Troubled Bones Page 4

  “The quire is barred, but what of the aisles?”

  They walked back the other way to the steps where the pilgrims exit. “The aisles remain unimpeded. There is a staircase to the roof of the Corona. The northeast transept has a passage, as does the northwest and southwest transepts. Of course there are two entrances for townsfolk, the west door and the southwest porch. After Compline, that way is also barred.”

  “What of the cloister?”

  “A locked door, near Becket’s martyrdom at the northwest transept, but only after Compline.”

  “So the cloister door is open all day?”

  “Of course. The monks must have ready access to the church. But it is impossible to get into the cloister from the outside without encountering three locked gates—locked at all times.”

  “Sounds secure,” he muttered. The monk continued to glare at him. “Forgive me, Dom—I do not know your name.”

  “Thomas Chillenden.”

  “Dom Thomas.” He gave a slight bow. “Since I came at the command of his excellency I wonder why my presence vexes you so.”

  “He does not need you. We are his monks. We can do his bidding.”

  “Plainly, that is not so.” He didn’t know why he took such pleasure in saying it to the lugubrious monk, and he enjoyed the man’s enraged reaction kept under careful control. “Tell me,” he went on, “why is the priory treasurer assigned to keep guard of the martyr’s shrine?”

  Dom Thomas tucked his hands beneath his scapular. “You have seen it. It is a treasure in itself. Besides, I requested this duty years ago.”

  “Indeed. Why so?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Because it is an honor, Master Guest.”

  “Of course. Dom Thomas, since you know why I am here, can you enlighten me as to why the archbishop should be so concerned for the shrine’s welfare?”

  “Did he not tell you?”

  “I should like you to tell me.”

  “What can I add to his excellency’s fears?”

  “Details, Dom. For instance, his excellency spoke of petty thievery.”

  “His excellency is mistaken. That had nothing to do with the shrine.”

  “Forgive me, but I’ll be the judge of that.”

  Dom Thomas glared. His mouth twisted as if trying to suppress unpleasant words. The monk inhaled and blew out a foggy breath. “His excellency bade me be obedient in this,” he said with obvious resentment. Yet he said nothing more.

  Crispin drummed his fingers on his dagger hilt. “Well?”

  “It was foolish. I do not know why his excellency even needed to be told. Some overzealous monk trying to worm his way into his good graces, no doubt.”

  Crispin huffed a breath. “I’m still waiting.”

  Dom Thomas aimed his gaze directly into Crispin’s gray eyes. “I’m coming to it. The keys to the cloister. They went missing a little over a fortnight ago.”

  “And you didn’t find this significant?”

  “They were also found.” He held them up. “Ecce signum.”

  “I see only the proof that they were returned. Not to what purpose they were put.”

  “What purpose? None. How could they be put to a purpose when they were returned and nothing was harmed while they were gone?”

  “How long were they missing?”

  “Two days. But as I said, nothing was disturbed, nothing was stolen, nothing is amiss at all.”

  “You don’t seem to understand, Dom. Someone took them in order to make a copy.”

  The monk’s lips parted. His eyes, so clear and sharp with accusation, suddenly glossed. “That … cannot be.”

  “Such things are not unknown to me.” He turned back to look at the shrine. It was going to be a long night and he was already tired from the journey here. He released a sigh that blew a strand of fog into the cold chapel. “Does that key fit all three cloister gates?”

  The monk was still lost in his thoughts. He handled the keys with a distant stare.

  “Dom Thomas.”

  The monk awoke, startled, and brought his gaze level with Crispin’s, though this time there was no mote of accusation in it. “Yes, all gates.”

  “You shall have to call for a locksmith in the morning and have them changed. It is your only course. And then you must make certain that you do not let the new keys out of your sight.”

  “No, of course not.” He worried at them, his fingers whitening over the metal.

  “Tonight, I will stand guard at the shrine. Your monk will relieve me at midnight. Do you understand? When I mean stand guard, I mean directly at the foot of the shrine. And calls of nature are not allowed, I’m afraid. Bring a pot with you.”

  The monk grabbed his arm. “You are serious?”

