Peter Chanticleer was being held tight by two men while the others shouted at him. His long gown was covered in blood.
“What is this?” the sheriff demanded.
“I killed him,” said Chanticleer, chin thrust proudly. “He cheated me! He was a foul, loathsome churl and I killed him. And I shall not repent of it, though I know I will hang.” His lips trembled. “God will find forgiveness for me for ridding the world of that vile Summoner.”
Crispin nodded to himself as Brokhull took his leave of him to lead Chanticleer and the others away.
A fitting end for two wicked men.
The Miller was right, though. The Devil had come to roost in Canterbury. Crispin was glad to leave it.
24
The road snaking away from Canterbury was a ribbon of mud. The solemn troupe left the city behind and good riddance to it, but they hadn’t left it very far when they encountered mud-splattered riders with the livery of the duke of Lancaster. With all the emotional turmoil of Dame Marguerite and Becket’s bones, Crispin had quite forgotten he had requested the duke’s help.
Chaucer rode forth to meet them. Crispin wasn’t close enough to hear their exchange but with emphatic gestures and, Crispin suspected, rosy embellishments, the tale was told. Geoffrey gestured once toward Crispin and the two men fixed their eyes on him for a long moment. They spoke to Geoffrey a few moments more before turning their mounts. The horses kicked up a cockerel’s tail of mud as they galloped away back toward London.
Chaucer rejoined Crispin with a smile. There was a spot of mud on his cheek but Crispin did not tell him of it. “That was my rescue. Cris, I’m touched.”
Crispin rolled his eyes at Geoffrey’s expression. But he was relieved he had not needed Lancaster’s men.
For the rest of the long two days back to London, spring rains continued to drizzle over their quiet company, and often the weary travelers had to dismount and walk their horses through the worst of the mire. Crispin had led Alyson’s horse over the stickiest of muddy places and she smiled that gat-toothed grin at him in gratitude, the first smile in at least a day after the terrible events in Canterbury.
It was two days of watching Jack sitting straight-backed on his horse, sinking into a dull and unfamiliar quietude that worried Crispin.
But it was also two days of reacquainting himself with his friend Chaucer, and he was glad of it.
Geoffrey regaled him with stories of court and of his own adventures as the king’s spy, though he kept those stories close for their ears alone. They laughed together. Crispin laughed, and he felt the sharp pang of regret rasping behind it, because he knew this renewed camaraderie could not last. So he clutched at it like a cherished object, keeping it in his heart for now, a heart almost as broken as Jack’s.
London’s spires and rooftops came into view, masked by thin layers of smoke and mist. They reached the Tabard Inn and dismounted their horses in the courtyard, the remaining company of Thomas Clarke, Alyson, Father Gelfridus-who had stayed by himself for the ride back-Edwin Gough, Harry Bailey, Geoffrey Chaucer, and finally Crispin and Jack. They were certainly not the jovial party that had set out from this little inn a sennight ago. All had been sorely tested and they entered the inn for a last beaker of ale and to bid their farewells.
“Drink, my friends,” said Bailey, lifting his own horn. “We will drink to the grace of God for delivering us safely home, to the souls that did not return with us, and to a brighter morrow.”
Everyone lifted their cups in solemn silence. Bailey’s wife watched curiously from a doorway.
Jack turned slowly toward Crispin. “Can we go home now, Master Crispin?”
“Yes, Jack. Let us say our farewells.”
He shook Clarke’s hand and thanked him for his candidness. He gripped the Miller’s strong arm and wished him well. Father Gelfridus glanced up at him with guilty eyes but Crispin clutched his shoulder reassuringly. “Father priest, do not look so saddened. I knew full well you could not divulge what you heard confessed under the sacramental seal.”
“I know I have fulfilled my office.” He rubbed his hands and clutched at the crucifix dangling from his neck. “But I prayed for guidance. I failed that lost soul.”
“She was lost far too long ago, Father. You might have been her next victim.”
He shook his head. “And such would have been a blessing compared to the feelings I must carry with me now.”
He nodded to the priest. There was little left to say to that. He watched the priest move away, shutting himself within his rich cloak. Crispin wondered what the man would tell the priory when he returned to it. Crispin didn’t envy him.
A touch. He turned and gazed into the glowing countenance of Alyson. She smiled. The grin was frayed by the sadness of recent events. “Ah, Crispin,” she said. Her fingers slid down his arm and entangled with his own. “You are a fine man and a clever one. You and I, eh? We are a pair of mules, are we not? Stubborn to the last.”
He chuckled in spite of himself. He regretted very much that they had not had one more night together.
“I tell you what you must do,” she said, her smile broadening. “Marry me.”
Crispin jerked with surprise. “What?”
“Marry me, man. You’d be number six. And you’d be happy, too.”
He sorted through his shock and tried to form words. “I … it’s a generous offer.”
Instead of being insulted by his hesitation, Alyson gave a full-bodied laugh. “All my husbands, young and old, died before me. I’ll warrant that you do not eagerly rush to that! Aye, it’s a genuine gospel puzzle, that is. Whose wife would I be in heaven? And you don’t relish standing next to those fellows. Well, bless me, I don’t blame you. I tell you, Crispin. You are a lusty and vigorous bedmate!” She said the last a little too loudly and the Miller, Edwin Gough, chortled. Crispin glanced guiltily at Jack who was doing his best to pretend he hadn’t heard.
“I have never been presented with so magnanimous a suit,” he said. “But … I regret to say that I am not ready for such a commitment.”
“Alas! Such a loss. You would have liked it well, Crispin.” She reached up and planted a moist kiss to his cheek. “Then fare you well. God keep you. May the saints watch over you.” She patted the spot she had kissed, and swept from the inn, calling her good-byes and advice to the others.
Finally, there was only Crispin and Chaucer left. They thanked Harry Bailey and left the inn together. Crispin’s heart felt heavy, for he knew that he and Geoffrey would now part, perhaps never to cross paths again. Geoffrey mounted alongside him and the three of them rode out of the courtyard together. Crispin said nothing as they traveled across London Bridge, but finally had to speak. “I must return these horses to Newgate. And then I’m returning to my lodgings. I suppose…” He sniffed the heavy air of London, feeling a strange pang of familiarity and regret that he was home at last. “I suppose that this is where we part.”
Chaucer stared at him forlornly. He wound his reins around his gloved hand. The horse shook out its head, jangling the bridle. “Oh.” He bit his lip and furrowed his brow. “Curse it, Cris. I have seen so little of you. And now I owe you my life.”
Crispin yanked his hood lower over his forehead, hiding his eyes. “You owe me nothing. We are friends, Geoffrey. Whether … whether we see each other again or not.”
Chaucer considered this and stared at his saddle pommel. “We will. You can be certain of that.” He wheeled his horse about and Crispin watched his mount saunter away into the dense crowds of Thames Street.
After they returned their horses, Crispin and Jack walked silently back from Newgate down the Shambles. Looking up, he caught sight of the pot hanging from a hook overlooking the tinker’s door. Home. He hailed the tinker Martin Kemp, who was showing a customer his work. The man smiled back in greeting.