A Crispin Guest Short Story

GRAVE PRAYERS

A Crispin Guest Medieval Mystery Short

 

by

Jeri Westerson

 

 

 

London, 1384

 

Her steps scattered in fog, churning like a muddy river. The mist was so thick it swallowed London’s houses and shops, muffling the plod of woolly horses and the ring of merchants calling out their wares in the early morning.

Perhaps that was why Crispin failed to see her.

Like a ghost, she emerged from the mist, a startling apparition of a lithe and terrifying banshee. She smacked into his chest and he held her there, not so much to still his hammering heart but to orient himself to the shrouded surroundings and the warm woman suddenly in his arms.

The sound of metal hitting the cobblestones tinkled once and disappeared.

She made a dreadful groan, one of utter misery, and he thought for a moment that she might indeed be a banshee and throw back her head in an unearthly wail. Instead, he looked into the glitter of her eyes—dark eyes—and when she opened her mouth, it was not to scream or to apologize.

“I’ve lost it! Where did it go!” She dropped to the ground, feeling about in the mud and stones.

Crispin knelt and tried to assess the woman when all he could see was her shadowed silhouette. Her speech was that of a gentlewoman, not a street urchin or London peddler. “May I assist you?” he said in his best courtly tone.

She ignored him, pushed him out of the way, in fact, and scrambled about, still searching.

Crispin got down on all fours regretting the mud that would stain the knees of his worn stockings. But when his fingers encountered the incongruity of a ring, he forgot all about his appearance. He brought it up and touched her arm. “Is this what you are looking for?”

She gasped and fell on it with both hands, snatching it from Crispin’s grasp. “Praise God! Oh, good sir! You’ve saved my life!”

Crispin helped her to her feet, expecting a full explanation, but the woman slipped into the mist and disappeared as hastily as she had arrived.    

Crispin stared after her. “You’re welcome,” he said to the emptiness. He rested his hand on his dagger hilt and pulled his mantle about him. The fog always seemed to bring out eccentrics. It was as if they traveled with it, and then dispersed with the daylight like a bad dream.

He looked around and was probably still on East Cheap in the east end of London. He’d just finished another job. He smiled and hefted the pouch. The meager coins clinked together. The smile faded. There had once been a day when he distributed more in alms than what now sat in his money pouch. But being a dispossessed knight had both its advantages and disadvantages. The advantages he could count on one hand: he kept his own hours, was his own man, went where he liked—for the most part—and kept company as he liked—also for the most part. The disadvantages, however, were too numerous to consider. Mostly, his belly was as empty as his larder, and his clothes—the same he wore when purged from court seven years ago—were threadbare at best, and shabby at worst. The same rust-colored cotehardie, the same light blue stockings, the same cloak and leather hood.

Footsteps, hard and running on the cobblestones. Crispin stepped aside and cocked his head, listening for the direction from which they came.

Misjudged again. The man slammed into Crispin, nearly toppling him.

Crispin pushed the man back. “Have better care in the fog!”

“My apologies. Bless me! But I think she got away. Blessed Jesu.”

Crispin adjusted his hood and looked up at the man. A priest, an old man, with white beard stubble on his chin, and sunken hollows out of which his pale, hazel eyes glittered.

“My pardon, good Father,” said Crispin, gathering himself. “Are you pursuing someone?”

The old man breathed heavily and his pale face bleached even further. All at once he collapsed into Crispin’s arms, almost taking Crispin down to the mud with him. Helplessly, Crispin looked about and held the man.

“God’s blood!”

No one on the street.

He remembered a church down the lane, hefted the man over his shoulder, and trotted in that direction.

#

The church was empty and dim. Two withered candles stood on the altar, their disinterested glow casting vague light on the ghostly altar cloth. It was a small church and a few steps carried him to the altar rail.

Crispin called out. His voice echoed back and he adjusted the priest, who was snorting clotted breaths. “Is anyone here?”

He made his way past the altar rail to the vestry and found a hearth with glowing coals. He laid the priest on a cot and searched the room for a jug of water. He found a pail instead, scooped some water in his cupped hand, and flung it into the priest’s face.

The old man sputtered and jolted upright. “Jesu, bless me!”

Crispin knelt beside him. “Are you well? Shall I fetch a physician?”

“No, no.” He patted Crispin’s hand with a clammy one of his own. “Thank you, young man.” He raised his eyes and glanced around the room. “You brought me back to my own church. How did you know?”

Crispin shrugged. “Lucky guess?” He straightened and pushed back his hood, running his fingers through his black hair. He felt no comfort in the church. Only a stinging sense of abandonment. He glanced toward the open door and escape. “If all is well—”

The old man groaned and shook his head. “I am afraid all is not well.”

Crispin sighed and searched again for wine—found it on a shelf—and poured two bowls, one of which he handed to the priest.

