“They were my lands! The Church poaching the land from a faithful man-”
“Faithful, sir, is in the eye of the beholder.”
“Do you infer that I am unfaithful merely because I will not willingly give ten acres of useful land to the Church?”
A strident female voice cut a blade between them. “‘For what shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul?’” All eyes turned to the lady at Crispin’s right. She smiled her crenulated teeth at him. “Greetings. We have not met. I am Alyson de Guernsey, from the great city of Bath. And you are Crispin Guest. A fine name for a fine figure of a man.” She punctuated her brisk discourse by eyeing him thoroughly up and down.
Crispin smiled and gave her a nod. “Mistress.”
“Oh, it is madam. But I’d rather you ‘mistressed’ me than ‘madamed’ me.” And she laughed heartily at her jest. “Five times a wife and five times a widow. Now that is discipline well earned,” she said, pointing a finger at the Prioress.
Madam Eglantine’s thin lips flattened to a line.
“You can have your celibacy,” Alyson declared loudly and stabbed her knife into a pullet, lifted it from the platter, and plopped it on her trencher. “But there are some meant for the marriage bed.” She winked at Crispin. “Though, back to my point-” She leaned over Crispin to aim her disarming finger at Bonefey. “My lesson is twofold. First, how much land does a rich man truly need? Recall the story of Dives and Lazarus and take heed. If the court gave it to the priory, then I’ll warrant it was land you had no use for. You did not even know that these lands were within your boundary. True?”
Bonefey said nothing. His mouth curled into a snarl.
“And two,” she went on, “that charitable use to which the priory no doubt puts this land will serve to send you to Heaven that much quicker, were you to have given it freely.”
“Instead,” said Bonefey, pushing both Gelfridus and Crispin back to lean closer to Alyson, “the Church stole the property from me like a thief in the night.”
“I daresay,” said Alyson, “with an attitude like that, there shall be adequate time in Purgatory for you. You’d best speak to Master Chaunticleer here. Bless me, but I believe it will content him to sell you your way out of the purging fires.”
“I do not sell,” said the man identified as Chaunticleer from down the long plank table. He was one of the secretive men Crispin saw earlier. Crispin surmised by the exchange that the man must be a Pardoner, a purveyor of Indulgences. “An Indulgence is a serious matter.”
“And an expensive one, too,” she said, elbowing Crispin.
Crispin forced his amused glance away from Alyson and continued eating while the arguments raged around him.
A pale young man Crispin had taken for a merchant watched Bonefey with unconcealed concentration, chewing his food with mouth open. The Pardoner, Chaunticleer, and the man with him finished their meal quickly and left the inn. Bonefey’s face became increasingly reddened, only occasionally turning an eye toward Alyson and her pointing finger. The priest appeared ready to launch into a sermon. Chaucer, like Crispin, seemed fascinated by merely listening.
Harry Bailey stood up. “Friends! So much discord. Do we forget why we are here?”
A pause followed his statement, and then the noise began again as each one renewed his argument.
Crispin finally had enough of the food as well as the chatter and pushed away from the table. He made his farewells, wiped his knife on the linens, and sheathed it.
Jack finally recalled whose servant he was and scrambled to catch up to him just as Crispin passed over the inn’s threshold. Jack wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “What now, Master Crispin?”
“We’re going to the cathedral.”
He and Jack strode back up the avenue toward the stone edifice.
“So you’re to guard the martyr’s bones and seek out the heretic amongst the monks?” said Jack.
“One presumably might have to do with the other.”
“Ah. And then we can go home.”
“Jack, we just arrived.”
Tucker fell silent and trailed slightly behind. They passed under the gatehouse and made the long walk down Palace Street to the west door. Chaunticleer and his companion had already set up shop, the Pardoner with his scrolls of papal remissions and the other with his trinkets and pilgrim badges. His table was also spread with an array of relics: cloudy monstrances, curled hair in glass vials, small boxes supposedly containing bones.
The Pardoner, gesturing like a cockerel, admonished passersby with a thundering voice, “Repent and draw near! Do not put off your salvation for another day. For you do not know the day or the hour of His coming, that terrible day of judgment.” He aimed a finger at Crispin. “Repent, for ‘pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall!’”
Crispin gazed at him under drawn lids. “‘Even a fool, when he holdeth his peace, is counted wise.’” Chaunticleer snapped his jaw closed and Crispin smirked and ducked into the cathedral.
“Was that Aristotle?” asked Jack in a hushed tone.
“No. Proverbs.”
He chuckled. “I’ll have to remember that one.”
Crispin glanced into the falling shadows of the arches and columns. They walked down the long nave past the quire to the other end of the church, ascended the steps to the Chapel of Saint Thomas, and stood before Becket’s shrine.
Even after the archbishop’s admonitions, no monks stood guard.
“God’s blood,” Crispin swore softly. He searched in the dimming light but saw no one.
The wooden canopy again covered the casket. Crispin strode up to it unchallenged. Four candle sconces stood at each corner of the shrine. Fat beeswax candles cast a warm glow over the steps and floor. Crispin ran his hand along the carvings of the base, until he noticed Jack was nowhere behind him. “Jack?”
“Here, sir,” came the meek voice from behind a pillar.
“What are you doing there? Bring a candle from that chandler.”
Jack stretched up on his toes and plucked a candle as instructed. He crept forward and held the candle unsteadily, but the flame never flickered when he brought it up to the shrine. Crispin moved Jack’s arm closer so he could better view the wooden base. Nothing amiss. All intact.
He left the shrine and found the pulley system that lifted the canopy. Releasing the lock he pulled on the wheel. “Tucker. Come help me.”
Jack trotted over and set the candle upright on the floor. He took hold of the wheel and pulled in rhythm with Crispin.
The rope groaned. With a great, creaking sigh, the canopy rose, bells tinkling. When it rose a foot above the casket, he told Jack to halt. The brake held the wheel in position as he walked back to the shrine, running his hand along its top edge.
He offered a half smile to Jack. “Jack Tucker, meet Thomas à Becket.”
Jack swallowed. “He’s in there?” he whispered.
“Yes. What remains of him.”
Jack’s gaze roved over the casket. “Blind me. It’s like a palace.”
“Very much so.”
“That ain’t real gold, is it?”
“Gold and precious stones. Pearls, carnelian, sapphires.”
“’Slud! That’s a fortune, that is!”
“Indeed.” He ran a finger over a polished red gemstone. Knife marks. “Someone tried to pry out this one.”
Jack came closer and brought the candle’s light over the spot. He wiped his hand down his tunic before he stretched out his trembling fingers to touch the many scratches.
“A knife blade,” said Crispin. “But they are old. See how the polishing compound has accumulated within the scratches?”
“Aye. I do see.” He looked up at his master’s face.
Crispin worked his way around the shrine, inspecting all its precious stones. None were missing. “This is not the work of Lollard sympathizers. The archbishop called it ‘petty thievery.’ I’m certain he was referring to something else, though he was less than forthcoming on the point.”