“He thinks he is the Primate of England … and he is.”
“But he is not the King of England. And the king is the law. I shall do my best to remind him of that.”
He nodded. He liked this fellow. He was certainly better than Exton or Froshe. And more useful. “I have been given a day, Lord Sheriff. Forgive me if I do not waste it.”
Brokhull nodded and Crispin departed, making swift work of the staircase. The irony of the situation was not lost on him. Here, two hundred years ago, Archbishop Thomas à Becket opposed his king, claiming that priests and monks should only be tried in ecclesiastical courts, while the king argued that he alone was the law. And now Courtenay would reverse the sundial.
But at least Brokhull did not seem a man to countenance any perversion of the law. He might delay the execution in time for Lancaster’s men to intervene. It would take that extra time, for even should the rider make it to London by late tonight, how would Lancaster’s men get to Canterbury in time to stop Chaucer’s execution?
He trotted back to the cathedral, hopeful that the sheriff might persuade the archbishop from taking further action, but uncertain if it could be done. True, the sheriff was the law, but the archbishop was the Church. When a man was threatened with excommunication and heresy, duties and loyalties could easily be forgotten.
He wiped his mind free of Courtenay’s treachery. He needed to think, to concentrate. He had been so certain it was Sir Philip, but with circumstances being what they were, that certainty had eroded. He was so close to discerning the true killer he could taste it. Who? Who? Sir Philip had a grudge against Madam Eglantine but what of Bonefey and Wilfrid? And how did he obtain Chaucer’s dagger? No, no. This was no good. One thing at a time. Was it for the bones? He didn’t think so. Was it revenge? Was it this idiotic curse Jack would have him believe? Something about it was strange, personal, rabid. If God chose to take His revenge then it had been satisfied two hundred years ago. Even God ended his grudges in a timely fashion. No, this was human intervention. But to what purpose? The Prioress, poor Wilfrid, and perhaps Father Gelfridus. All religious. Did it have something to do with that? With the shrine?
He was drawing himself into circles and nothing was making sense. Becket’s four murderers. God’s blood, but that was the only thing that made sense! But how could that be!
He stopped. Jack was waiting for him in the cathedral’s courtyard. After so heavy a heart, his spirits were suddenly lifted to see his protégé. Protégé. For so many years that word was like a curse. At least it had been to him, being Lancaster’s protégé. But Jack was his now and he would not see the boy ill-used, especially by himself. He joined the boy in the shadows of the stone arches and merely looked at him.
Jack fidgeted. “W-what are you looking at, sir? Did I do something wrong?”
“No. Not at all. But Jack”-he laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder-“if I were ever to order you to do something that you knew was wrong, I expect you to disobey me.”
“Huh?”
“Just know that it will eliminate a world of mistrust and pain.”
“Sir,” Jack began carefully. “Master Chaucer. How … how did it go?”
His hand fell from Jack and they climbed the steps, entering the portico at the west door. “The archbishop has moved to take matters into his own hands. He has condemned him and means to execute him on the morrow.”
“God blind me! Can he do that?”
“He forces the issue of heresy but he is breaking the law. I only hope the sheriff has his will of him, but I do not know … I earned Chaucer a reprieve, but only one day’s worth. And it is already late.” The sun was moving much too fast across the sky. “We must work quickly if we are to prove him innocent.” He stared at the floor tiles, the sound of the masons hammering fading as he fell deeper into thought. “I think I should see Saint Benet’s chapel again.” They made their way together up the north aisle.
Apart from the masons and the occasional monk exchanging old candles for new, they were alone.
Except in Saint Benet’s chapel.
A slim figure stood amid the shadows. A candle from the altar limned the person with an edge of gold. “Dame Marguerite,” said Crispin, startled. He couldn’t prevent a glance at Jack, who turned multiple shades of red.
“Dame,” he said, softer. He was suddenly worried for the sake of all the religious within these walls. “Perhaps you should not be here.”
She turned toward the statue of Saint Benet and then looked again at the spot on the floor where the Prioress had lain, not too far from the place of Becket’s martyrdom. “I needed to come to the church.”
“But it is closed. It must be re-consecrated.”
“Oh? I did not know.” She pulled her veil about her like a cocoon. “I just felt … I should come. Here.”
He said nothing. And then he remembered the rosary bead still housed in his pouch. Reaching in, he took it in his fingers. “Dame, this belongs to you. I know Mistress Alyson repaired your rosary”-and he gestured to the string of beads hanging from her belt-“but I hope this last bead can be added back.” Small comfort but it was all he had to offer.
She opened her hand as if feeding a bird and he dropped the wooden bead into her palm. There was a bit of brown blood on one side of the berry-sized bead. This did not seem to affect her and she closed her hand over it. “I shall do my best,” she said. She gazed at him squarely, even critically before she cast her eyes on Jack. She gave him a strangely alluring look that disturbed Crispin and made Jack’s face blush even redder. She bowed her head to both of them and slowly left the chapel.
He watched her long shadow stretch until it blended with the others in the church. The sound of hammering thudded in his head.
“You don’t think she’s still in danger, do you?” whispered Jack.
“I do not know.” Crispin stared at the floor worriedly, hearing her screams echoing in his head. “If she were, then why wasn’t she killed that night? I wonder how…” He remembered a raven-black gown spread out on the floor with a scarlet pool of blood beneath it; rosary beads scattered like teardrops. He thought a moment, looking at the floor, eyes scanning to every nook and shadow. He raised his head and his search grew wider, encompassing the whole church. When he spotted his quarry he darted up the nave and accosted a monk exchanging candles. “Good Brother,” he said to the startled man. He glared at the man’s rope belt and huffed with disappointment. “Never mind,” he cast over his shoulder, leaving the puzzled monk where he stood. He spied another quietly sweeping the paving tiles with a gorse broom. Crispin grasped his shoulders, and the monk, taken unawares, shrank back and dropped his broom. “Forgive me, Brother. But may I borrow your rosary?”
“My rosary?” His hand automatically slapped the beads hanging at his belt. It looked to be made of wood or possibly ivory. The berry-sized beads were similar to Dame Marguerite’s. “Surely you can purchase your own from the many purveyors in the courtyard.”
“I’ll only need it for a moment.”
The monk eyed him askance and snatched it protectively from his belt. “But-”
Crispin deftly liberated it. “Much thanks. Only a moment. I promise.” He hurried back to the chapel where a perplexed Jack was still waiting. “Jack, I will need you to collect the sword one more time.”
“But Master! I just went and put it back in our room.”
“Jack.”
Astonishingly petulant, thought Crispin as Jack huffed a weary sigh and dragged his feet out of the church. Crispin held the circlet tightly in his fingers and waited. Yes, he, too, had owned a rosary once upon a time, beads of filigreed silver. How ostentatious! He thought of them with embarrassment now. Shouldn’t a ring of prayers be of humble materials? It was the one thing he was glad to have lost.