Troubled Bones (8 page)

He held the candle high and searched every recess and dim corner. A dark patch appeared at the foot of the doorpost. Crispin bent to look. Stuck between the door and the jamb was a small square of cloth. Grasping it, he pulled it free. Someone had caught their gown or cloak in the door and tore this bit, leaving it behind. Scarlet material. Most likely a gown. He examined it a moment longer before he tucked that within his pouch, too, and gave one last look around the quiet chapel before descending beneath the church to the cellar door once more.

Alyson was waiting for him. “Ready,” she said.

He gave a quick nod and stepped into the room. The Prioress lay covered with a sheet. “I will dress her with a shroud when you are done,” said Alyson solemnly.

Beside the body sat a basin, water clouded with red. It looked like a bowl of blood.

Alyson grasped the edge of the sheet and slowly peeled it down to the small of the Prioress’s naked back.

Crispin bent over the thin white body. He felt a tinge of shame peering at so chaste a woman.

The scent of rose water wafted from the newly bathed skin. With wounds cleansed he could plainly see how each blow cut and how deeply.

“The assailant used the sword to chop at her vertically, with little side to side movement,” said Crispin mostly to himself. He pointed to the wounds from the neck down. “See how this chop goes this way, then this one the other way, thus.” He demonstrated the chopping motions with an invisible sword. “A sword is easier to use this way. I might make a guess that this stroke to the shoulder was first. It is a timid stroke. After blood is spilled, bloodlust takes over. She was kneeling, I think, and this last stroke at her shoulder blade was taken when she was completely prone. They came in quick succession.” He pictured it in his mind. Of course he’d been in many a battle himself. A sword was not an elegant weapon. Not like a dagger. A dagger was for stabbing or slashing. But a sword could be employed as a chopping weapon with slightly more finesse than a battle-ax, perhaps, but used with the same accuracy.

He glanced at Alyson to confirm his hypothesis. Her face had gone white. He cursed himself, pulled the sheet over the body again, and took Alyson’s hand. “Forgive me. Fatigue must be to blame for my thoughtlessness.”

She squeezed his hand once before releasing it. “I am only a woman and not used to violence.”

“My words may seem casual, Mistress Alyson, but I am far from used to this.” He turned to look at the cloth-covered Prioress.

A pause. “I will finish quickly, Master Crispin. And then I hope to go back to the inn.”

“Of course. I thank you, mistress, for your kind service.” He bowed and left the room again.

He stood, hands behind his back, and stared blankly at the carved arch of the cloister walk. Few sights troubled him more than that of a dead woman.
Heinous, heinous
. Murder of any kind was unacceptable, but this murder of a holy woman … He ran his hand over his eyes.
Jesu, but I am weary!
Getting back to the inn sounded like a good idea. He’d drop into his bed and wouldn’t mind if he didn’t wake till next Sunday.

At the sound of steps he looked up. The young monk, Brother Wilfrid, approached, and by the look on his face he was as agitated as his step. He greeted Crispin and then looked back over his shoulder.

“Brother Wilfrid. Is there something—”

“Master Guest, I—”

Alyson emerged from the door and shook her mantle over her shoulders.

Wilfrid turned to Crispin. “I will speak to you later,” he said in a husky whisper. “I must go to Vigils before I am missed.” He turned abruptly and scurried back down the cloister, casting a furtive glance back.

“Fitful things, aren’t they?” said Alyson, gesturing with her head toward the retreating monk.

“He is naturally nervous at these events. Are you ready to go?”

“Bless me. What a night it’s been.”

He escorted her back to the inn in silence.

Jack snored, sitting alone at a corner table lit by a gentle flicker from the smoky fire. Crispin bid his good nights to Alyson, walked over to the boy, and nudged him. “Where’s our room?”

Jack licked his lips and looked up sleepily until he recognized Crispin and became fully awake. “I’ll take you, Master. You must be weary to the bone.” Jack hurried up the stairs while Crispin trudged after him. They walked along the gallery and Jack directed him to a shadowed corner. He took a key from his pouch and unlocked the door. Jack then tried to hand the key to him but Crispin was uninterested in taking it. Instead, he drew off his hood and mantle and let them drop. Jack scooped them up before they hit the floor.