  “Most serious, Dom Thomas, especially when sleep is concerned. I am weary, but I will take the first watch. By the time your monk relieves me, I hope I will have thought of a better plan, but for the moment, this is all I have.”

  “I will have Brother Wilfrid come at midnight, then.”

  “Very good. Make certain he understands he may not sleep.”

  The irritation returned to Dom Thomas’s voice. “I understand it, Master Guest.”

  “Good.” He turned to the shadows. “Jack, you may go along back to the inn.” Jack stepped uncertainly across the chapel, casting a glance at Wilfrid when he reached the stairs. “And Dom Thomas,” said Crispin, “could you bring me a chair?”

  * * *

  CRISPIN KICKED BACK, LEANING the chair against the wooden base of the shrine. “Just you and me, Saint Thomas.” His voice, even as softly as he spoke the words, seemed far too loud. Its echoes rolled into the distant corners, and finally died.

  The four candles about the shrine remained lit, and he looked up at the arched ceiling and the demon shadows frolicking there. How were the bones to be protected if the monks could not be relied upon to guard the place themselves? If Dom Thomas and Brother Wilfrid were the only ones to be trusted, they would soon be too exhausted to continue.

  He set his jaw. He wasn’t about to leave Becket’s bones in the hands of scoundrel Lollards who had no respect for the man—

  A sound.

  He snapped to his feet and cocked his head. Definitely the sound of two people.

  He drew his dagger, crept to the edge of the shrine, and peered around the corner.

  Shadows. And they were moving. He squinted into the gloom. The echoes played games with his ears, and it was almost impossible to tell from which direction the sound was coming, but he thought the noise emanated from the quire area. Damn. He’d have to leave the shrine to investigate. He looked back at the tomb. Though, should anyone try to interfere with the bones, it would make enough racket to alert him.

  He crept down the chapel steps and steeled down the north ambulatory. There were candles burning in the church at all times, but their scant light did little to illumine the vast space. In fact, their small flames did more to confuse the shadows with flickering ghosts of half light. He veered to his right into the northeast transept. The door was shut tight. He proceeded on past the pillars of the quire in the north aisle, shifted around the scaffolding, and saw the shadows thrown against the wall ahead. Someone was at Saint Benet’s chapel, the spot of Becket’s martyrdom.

  He descended the stairs and adjusted his grip on the dagger. He slid his back along the wall toward the archway. Two small figures in black stood silhouetted against a single candle flame. He stepped into the light and the two figures whipped their heads around.

  White faces stared at him from wimples and veils. He lowered his knife. He’d forgotten. “Damosel,” he said, a little embarrassed.

  Prioress Eglantine glided toward him. Dame Marguerite did not move. Her eyes were large with alarm. She lowered her gaze and hid her quaking hands within her cloak.

  The Prioress gazed at him with practiced serenity. “Master Crispin. Skulking in the dark?”

  “Forgive me. I am here at the bidding of the archbish
op. I did not expect anyone else here at this hour.” He glanced at the windows. The sky was still pink, ushering in the evening. The late-spring light was only a precursor to the long hours of daylight expected in the summer months.

  He remembered the Prioress had said she would return to pray after supper.

  “If you are here at the bidding of his excellency,” said Madam Eglantine, “then I have no reason to inquire. Pray, do as you are bid. We will remain here.”

  “Not the shrine?” he asked, looking back, though he could not see it at this distance and around so many obstacles.

  “Today I have seen the shrine. But now I wish to spend time here, the site of Saint Thomas’s martyrdom. Such a blessed place. A holy man who gave his life for the Church. Do you know that the attack was so vicious, that his murderers sliced off the top of his skull and spilled out his brains upon the floor? Monstrous.” She recited as if dictating a shopping list.

  Dame Marguerite flinched.

  “Of course I feel compelled to be here,” the Prioress went on. “Many do not know it, but my ancestor, much to the shame of my family, was one of the murderers.”

  Crispin’s memory clicked into place like cogwheels. He ticked off the names in his head and said aloud, “Hugh de Morville. An ancestor of yours?”

  She inclined her head. “It is only mete that I should do penance for his heinous crime, here where it happened.”