“Thank you,” the old man said and looked down at the wine. The liquid reflected on his wrinkled face in changing patterns. Finally, he raised it to his lips and drank. A red dribble slithered down from the corner of his mouth and made its way to his chin. He wiped it with his arm. “You are kind. And a Good Samaritan.”

“I would see you well before I leave you.”

“What’s to be done?” the priest sighed. “I suppose I shall have to go to the sheriff. But can he be discreet?”

Crispin stood and raised his chilled fingers to the fire. “I have had many dealings with the sheriff. He is anything but discreet.”

The priest took a thoughtful draught from his bowl. “I wonder…Perhaps I can hire that fellow who calls himself the Tracker. He inquires into crimes, much like the sheriff does. They say he is in London. Have you ever heard of him?”

Crispin made a brief smile and hooked a thumb in his belt. “We are full of coincidences today, good Father. In truth, I am the man you seek. My name is Crispin Guest.”

“You? Bless me! Yes, that’s the name. Our Lord God does move in mysterious ways.”

“Perhaps. However, the sheriff does not charge a fee, whereas I do. Sixpence a day, plus expenses.”

The priest waved his hand excitedly, peering at Crispin’s shadowed features. “I can pay your fee. I feel I must for its discretionary value.”

My lucky day, too. Crispin lowered to the bench and leaned toward the old man. “Then how can I help you?”

“I can only explain if we go into the church.” The old priest unfolded from the cot and stood on the tiled floor. He set the cup aside and walked carefully and a little unsteadily through the archway.

The priest led Crispin down the dark center aisle. There was the faint outline of figures in the stained glass, but the dense fog blurred the jeweled images. The church’s ceiling rose with carved vaulting like the ribs of a great beast. The air lay cold and motionless and seemed to hover over the stone floor. Crispin’s breath fogged his face. The place smelled of wet stone and mildew with the hint of musky incense.

“Here,” said the priest, and gestured to a wooden statue of a monk. In his carved hands lay a box like a reliquary, and at his feet, the image of a bell and a crutch. He wore a tau cross around his neck. His face was hidden by the clever working of the wood into a cowl.

“Saint Anthony,” said Crispin. “This is the church of Saint Anthony the Abbot, then.”

“Yes, my young friend. As you say. And I am the pastor here, Father Austin.” He bowed.

Crispin scanned the small church, little bigger than a chapel. The nave was narrow. It took only a few short paces from the vestibule to the altar rails and rood screen. The tabernacle gleamed hopefully under the pale candlelight but seemed so utterly alone raised up on its sanctuary steps. The crucifix, with a more stern than agonized Jesus, hung above it, somewhat hidden behind the intricate carvings of the rood screen. Down the aisle and near the vestibule was the font, and over-looking that, another stone statue, this one of a woman. Crispin assumed it was the Holy Virgin. The statue seemed to stand guard of the entrance, half in the vestibule and half in the church itself.

“We are a very fortunate little church,” said Austin. “We house a few relics, and since we are a faithful community and a small one here in East Cheap, I feel that I can share the benefits of these most holy objects. My flock come and go at will, and on occasion, I make the reliquaries available to the suffering, leaving the poor souls alone with them to pray. On this last occasion, one suffering soul touched me so deeply I left her alone with Saint Anthony’s ring—the sign of his office. I blessed her when she left, but later, when I was returning the reliquary to its proper niche, I noticed that the ring was gone.” He shook his head and reached up to touch the box in the saint’s hands.

Crispin sucked the cold air through his teeth and stamped his feet to warm himself. “Is it possible you are mistaken?”

“No. I keep a sharp eye on all my property, Master Guest. And this particular lady...was in great need.”

 A sick feeling settled in Crispin’s belly. “I encountered a lady not too far ahead of you. And as it happens—” He sighed, feeling the fool. “I helped her find an object she dropped. A ring.”

“Bless me.”

Those aren’t the words I would have used. Crispin rubbed his chin. “I feel responsible.”

“Nonsense. You were acting the proper gentlemen and helping her, as you helped me.”

“You say you know her?”

“Yes. If you could go to her—discreetly—and ask for it back, I shall not make more trouble.”

“More trouble?”

“You will see.”

#

It was not a wealthy house, or even that of a successful merchant. Just an ordinary house amongst many ordinary houses on East Cheap. Crispin noted the mud-stained foundations, the dusky daub set between the graying timbers. Flat, square. Two windows, one at street level and one above. He strode up to the door, raised his fist, and knocked.

He waited.

Nothing.

He knocked again.

Still nothing.

Crispin sized up the street, looked both ways, and tried the door handle.

The door barely whined when he pushed it open. “Is there anyone here?” He leaned in and glanced around the dim room cramped by a large post in the middle of the floor. There was no fire in the hearth. Perhaps someone upstairs?