Tucker stirred the embers in the hearth. Since it was a small room, the evening fire had kept it warm, warmer than Crispin was used to.

Crispin sat heavily on the bed to take off his boots and Jack hurried to do it for him. He quickly surveyed the room over Jack’s ministrations. A cot sat in the far corner.
Looks like Jack will have a bed at last
. There was also a table, two chairs, and a coffer. Not unlike his lodgings back in London. Except for the wrapped sword propped in the corner.

Once his belt was off and his boots hit the floor, Crispin fell back on the bed. He closed his eyes and started to unbutton his cotehardie when Jack drew the blanket over him. He didn’t see any reason to divest himself further when he was warm and comfortable.

He dozed, drifting. He dreamed of bones forming into skeletal monks. They danced to the tune of a bagpipe played by the Miller. Chaucer was there, smiling and clapping to the bagpipe’s rhythm, but his hands were covered by what looked like leather pouches. Some of the other pilgrims lingered in the background, but he couldn’t seem to remember their names. The dream changed again, and one of the skeleton monks pointed a finger at him, and then it became only a boney hand floating in a dark space. He drew closer to it, but the ground became mushy like a bog, so thick that he had a hard time pulling each leg from the mire. Panic set in when he began to sink, but then a loud bang stopped the action and then the knock sounded on the door a second time and he realized he was awake.

He groaned and drew the pillow over his head. Jack whispered in the doorway, arguing with the caller. The whispering sounded too much like snakes hissing and Crispin couldn’t stand it anymore. “Who is it, for God sake?” he growled from under the pillow.

“Master, I hate to bother you. But it is Mistress Alyson. She said the nun has awakened at last and begs to speak with you.”

6

ALYSON STOOD IN THE
dark gallery, holding a candle. Her eyes glittered from the small flame, and his sleepiness fled. He followed her with Jack on his heels.

When they arrived at the nun’s room, Alyson knocked lightly on the door and entered without waiting for a reply.

Dame Marguerite sat propped up in the single bed she had shared with the Prioress. Her brown veil had been removed and her wet wimple hung by the fire, sending up a veil of steam. It had been splattered with blood, and Alyson had no doubt done her a kindness by washing all traces of the horror from it. The nun’s hair was shorn and stood out from her head in brown thatches. Her pale pink face looked like alabaster.

She barely acknowledged Crispin’s bow. Alyson scurried to the bed and leaned toward her. “You asked for Master Guest, my lamb. Here he is.”

“Please, madam,” said the nun in a small voice. “Please fetch Father Gelfridus.”

“Of course, lamb.” Alyson looked up with a solemn set to her mouth before scurrying out the door.

Dame Marguerite’s eyes roved around the dark room. Her lashes flickered, seemingly aware of him but not looking in his direction.

Crispin leaned over and whispered to Jack, who hurriedly left.

“Dame Marguerite,” Crispin said softly.

Her brown eyes lit on him. They were round and glossy and exuded a sadness he could almost feel. Her voice was small but remarkably steady. “Is it true that you make your trade in seeking out those who do evil? Are you very good at it?”

He kept eye contact though he wanted to look away from that raw expression. “Reasonably.”

Her small face with its incongruously short hair and large eyes conveyed a sense of vulnerability. Her lips were dry. “I shall try to answer your questions. If I am able.”

Crispin swallowed. Jack wasn’t the only one defenseless under the eyes of a beautiful face. He moved closer. He almost sat on the bed. Instead, he lowered to one knee beside it and leaned forward. “Tell me what you saw.”

Her brows crumpled, and she fumbled at her bedclothes. Crispin noticed she clutched at a rosary. Her fingers ticked over the beads.

He glanced at a jug sitting on the sill, hoping it contained wine in case she fainted.

“My Lady Prioress was praying and I was trying to follow the words,” she said in a breathy voice. “We were in such a holy place; I did not think it mattered if I could not keep up with her. I followed when I could, but mostly, I closed my eyes and made my own prayers.”

Crispin remembered hearing both of their voices together, but sometimes just the Prioress alone. The echoes often made it sound as if two were chanting. He remembered hearing as much … before he fell asleep.

He edged closer. “Did you see the assailant?”