  “The sins of the fathers will be visited upon the sons,” he said. “Or in this case, the daughter.” He turned to Dame Marguerite, but as usual, she said nothing. “I would not take it quite so to heart, Lady Prioress. These events happened over two hundred years ago.”

  “Yes, but the blessed heart of Saint Thomas beats as vigorously and courageously today as it did in those long ago days. I do not feel that any time has passed and erased the sin.” She said it with a great deal of relish.

  “The murderers faced exile in the end and died abroad,” he pointed out. “All impoverished penitents, while you have made your place in the Church. I do not see that your own penance is mete.”

  She smiled indulgently at him, as one does when a child says something naïve. “Surely these matters are only of concern to me, Master Guest.”

  Crispin frowned, then nodded and drew back in an abbreviated bow. “Then I will leave you. I am keeping watch at the martyr’s tomb. I shall be at some distance, and so I will not disturb your prayers. I only ask that you tell me when you are leaving so that I may bar the doors.”

  “As you wish,” she said with a slight bow of her head. She turned away from him to kneel on the stone. Dame Marguerite cast a glance back at him and sunk to her knees a little behind the Prioress.

  Thus dismissed, Crispin returned to the darkness of the aisle and moved east toward the chapel.

  When he took his seat again, the vague sounds of chanting as the nuns recited their prayers shivered along the colonnade below him. The sound played on his ears as a low hum, like the buzz of a hummingbird’s wings. He smiled at the notion and leaned back, crossing his cloak over his chest to keep warm.

  A faint scent of incense mixed with the painter’s varnish tickled his nostrils. He gazed at the tombs around him, dimly lit by the candles, and glanced at the dark windows, their shapes and tracery pattern only discerned by reflections of moon and candlelight.

  He didn’t recall dozing off. He only realized he had done so when he opened his eyes. Immediately he sat up and cursed himself. He listened. How long had he slept? He checked the windows. Darker than before. The moon’s light had moved across the chapel floor. An hour? Maybe more. What woke him?

  He heard it. Steps, light, stealthy. And the murmurs. Those nuns were still at it. But it wasn’t their steps he heard, for the chanting hadn’t changed, wasn’t moving away or coming closer.

  There was a pause, as if the world held its breath. Crispin had just enough time to feel a shiver run over his skin before the scream. It became a horrific shriek and went on and on, its echo rolling and meandering into every crevice of the church. Something metal clanged against the stone floor and footsteps scattered.

  Crispin ran.

  In seconds he was down the aisle, over the steps. He wound through the forest of scaffolding and careered around the corner where the nuns were. He stopped short, astonished and horrified.

  The Prioress lay facedown on the stone. A sword lay on the bloodied floor behind her. Dame Marguerite, spattered with the Prioress’s blood, stood stiffly with her fists clenched against her sides, eyes rolled back, an unholy scream issuing from her wide-open mouth.

  4

  CRISPIN GRABBED DAME MARGUERITE and clapped her to his chest. Her husky screams turned to gasps and she suddenly collapsed in his arms.

  He had to get help. His eyes looked down at Prioress Eglantine’s dark figure on the stone floor, her glistening black robes and veil encasing her. All around her was the debris from a scattered rosary.

  A horrible ache started in his chest and traveled up into his throat. If he had not been careless and fallen asleep he could have prevented this. A nun murdered in a church. Such sacrilege! He clutched the limp woman tighter, as if his touch could eradicate the horrors to which she would soon awaken.

  A voice rang out, startling him. “Master Crispin!” It was Brother Wilfrid.

  “Here! Come quickly!” cried Crispin, his voice unnaturally piercing.

  The young monk dashed around the corner and stopped dead. He stared openmouthed at the prioress crumpled on the stone and the blood pooling beneath her.

  “Christ have mercy! What have you done?”

  “Wilfrid! Don’t be a damned fool. I found them this way. Come help me. Dame Marguerite has swooned.”

  The monk moved mechanically toward Crispin, though he couldn’t take his eyes from the lifeless woman on the ground.

  “Take Dame Marguerite to the infirmary.”

  “But every bed is taken,” said Wilfrid, his voice shrill.

  “Then take her back to the inn. And get help. I will … I will stay with the Prioress until you return.” He stared down at the blood-soaked Prioress, his chest heaving.