Crispin moved forward, looking over his shoulder. “It’s not truly breaking and entering when the door’s unlocked,” he muttered, unconvinced. “Is there anyone here?” he said again.

A figure appeared in the pantry’s doorway. A woman, pale, lithe, barely there. Her dark eyes were like kohl and sunk in unhealthy hollows. Except for the right eye. That one was ringed by purplish and puffy skin. Crispin’s eyes often looked like that after a fight, but he suspected that she had not been in a fair one.

He bowed, remembering his courtesy. “Forgive my intrusion, Madam. Are you Mistress Katherine Stowe?”

There was more than surprise in her eyes. There was panic. White-rimmed, animal panic. “Who are you?” she whispered.

He held up his hands before him, partly to fend off any fear and partly to show he held no weapon. “I am Crispin Guest, Madam. I was sent by Father Austin. From St. Anthony’s.”

She blinked, but the look in her eyes did not change.

“Mistress Stowe. He sent me to ask a favor of you. He asked me to tell you, that once your veneration of the relic is done, that you surrender the ring to me.” Slowly, he reached out his hand, palm up.

She turned her eyes to his hand and stared at it. “I do not know your meaning, sir.”

Of course not. “Truly, it is simple. The priest requires back the relic you took...certainly by mistake,” he added hastily.

She raised her chin slightly. The edge of her jaw had worn a purple blush recently but had turned to the yellow of final healing.

“I took no relic,” she said, a defiant tilt raising her shoulder.

“Madam.” He shook his head and dropped his hand. “You ran into me in the fog. It was I who helped you find the ring.”

She shook her head. ‘It never happened,’ her face said. And for all Crispin knew, it never did.     

He sighed. Now what? Grab her and search her? He’d be tossed in gaol for certain. Besides, he didn’t fancy roughing her up when she’d clearly had enough of it already. Still, she didn’t seem the sort to steal and sell such a thing. Did she intend to keep it?

These damned relics! Why do they plague me?

He raised his eyes and smiled. “Perhaps I am mistaken. I wonder if I could trouble you for some water.”

She relaxed her shoulders and nodded. She disappeared through the archway and Crispin followed. She turned at his step, flinching, not expecting him to follow. She held up a ladle with water dripping from the bowl. Crispin took it from her hand and nodded a thank you, sipping, and taking the opportunity to look about. No servants and the place showed it. No fire in the hearth. Dirty pots. Crispin took his time, but out of the corner of his eye he saw her wring her hands. Then a step sounded at the door.

“My husband—” Her gaze darted toward the dark doorway. “Please. You must go.”

Crispin let the ladle fall into the bucket. The phrase ‘my husband’ muttered hurriedly and desperately was not an uncommon one to his ears. But in this instance, he did not wish to be caught in a seemingly compromising situation when he had not the benefit of it. He reached for his sword only to remember that it hadn’t hung at his side for the last eight years.

A hulking shadow blocked the doorway and Crispin took an involuntary step back. “What is this?” came the deep, gravelly voice. The eyes caught the grey light from an open window and Crispin saw a rounded nose amid fleshy cheeks form out of the shadows. The man was scowling. Crispin itched to draw his dagger but it seemed small comfort against such a large man.  

He fell back on courtly ways instead and bowed. “Good sir. I am Crispin Guest. They call me the Tracker. I am here inquiring of your good wife—”

“The Tracker? The traitor, you mean. You were once a knight and lord, were you not?”

So many years had past. Why did it still sting?

The man pressed forward and glared once at his wife, now trembling, her back pressed against a trestle table. “Aye, I recall it,” the man went on. He raised his eyes to Crispin, a self-important smile curving his lips. “You plotted to depose King Richard and put Lancaster on the throne. And it was said that Lancaster pleaded for your life. That’s right, isn’t it?”    

Crispin inhaled slowly. “And so you know me. Then you must also know that I investigate crimes.”

“And so. What crimes do you trouble my good household with?” Crispin hesitated, but it was too much of a pause for Stowe. “I see a crime, right enough,” he growled. “The hearth has gone cold, woman! Never have I seen a more incompetent creature. Can’t even keep the fires lit. How’s a man to warm himself?”

He rushed forward and she cringed back, but he was only reaching for the poker. He stirred the embers and found life in the coals. He turned to her and barked, “Fetch wood!”

She scurried to comply, not as a willing servant, but as a frightened animal. Crispin longed to strike him down but kept himself in check. After all, this was Stowe’s home, not his.

“My business here is done,” said Crispin tightly, and made his way to the archway.

“You have not told me your business.”

“It is of no consequence.”

Crispin’s arm was suddenly clenched under a vice-like grip. He looked down at the large hand closed over his bicep. “It is of consequence when I find a man alone with my wife in the midst of the day.”

“You have a right to wonder…but my arm is not at any fault.”

The man did not release him but smiled a feral grin instead. He squeezed a bit harder.