She gazed past Crispin into the dim corner of the room. “I don’t know. There was a dark figure. A cassock—no, a cloak. Maybe both.”

“Did you see his face?”

“He did not turn to me. He … he just … just—” A fit of trembling overtook her and she hugged herself and dropped her head.

“Dame Marguerite. Can you be certain?
Was
it a cassock you saw?”

The door opened again, and they both turned. Jack stood in the doorway with an elongated bundle wrapped in linen. Crispin stood and joined him at the door. Jack handed the bundle over without looking at Crispin and moved to the head of the bed. The lad’s voice was gentle and his manner more refined than his usual. “Can I bring you water, Dame? Anything?”

She looked at the boy with little recognition. Crispin took Jack gently by the shoulders and pulled him out of the way. Then he clutched the bundle and knelt again. “Dame Marguerite. You are doing very well. If you can just tell me. What did he look like?”

She shook her head and pulled the covers up to her chin. “I don’t know.”

“Tell me the rest.”

“I do not remember much. It’s … all foggy in my mind. I know he killed her.”

“But you were standing right there. Did he try to … to…”

“That’s right,” she said, her voice sinking into the blankets. “He did turn to me. He … said something, but I do not know what it was.”

“Another language?”

“Yes. Yes. Latin, I think.”

“But you speak Latin—”

“Only enough to understand the Divine Office. Nothing more. Yes. It must have been Latin.”

“Do you know what it was?”

“No,” she said vaguely. “Perhaps—” She screwed her face and stared at her rosary. “
Fortis et Patientia
?”

Crispin stored this information for later and unwrapped only the pommel of the sword. He gingerly presented it to Dame Marguerite. “Do you recognize these arms?”

The pommel with the red enamel and the bear head glinted in the candlelight. He expected that she might pull back in horror, but she barely glanced at the sword’s pommel and shook her head. “I never saw it before.”

“Do you know any reason why someone would wish to harm the Prioress?”
And not you
were his unspoken thoughts.

The door opened again and in bundled Alyson with a sleepy-eyed Gelfridus. Crispin threw the wrappings over the sword hilt again and rose. “Father Gelfridus is here. I will take my leave.”

She reached out a white hand toward Crispin. The thin fingers stretched wide apart like twigs, the skin spreading taut over her hand. He was too far for her to reach but the gesture stopped him nonetheless. “You must do your best, Master Guest.”

He stood stiffly a moment, merely staring at her outstretched hand. “I will.” He bowed.

The wooden floor creaked under his heavy steps. He took Alyson aside while the priest bent over the girl in the bed.

“So much sadness in so young a life,” she said, shaking her head again. Crispin warmed to her sincerity. “She told me of her life in the priory,” she said softly. “How her mother became with child and was forced into the life of a scullion.”

He looked at her anew. “She said her mother was a servant. But it is unusual for the daughter of a servant to become a holy sister.”

“Ah, but you see, her mother wasn’t always a servant.” Alyson sidled closer and settled in. “Now mind you, I do not believe I am taking liberties when I tell you, for she freely told me her tale in that flat, odd way she has.” Crispin nodded, reassuring her with his attentive expression. “Now then. She told me her mother got with child … with her … and was forced to find a place to call home. She said her mother was not of lowly origin and she spoke well, not like the other servants. She could read and write. The Prioress took pity on her and took her in. But because of her obvious sinful state she did not make life easy for Marguerite’s mother. She said she was beaten, and rightly so, to strike the Devil out of her. Imagine throwing away your birthright for a moment’s rutting. Foolish, foolish girl. Living like a bond slave in a nunnery, not even becoming a sister herself but a servant, and a scullion at that! I would have beaten her myself!”

He couldn’t disagree. Though it was a harsh man indeed who would toss out his own daughter, even a wealthy man or lord, Crispin doubted he could have been as ruthless. Even so, a man’s honor was a precious thing. It would take a man of great integrity to persevere amid the whispers and rumors.

But one’s own daughter …

“And now this,” said Alyson. “So much sorrow. How will she endure it?”

“Her faith will no doubt sustain her.”

“Indeed. God’s great mercy will offer her sanctuary as He has done for so many.”

He reached into his pouch and withdrew the many loose beads, cradling them in his hand. “I found these in the cathedral.”