  Even as spare as Wilfrid was, the monk had very little difficulty sweeping the petite nun into his arms. Crispin clenched his hands into tight fists and watched the monk hurry through the darkened church and out the door. Crispin’s quickened breath tasted the cold air and flowered into a white cloud around his mouth.

  Looking down at Madam Eglantine’s crumpled body washed Crispin with an uneasy sense of repetition, a vague memory of a broken body at his feet. Then, as now, he suffered a helpless panic that permeated his being. Yes, it had been very like this twenty-five years ago. No sword had done the damage but a horrifying fall down the stairs. Was it worse because he had heard it, every bump and crunch of bone? Maybe because he was the one to find her, and being six years old he hadn’t known what to do. He remembered finally approaching his mother, kneeling, and touching her hand. It was still warm, yet he knew even then that there was no life left in it. He hadn’t gone for help. He knew it was useless. He had simply stayed beside her and held her hand until it grew cold in his own.

  Crispin knelt and found the Prioress’s hand. He curled his fingers into hers—the hand growing steadily colder—and didn’t move. Her dark figure lay like a wounded raven, her thin arms crooked at odd angles only the dead could achieve.

  A tiny sound like a step and its residual echo. Crispin froze and his neck hairs stood up. Slowly, he turned his head. He could almost have sworn someone stood behind him, but there was no one there.

  Footsteps again. He flicked a glance at the sword still on the ground surrounded by a sprinkling of beads. The sword was there. But that didn’t mean the killer didn’t have a knife. I’m a fool! He’s still here.

  Crispin rose, huffed a cloud of apology toward the Prioress, and drew his dagger.

  Creeping toward the chapel’s wall, he threw himself against the stone and slid carefully along the wall unti
l he reached the archway. He peered around the corner and strained to see through the gray darkness.

  The night lay heavily over the long nave. Arches gaped into dusky aisles dimly lit by cloudy moonlight. The thicket of pillars stood like oaks marching away to a murky horizon while the mute quire stalls stood guard in the center of the nave. Their intricate spires seemed like shadowy figures standing tall above the floor.

  Crispin crept into the north aisle and stopped to search the gloom. The church was menacing in the dark with its many shadows and hiding places. Slowly, he eased forward and winced when his boots crunched on the tiled floor, but there was little he could do about it. The smell of old incense hovered thickly in the air, but it couldn’t completely mask the coppery stench of blood. His eyes searched. Neck hairs tingling in anticipation of a blow from behind, he glanced over his shoulder into darkness.

  There! He turned his head, straining to listen, to see. A shadow swept past his peripheral vision, and he crouched and raised the dagger. His sweaty grip tightened on the handle, and he trotted forward until he reached the south aisle. Slamming into a crevice between a cluster of pillars, he waited, listening, his own musky sweat rising to his nostrils.

  A step. Then a sharp noise sounded somewhere in the gated quire. Crispin hesitated. The sound wasn’t right. Not a step. More like the sound of a tossed pebble, trying to send him in the wrong direction.

  Cat and mouse, is it? His fingers adjusted their grip on the dagger. Where would the killer try to go? The west door was barred as were the transepts. The cloister door was open, but that was near Saint Benet’s chapel, the scene of the nun’s awful slaying. If the killer wished to escape after the murder he had already been at the nearest exit. Why then did he need to skulk in the church? What else did he want?

  Crispin whipped his head eastward toward Becket’s shrine, but he couldn’t see it for the surrounding scaffolding, a maze-work of shade and silky shadows cross-hatching the walls and floors.

  A loud bang startled him and then the sound of a door closing.

  He raced up the south aisle toward the Chapel of Saint Thomas, dodging webs of scaffolding, before he stumbled going up the chapel stairs. Breathless, he stopped before Prince Edward’s tomb, his shoulders rising in silent gasps. The figure of the prince lay undisturbed and staring up at the dark arched ceiling. His brassy skin gleamed dully in the aura of candlelight. In contrast, Becket’s shrine, planted in the middle of the chapel, gleamed from four bold candles burning brightly at each corner of the rectangular sepulcher.