Crispin smiled back…before he raised his leg and jammed his boot into the man’s knee. Down he went with a yowl. Crispin stepped back and drew his dagger. He did not raise the weapon, but kept it handy. “Forgive me. My foot slipped. It often does so when I make a request and it is not honored.”

“Churl! Get out of my house!”

“So I shall. And gladly.” He swept his gaze over the man still kneeling on the floor, felt a sharp stab of anxiety for the woman, but spun on his heel and left the little house. Once outside in the fog, he looked up at the structure and grumbled to himself. To get the ring back, he’d have to make certain the husband was not there. Easily enough accomplished. He was no stranger to spying on a house. But at this moment, he felt a distinct need for something stronger than water.

#

At the Boar’s Tusk, Crispin clutched his bowl of wine. There were the usual rough patrons hunched over horn cups and bowls, some talking in low voices, some laughing a little too loudly from too much spirits.

His own bowl was nearly empty and he hadn’t enough coin to buy more. He startled when red liquid poured from the spout of a jug into his bowl, splashing out of the side.

Gilbert Langton, the tavernkeeper, smiled and eased his girth into the bench beside him. “You looked as if you could use more.”

“Yes, I could, but I cannot pay.”

“I know,” Gilbert said with a dismissive wave of his hand, setting the jug on the table. A beard-stubbled patron across from them eyed the jug thirstily, but Gilbert narrowed his eyes at the man. “Don’t even think about it,” he rasped. The man slid from the bench with a muttered oath and slumped away. “Well now,” Gilbert said, settling on his seat. “Tell me, Crispin. Is it a woman you contemplate or another job that sours your features?”

He slurped his wine and set down the bowl. “Yes and yes, but whether I shall be able to collect my fee is another matter.”

Gilbert shook his head. “You could use a better grade of clientele.”

Crispin gestured toward the tavern patrons. “Do I have a choice? I must find work where I can. But never fear. I will pay my tavern bill anon. As always.”

“I don’t fear that. I know you will. I’m merely curious, is all. Murder and the like. Always fascinating.”

“Well it isn’t murder this time. Just a missing—” Crispin bit off his words and hid it by swallowing more wine.

Gilbert stared at him. “A missing…no. Not another. I thought you swore off—”

Crispin stood. He wasn’t about to explain it again. Gilbert and his wife might be his very dear friends, but he didn’t have to suffer these lamentations over and over.

“Crispin, Crispin. Why can’t you leave these relics to themselves?”

Yanking his mantle over his chest, Crispin clenched his jaw. “I would gladly ‘leave them to themselves’ but they seem to fall into my lap of their own accord. There is no reason in it. And it pays the bills, Gilbert. Surely you do not begrudge me that.” He turned but Gilbert stayed him with a touch to his arm.

“Ah, Crispin. You know I meant no offense. When will you learn to leave your temper aside?”

“My temper is a part of my humor.” He gave Gilbert a lop-sided grin. “You would scarce recognize me if I gave you smiles all the time. You would think I’d lost my mind.”

Gilbert laughed. “So I would.” He leaned forward to offer advice, but Crispin never heard it. At that moment, a ginger-haired boy rushed in and skidded to a stop before Crispin’s table.

“Master Crispin!” gasped the boy. He quickly glanced over his shoulder.

Crispin ran his eyes over the boy’s pale complexion marred only by a generous sprinkling of freckles. “Jack Tucker. What’s amiss?”

“Amiss? What makes you think—” He swallowed a hasty breath and snuck another look toward the door, “—anything’s amiss?”

Crispin shared a look with Gilbert and smiled. “You’re hurried entrance; you’re stuttering breaths; that guilty flush to your countenance; you’re uncertain look over your shoulder every other heartbeat—” 

“God blind me!” he said, exasperated, and dropped on the bench next to him, sinking low. “You think yourself so smart. So I am in trouble.”

Crispin slowly sat. “Jack. I've told you at least a score of times to give up your thieving ways. I see no sense in a cutpurse for a servant—a servant I don’t want and can’t afford, I may add.”

Jack was used to ignoring these outbursts and simply talked over it. “It ain’t what you think. And I’m grateful to be your servant, sir. You saved me from the sheriff and it is a debt I cannot repay. And so…well. It is the sheriff again, I suppose. He is after me.”

“Jack, Jack.”

“But it ain’t what you think! I ain’t done nought and that’s God’s own truth. It was what you might call circumstances.”

“Circumstances?”

“I just happened to be there, is all. I weren’t doing nought. And I certainly didn’t kill nobody!” 

Crispin jerked upright. “Jack! Explain.”

“I was just in the church, minding me own business. A body has a right to pray when he feels the need, don’t he? And this man comes in. He was bursting fit to be tied, yelling in a house of God. The priest come rushing down the aisle at him and before I know it the stone statue is upon him, and him beneath it. Crushed! And as it happened the sheriff was hard by and he come in and he sees me and yells to his men, ‘Stop him!’ Well, I know that look right well, so I got me arse out quick.”

