived. When he did, Crispin all but pushed the sheriff aside. “Give this to the duke of Lancaster at Westminster Palace. In all haste. How fast can you ride to London?”
The man, wearing the tabard of the city of Canterbury, looked once at Brokhull and then at the window. It was almost noon. “With good weather and riding hard, I can perhaps make it by nightfall.”
“Good then. Go. Go now!”
With a look of acknowledgment from the sheriff, the man left. Crispin listened to the man’s feet thump down the stairs.
“Is there anything I can do?”
Remembering the sheriff, Crispin stared at Brokhull. “No, my lord. I work best alone. But believe me, if there was something you could do I would not hesitate to ask. I thank you for this.”
“Well, there is one thing I will do. I will take my men and march to Christchurch Cathedral at once! This must not stand. Just who does the archbishop think he is?”