Troubled Bones Page 6

  “By what authority do you dare this?” cried Bonefey.

  Crispin sneered. He pushed Bonefey back until his legs hit a bench, and he sat hard. “I’m not telling you all twice. The archbishop so charged me. I don’t like it any better than you do. But if stay we must, then it is to your benefit to assist me in any way you can. The sooner these crimes are resolved the sooner you can leave.”

  They fell silent, each looking at one another.

  “Mistress Alyson,” said Crispin. She raised her head. “A word with you.”

  She stepped from the crowd and came to him. He moved with her into a corner. She tilted her head back and rested her hand at her hip. “Bless me,” she said. “I’ve never been accused of murder and mayhem before. I assure you, I am just as appalled as the rest. More so, after tending to that poor, sweet nun.”

  His jaw ached. “I have not called you aside to accuse you. There is another matter for which I think you are suited. I believe I read you well, madam, in assuming a little blood will not frighten you.”

  She nodded solemnly. “You may assume I have a hearty constitution. Do you speak of the Prioress herself?”

  He was grateful for her candor. “Yes. The monks are not suited to deal with a woman. The archbishop insists on an expeditious burial. Can I prevail upon you to … to prepare the Prioress?”

  She nodded gravely. “I would be honored, sir.”

  “Shall I call upon the assistance of the maids here?”

  “They are a hardworking lot, but I do not think it prudent to involve them. I can manage without help, I think. I shall go to the cathedral with you.”

  He nodded. “It is best it be handled there. The archbishop would prefer it.”

  “Let me get my cloak.”

  He turned to Tucker. “Keep watch. Harry Bailey can be relied upon to keep our charges here tonight. But I want you to inform me when Chaucer returns.”

  Cloaked with her hood raised, Alyson awaited Crispin by the door. In the still of the night, they walked toward the looming cathedral.

  5

  CRISPIN AND ALYSON ARRIVED at the cathedral’s doors where two monks stood at the entrance, their faces shadowed by cowls. Crispin nodded and they let him pass.

  He and Alyson walked up the long north aisle to the Saint Benet chapel and turned the corner. Two monks bent to pick up the body. Crispin felt Alyson stiffen with a gasp, and he placed his hand on her arm. She looked up at him and nodded. “I am well.”

  “Wait,” said Crispin. The monks holding the Prioress’s shoulders stopped and stared at him. Crispin inspected the scene, trying to etch it into his mind one last time. Many footprints had smeared the spattered blood, but he could still see the initial puddle under the Prioress. A rag and a bucket would soon clear all traces of a life snuffed out.

  Someone had thought to bring a bier. “Good Brothers,” said Crispin, “can we take her to the infirmary?”

  “We must go to the cellar,” said one of the hooded men. He eyed Alyson. “The fastest way is through the cloister, but—”

  “The archbishop has given me the authority to go where I please, Brother,” said Crispin. “As for Mistress de Guernsey, she is my agent and must accompany me. I know it is usually not permitted for laymen, especially women, to enter the cloister, but in this instance we may all go with impunity.”

  They seemed less than satisfied with Crispin’s pronouncement but could not argue with him. They lifted the Prioress’s sheet-clad form, and carried her out the cloister door and down the dark walk.

  They made a turn and entered the cellar. The cold air smelled of must. The monks placed the bier on a long table and stepped back. One said to Alyson, “We will bring you sponges and basins of water. We have rose water, if that will do. Also a shroud.”

  “That would content me, Brothers,” she said with a bow of her head.

  She waited stone-faced for the monks to return and placed the basin and sponges beside the body. The monks bowed and quickly left. Alyson removed her cloak, rolled up her sleeves, and looked over her shoulder. She tucked her linen veil behind her ears. “Are you staying?” she asked.

  “No. But”—he rubbed his chin—“I need to see the wounds. When you are done, if you will … will turn her over—”

  She nodded. “Wait outside and I will call you.”

  Crispin paced outside the cellar. Without wishing to, his ears picked up the sounds of Alyson’s work; the thump of the body as clothing was removed; a rag being rung into a basin. He imagined the water blooming with swirls of red. There were long moments of near silence before Alyson sighed and muttered a prayer.

  Surely the dawn would soon break and he could view the murder scene in lighter surroundings. Leaving the sounds of Alyson’s preparations behind, he followed the cloister walk and slipped into the church, adjusting his eyes to the dark. Ahead of him lay Saint Benet’s chapel. Already monks were scrubbing away all traces of blood and death. They turned to look at him but did not stop in their task. He walked past them to the north aisle and sidestepped the scaffolds. Again, the silence struck him. Except for his boots striding up the aisle and the swish of the monks with their rags, there was not a sound. He climbed the steps to the Chapel of Saint Thomas and headed straight for Saint Thomas’s shrine. The canopy was replaced, and for all the public knew, Becket’s bones were still within. Crispin took a candle from one of the four candlesticks surrounding the shrine and walked around the stone plinth, looking carefully along the edges. He hadn’t the slightest idea what he might be looking for, but he hoped some clue to the scoundrel’s identity might turn up.

  The candle glow swept over the floor several times before it caught a faint highlight between Becket’s shrine and Edward’s tomb. Crispin bent to look. At first, it had no significance for him. Just a tiny bit of stone wedged into a crevice between the stone tiles. Probably kicked up from all the work of the stone masons. But when Crispin picked it up, he knew instantly that it wasn’t a piece of stone at all.

  With a rush of excitement, he examined the tiny triangular object lying in his palm. The candlelight gave it shadows, depth, texture, though it was white and bleached. He turned it. No doubt about it. A finger bone. The tip. “Saint Thomas,” he whispered.

  Crispin had viewed many saint’s relics in his day. They had all been ensconced in great shrines such as Saint Thomas’s, sometimes touched, sometimes only seen through cloudy glass.

  But to hold Saint Thomas, to touch the past, nearly took his breath away. Crispin stared down at the small bone in his palm for a long time and then finally raised his head and looked around somewhat sheepishly. Gawking like a schoolboy! He shook his head at himself and carefully placed the bone in his money pouch, sorry he did not have a cloth in which to wrap it.

  He continued his search along the floor for more remains. Before he had been struck, he remembered hearing a door bang, but the nature of the cathedral made the placement of sounds nearly impossible to fathom. Where was the nearest door?

  The transept doors were far away. The closest to the shrine was behind him: the stairs to the roof of the Corona tower. Crispin hurried to the door and pulled. Locked. But it might not have been locked before. After all, the killer certainly had his own set of keys. Perhaps the murderer waited behind the door for the church to empty before he slipped from his lair to dispatch the Prioress and plunder the bones. But he hadn’t counted on Crispin being there. Had the killer crept past him while he slept? Could the killer have counted on Crispin’s sleeping? Or was he prepared to dispatch Crispin as well? But if so, why am I still alive?

  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 on
e 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.”