“And came here?”

“Aye. It was the middle of the day so I supposed you’d be here and not at our lodgings.”

Crispin took a deep breath. Not as bad as he thought. Clearly the priest would serve as a witness that Jack had nothing to do with it.

But who did?

“I shall make all well with the sheriff, Jack. Which church was it?”

“Saint Anthony the Abbot, sir, in East Cheap.”

A stab of warmth hit Crispin’s chest. He stood again without realizing he had. “Saint Anthony’s? What were you doing there?”

“I told you,” he said, following Crispin to the door. “I was praying.”

Crispin thrust his arm across the doorway, barring Jack’s egress. Jack stared at the arm and looked up meekly into his master’s face. Crispin waited. “Blind me!” muttered Jack at last. “You have the better of me. I thought about cutting a purse, does that satisfy you? But I didn’t do it.”

“Because you were caught in the act.”                         

“Maybe,” he said slowly, reddening. “So I ducked into the church. No harm done.”

Crispin snorted and pushed open the door. His long strides took him quickly down the cramped and still foggy streets with Jack’s quickened steps coming from behind. They reached the church and Crispin walked past the sneers of the sheriff’s men and shouldered into the narrow archway. The dead man was still pinned beneath the heavy statue of the Virgin and the priest sat on its vacated plinth, his head in his hands. Sheriff Simon Wynchecombe loomed over him. Crispin knew from long experience that the sheriff enjoyed using his height and darker coloring as advantage over his prey.

The sheriff must have heard Crispin’s step, for he swiveled and darted a steely eye toward him. Wynchecombe’s mouth drew up in a smile, taking his sharply trimmed beard with it. “Crispin Guest. I knew it was only a matter of time till you arrived. Like a buzzard smelling blood.”

Crispin only raised a brow and made the curtest of bows before he drew forward. “I merely sensed that you would need my help…as you often do.”

The sheriff’s smile quickly faded. “Hold your tongue, Guest. After all, it was not my servant found at the scene of a murder.” 

“Murder? Do you call it so?”

“Certainly. A statue does not just fall over by itself.”

Crispin sauntered forward and peered at the plinth. The priest raised his head and recognized Crispin immediately. Crispin gave him a quick smile that he hoped would convey to the priest to keep silent. Father Austin rose and edged away from the stone foundation and allowed Crispin to examine it in peace.

He swiped at the crumbling mortar between his fingers. Some of it was little better than dust. Old mortar and perhaps not made well to begin with. The iron rods holding the back of the statue to the wall were rusted and thin, obviously breaking at the narrowed portion. He turned to the sheriff and showed him the grey powder in his palm and gestured toward the rusty iron rods still protruding from the wall. “The mortar was weak and the rods rusted. They simply gave out.”

“That does not explain how the statue fell on this unfortunate.”

Crispin grunted and wiped the dust from his hands. “Who is the dead man?”

“The priest here tells me he is William Stowe.”      

Crispin flicked an eye toward the priest who gave a less artful glance Crispin’s way. Well, well. This was getting interesting. He looked up at Wynchecombe who was glaring at the doorway where Jack cowered. The sheriff raised his gloved hand and crooked a finger. “Come here, Master Tucker.”

Jack looked at Crispin fearfully but Crispin nodded. The boy crept forward, keeping half an eye on the door. “Young Master Tucker,” said the sheriff, leaning forward. His left hand rested on his sword hilt. “Just what were you doing here while this unfortunate met his end?”

“P-praying, m’lord.”

“Praying? Yes, you had better. What did you see?”

“N-nought, m’lord. I saw nought. I come in to pray, like I said, and this man come running in, making a noise as one should not hear in God’s house.”

Wynchecombe’s dark eyes narrowed at the boy and Jack cringed back. One corner of the man’s lip lifted in a sneer. “And where were you, Master Guest?”

Crispin barked a laugh. He couldn’t help himself. “Accusing me, again, Lord Sheriff? When all else fails, blame the Tracker?”

Crispin expected it, would have been disappointed if Wynchecombe hadn’t done it. His coat was grabbed by the sheriff’s angry fist and he was hauled forward. “When the king’s sheriff asks you a question,” he growled into Crispin’s face, spittle hitting his cheek, “he had better get a satisfactory answer. Not your smart-arse remarks.”

Looking down at his faded coat, Crispin raised his face mildly toward the sheriff’s wild eyes. “I was at the Boar’s Tusk. My lord.”

The sheriff tossed him back. Crispin attempted to pull the wrinkles out of his coat but gave up. “Ha! I expected as much. The Great Crispin Guest. Spending your time drunk in an alehouse. Quite different from court, isn’t it?”

Many a time, Crispin imagined how it would be to sink his fist into Wynchecombe’s mocking smile, relishing the idea of the skin of his knuckles tear away as they connected with the man’s teeth. But of course it was merely a daydream. He was no longer Wynchecombe’s better; hadn’t been for years. And the sheriff never missed an opportunity to remind him of that fact.

“Drunk is drunk, my lord. But as you see, I am as sober as a priest.” He saw the priest jerk upright from the corner of his eye. “And so. Did this good priest see anyone near the statue when it fell upon the hapless Master Stowe?”

“No, indeed,” said Father Austin, scuttling forward. He stared at Crispin significantly. Damn the sheriff. If he was not standing in the middle of things, Crispin could ask Austin himself what actually happened. “There was no one here, save for this young man,” and he motioned toward Jack. 

The sheriff’s features slid into delight.

“Oh. But the boy was nowhere near the statue, Lord Sheriff,” put in Father Austin hastily. “The fault is not his.”

The smile faded from Wynchecombe’s lips. “Then by the Mass, whose fault was it!”

His last words rang in the small church, echoing back from the stone vaults and arches, but no one spoke a reply. Wynchecombe swept them all with his glower before he grabbed Crispin’s arm and ushered him to quiet corner. “I don’t have time for this foolishness. I want you to discover the culprit, Guest.”

“You’re hiring me?”

Wynchecombe’s dark eyes blazed with hatred for a moment before a placating smile softened his features. “You have one day. I refuse to pay for more than a day’s fee.”

“You will accept my evidence, then?”

“For sixpence, I can manage it.”

“Very well. I accept.”

Wynchecombe smirked. “I expect your findings by tomorrow morning. Come to Newgate then.” He glanced at Jack. “And don’t bring him. I’m weary of the sight of that boy.”

The sheriff swept out and Jack becrossed himself, no doubt in relief.

The sheriff’s men moved the statue aside and rolled the dead man onto an awaiting bier. They lifted it and headed toward the door. “One moment,” said Crispin, and crossed to their burden to study the dead man. The man’s face was crushed and one shoulder was misaligned where it had been compressed by the heavy stone. A leather thong hung from his neck and Crispin reached and pulled it out of the bloodied shirt. On it was a small bag. He leaned down to sniff its aroma before letting the bag lie. He riffled through the man’s money pouch but was stopped by one of the sheriff’s men. “Here now. What do you think you are doing?”

“Examining the body. I’m certain as the sheriff’s trusted guards that you can vouchsafe that I have taken nothing from him.”

The man looked at his companion. They both shrugged in unison. “Have a care, then,” he said perfunctorily.

Crispin arranged the pouch again and closed it, having found nothing of interest. “I have. You may take him now.”

“By your leave, of course,” snorted the man and he urged his companion to move forward with the body.

Crispin waited until Wynchecombe’s men were lost in the fog before he turned to Father Austin. “Well, Father. Is there more you wish to tell me? I take it this man is the same husband of that unfortunate wife I was sent to—”

“Yes, yes.” The old priest eyed Jack uncertainly until Crispin waved away his fears with a careless hand.

“You may speak freely in front of Tucker. He is my servant.”

Jack beamed, each freckle dancing.

The priest nodded and sat on the plinth again, mindful of the crumbling iron in the wall above his head. “It was the strangest of things, Master Guest. What I told the sheriff was the truth, but I did not tell him all. Am I now guilty of the sin of omission?”

“That depends on what exactly you omitted.”

The priest shook his head again, looking at the stone floor. “It was the strangest thing. I could not tell the sheriff this. He would have reckoned me mad. But the statue…it…it trembled in place and then simply fell.”

Crispin looked once at the wide-eyed Jack and turned to the priest once more. “Fell? Without anyone being near it?”

“Just so. It fell. On poor Master Stowe. As if…waiting for him.”

Crispin adjusted his coat. “My dear Father Austin. Such things are not possible.”

“’With God, all things are possible.’”

“Do you suggest that God killed Master Stowe?”

“I know not the ways of our Lord. All I know,” he said, staring at the bloodstains on the stone, “is that he is dead.”

#

Crispin and Jack found the unadorned house of the deceased William Stowe and his wife. Without preamble, Crispin stepped up to the door and knocked briskly. They waited only moments until Mistress Stowe herself arrived and opened it. She stared at Crispin with faint recognition.

“Madam. I have ill tidings. May I enter?”

She bowed her head and allowed him in, stepping away from the door and letting Jack close it after him. She stood in the center of her humble house, rushes strewn on the plank floor. Her green gown was worn and its hem trailed frayed threads, but she stood as dignified as the stone statue in the church awaiting his pleasure.

Jack stood behind Crispin, peeking around his mantle to look at her.

“Forgive this second intrusion,” said Crispin with an abbreviated bow. “But I have only just come from St. Anthony’s with terrible news concerning your husband.”

He waited for some kind of reaction and wondered why there was none.

“It seems that your husband has met with a most unfortunate accident.”

At last, her brows lifted and her eyes, so dull before while contemplating him, suddenly shone with life. “Is he…is he—?”

“Dead. Requiescat in pace.” He becrossed himself, as did Jack. She followed suit slowly.

“An accident, you say?”

“Yes. A strange one. A statue seems to have cut loose and fell upon him.”

She nodded as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

“How long was Master Stowe ill?” he asked.

Her shining eyes lifted toward his and blinked. “How did you know?”

“The herbs he wore about his neck. Lavender, lovage and sage.”

“And thyme. I prayed for him. To Saint Anthony. And he was healed. But the moment I stopped he began to relapse. He became angered at me, as if I could control the will of God.”

“Indeed. Is that why you pilfered Saint Anthony’s ring?”

She smiled at that. Hardly the grieving widow, Crispin mused. “Master Guest, do you believe that all prayers are answered?”

“’The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much.’ So says Holy Scripture. I believe that God grants us not what we want but what we need.”

“Aye. What we need. Prayer is a powerful thing.” She dug her hand into her scrip and pulled something with it. Opening her palm flat, she extended her arm and offered Crispin the ring. “I no longer need it. I surrender it into your care, Master Guest, to return to the good Father Austin. With my thanks.”

Crispin looked at it only a moment before scooping it into his own hand and dropping it into his mostly empty money pouch. He bowed. “I thank you. Your husband’s remains are with the sheriff at Newgate. You may call upon him for its release. But before I go, may I ask where you have been these last few hours?”

“Why at home, as a good wife should be. In prayer. And in keeping my house.” She gestured toward the small fireplace and the cooking area. Where before it was in disarray, Crispin now saw that the table had been wiped, wooden bowls and platters cleaned and put back in place, the hearth burned happily, and the floors were tidied and swept.

“I see.” He nodded and bowed again. “God keep you, Madam.”

“He has.” And she bowed to him.

Outside Jack tugged at Crispin’s coat even as he hurried back toward the church. “What was that all about, Master? Going on about prayer and all.”

“Perhaps it was a murder, Jack.”

“Blind me! Was it her?”

“No. ‘Effectual fervent prayer’.”

Jack screwed up his face. “Eh?”

Crispin turned back to his young charge and gave him a half smile. Crispin had only been jesting but something gnawed at the back of his mind nonetheless. It could not have been her. It could not have been anyone. No one could have engineered the man’s demise in such a way. But the woman had not been surprised. Mayhap fervent prayer could not prevent one from the insidious creep of insanity.

He and Jack returned to the little church and when they entered, several burly men were pushing the stone statue upright and scratching their heads at the plinth and its rusted iron supports. Father Austin, overseeing, turned to Crispin with a questioning brow.

Crispin pressed the ring into the priest’s calloused hand and Austin let out a surprised sound. “Oh! Master Guest! Well done! Bless my soul. This has been a day!”  He motioned for Crispin to follow him and he and Jack retreated to the priest’s private quarters in the rear of the church. Father Austin closed the door behind them and shuffled toward a strong box sitting on a shelf between a crucifix and a large leather tome. Taking a key from his belt, he unlocked the strong box, lifted the lid, and removed a leather pouch. He tipped it and deposited six coins onto the table, then returned pouch and strong box to their places. “Sixpence, Master Guest. And I thank you on behalf of Saint Anthony’s parish. Strange as this day has been.”

Crispin took the coins with thanks and dropped them into his own pouch, secure in the thought that the sheriff would soon be adding to it.

“I must visit the widow Stowe anon,” said Austin, fingering the ring.

“A cleric’s work is never done,” said Crispin, pulling his hood over his head. He edged toward the door and motioned for Jack to do the same.

“No indeed. I baptize them when they are born,” he said, following, “counsel them while they live, and bury them when they die. It is a grace indeed to be able to do God’s will in this life, but it is also often a sad affair.” He looked down at the ring and gasped. “Bless my soul!”

Crispin turned. “Father? What’s amiss?”

“Why, this is not Saint Anthony’s ring.” He scurried out the door and quickly down the aisle of the church. Crispin followed. Father Austin reached the wooden statue of Saint Anthony and unlocked the wooden box in his hands. When he reached in, Crispin saw him pull out a ring, one of gold but more worn and battered. The priest held it up for Crispin to see. “This is Saint Anthony’s ring, the ring of his office as abbot. I do not know how I might have missed it. I could have sworn it was not here before. I must have confused the reliquaries.”

“Then whose ring is that other?”

The priest was trembling and turned toward the other statue newly righted in its position on the stone plinth. The masons, or so Crispin perceived them to be, were tying it off in place before they could fully repair it. “It belongs to her!” he said, voice hoarse with fear.

“The Holy Mother?”

“That is not the blessed Virgin,” said Austin. Slowly, they crossed the aisle to stand before it. Crispin saw it now. It was a woman, but not Mary. It was a very old stone depiction of a young woman with long, unbound hair. Her robes hung about her in the crude carving of Norman times. Around her neck hung a rope and in her hands, a wooden box similar to that which lay in the hands of Saint Anthony.

“I do not know this saint,” said Crispin.

“It is Saint Godelieve,” said Austin in a hushed whisper. “And that is her wedding band. She lived some three hundred years before in Flanders. She married quite young to a cruel nobleman who abandoned her at her own wedding feast. She suffered at his hands and died at the mercy of her mother-in-law, strangled to death. She is patroness…of troubled marriages and abused spouses.”

Crispin pressed his lips tight and looked up at Saint Godelieve’s sedate countenance.

“It is her ring Mistress Stowe took and her prayers that were answered,” said the priest.

Crispin turned to a suddenly cowering Jack. “Then it was an accident,” said Crispin. “I can so report as much to the sheriff.”

“But Master Guest,” said the priest. “It was not an accident, but God’s will—”

“Who are we to fathom God’s will, Father? A rusted bit of iron and a man standing in the wrong place at the wrong time. Coincidence.”

“But you of all people know better.”                                                        

A surge of anger billowed up in Crispin’s breast and he turned once toward the priest before stepping toward the door. “I know not your meaning. I have nothing to do with these things. It is best not to get involved in the folly of these relics. They lead only to confusion and vexation.”

Thankful to leave the church and the priest’s keen eye, Crispin strode heavily over the cobbled stones and mud. He heard Jack’s hurried step behind him trying to catch up.

“Master Crispin! Wait! My stride is not as long as yours.”

Crispin stopped and huffed a cloud of breath into the swirling fog.

“There now!” said Jack, panting. “I don’t understand, sir. What happened? Did Saint Godelieve take revenge on Master Stowe and slay him?”

“No, of course not! Don’t be absurd.”

“But that’s what that priest seemed to be saying.”

“Certainly he would. Won’t such a tale bring in the superstitious and those hungry for a quick end to their troubles? Won’t he gain coin from their veneration?”

Well….” Jack rubbed his jaw. “Maybe so. Or maybe—”

“Maybe the mortar was old and the supports were rusted through.” He tossed his mantle over his shoulder and strode on ahead.

“Master Crispin, you always tell me how such like ain’t possible, but the Bible is full ‘o miracles. Ain’t it at least possible—?”

“’With God all things are possible,’?”

“Mightn’t it?”

“‘Probable impossibilities are to be preferred to improbable possibilities,’ eh Jack?”

“Is that that Aristotle again, sir?”

“Yes. When confronted with a world of irrational babble, I find my comfort in the words of a level-headed philosopher, pagan or no.”

“I see.” Jack grew silent and thoughtful. Crispin could tell they were close to his lodgings. The distinct smell of butchered meat and offal filled the air and he turned the corner onto the Shambles and soon found the tinker shop above which his lodgings perched. He rested a foot on the stair and began to climb when Jack spoke again. “Didn’t he also say that an educated man may consider a notion without necessarily believing it?”

He stopped and turned toward his servant. Jack Tucker: philosopher at twelve? “Paraphrased, but yes.”

“Well then. As an educated man, I would think you would at least consider the notion that it happened in the way Father Austin says so. That Saint Godelieve answered the prayers of that poor woman in the only way possible.”

Crispin took a deep breath and scanned the street of butcher stalls and considered his ill fortunes for the last seven years, wondering if this was his lot for the rest of his days. Hadn’t he prayed enough? Hadn’t he begged for respite? And what had it gotten him? Shabby lodgings in the butcher’s district and a cutpurse for a servant.

But he was alive. That was something, he reckoned. Against all the odds and every point of law. A traitor was to be executed. And all had been.

Except for him.

He smiled grimly at Jack. “You may have a point. If you are praying for me, Jack—”

“Oh I am, sir!”

Crispin looked around again, the stinking Shambles lowering above him. “Then keep it up. We’ll need them.”

 

 

 

 

 

Comments

[Donna Daleo]

Greetings this morn from Sainte Charles, a small hamlet near the great city of Sainte Louis:

I happened across your website in my quest for medieval short stories, and was delighted to read Crispin Guest short story scripted by thine hand, written in the medieval tongue I so enjoy! I hope more stories are in the offing

I am a fledgling medieval teller of tales myself.
http://www.webspawner.com/users/captive
http://www.webspawner.com/users/pleasure

your critique would be most welcome. A collaborative meeting of the minds between us perchance? Perhaps I need a ghost writer to corral all my ramblings.....

Many thanks from a scriptor in kind - Wench Dawna

[Aimee]

Hi, I really enjoyed this story! I'll keep an eye out for your books.
Gillian posted a link on her blog, which I followed.
:)