Jeri Westerson - Troubled Bones

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.”

“I put the Prioress’s rosary into her closed hands myself. This must be Marguerite’s.” She cupped her hands to accept them. “I will string them for her.”

Crispin nodded to her and left the room quietly amid the soft voices of priest and nun.

Back in his room he tossed the sword on the cot and closed the door. The nun spoke of someone who perhaps wore a cassock, and this troubled him. He, too, saw a vague cloaked figure who struck at him, but it happened so quickly he couldn’t tell if it was a cassock or not. Could the archbishop be right about one of his monks? What was it that Brother Wilfrid wanted to say to him?

He lay on the bed, still in his clothes, and closed his eyes. But Dame Marguerite’s words kept playing in his head. Fortis et Patientia: Strong and Enduring. The little scrap of red cloth. Becket’s finger bone. Sleep seemed a useless exercise.

Crispin groaned, snapped awake, and sat up. He glared perplexedly at the open window and the sunlight splashing on the floor.

Jack’s writing things were spread across the table. A broken quill and scraps of parchment made up his small retinue. There were no Latin texts to copy, only those parchments with Crispin’s careful penmanship to guide the boy in his practice. At least Jack had taken some time for his studies, though his haphazard script looked nothing like Crispin’s.

The boy was no longer at the table but by the fire, singing a ribald tune he’d no doubt learned at the inn. He looked up from over the steaming pot on the hearth.

Crispin eased his legs over the bed and scratched the sleep from his head.

“I’ve made hot water for your shave, Master,” said Jack.

Dressed, shaved, and reasonably clean, Crispin trod downstairs to the inn’s hall. The pilgrims were talking together, but when they noticed him they fell silent. He called for wine and food and sat on a bench by the fire, doing his best to take no notice of them. He drank his bowl slowly and ate his fill, perhaps not with relish, but with dignity.

The Franklin’s shadow fell over him. “The great Tracker. Is that all you’re going to do? Just sit and eat while we are trapped in this accursed inn?”

He glanced up at their faces. “Some of your fellow travelers do not feel, as you say, ‘trapped.’ They are not here, in fact. Where are Master Chaunticleer and Master Maufesour? Or Chaucer?” They looked at one another. Crispin shook his head. “Truly, Sir Philip, if my orders to remain at the inn cannot be obeyed, then there is little hope of my succeeding.”

“So they are orders now?”

The young merchant waved a shaky finger in the air. In a clear but broken voice, he said, “Master Guest made that very admonishment last night. I heard him quite d-distinctly.”

Bonefey glared at the youth.

Crispin smiled. “So says our merchant.”

“Er … Thomas Clarke, master. Manciple.”

“Ah. Forgive me. Why debate the point, Sir Philip?”

“I am an important man,” said Bonefey, chest puffed. “I cannot wile away my time in Canterbury indefinitely. I want to know and I want to know now. Do you suspect us of these crimes?”

Crispin dabbed at his lips with the linen tablecloth and brushed bread crumbs from his coat. He rose, adjusted his belt and dagger, and shimmied his cloak over his shoulders. “If you are not guilty, what is there to fear?”

Sir Philip huffed through his cheeks and spun on his heel.

Alyson pointed a finger at Bonefey and quoted Scripture. Clarke stuttered some point of law while the Miller quaffed cup after cup of ale alongside Harry Bailey. They all stopped abruptly at the creak of the stair.

Dame Marguerite, shaky and white, took wilted steps down the stairs, leaning heavily on Father Gelfridus on one side and Jack on the other. Alyson moved first, and then the others met the nun at the bottom step.

“My dear Marguerite,” cooed Alyson. The lady from Bath had been awake almost as long as Crispin. Her cheeks were not as rosy as they were yesterday and her eyes were rimmed with red. Even her coif was slightly askew revealing shiny brown hair. “You should not be out of bed.”

The nun, her cleaned brown veil affixed to her stained wimple again, shook her head. “Father Gelfridus thought it best I do. And in all obedience…” She stepped away from his grasp as if to prove the truth of it. Jack edged forward, his face pale, hands open to catch her.

Bonefey threw up his arms. “Christ wounds, Gelfridus! Can’t you see the wench has had a shock?”

Marguerite waved him off. “There is nothing as wastrel as lying about in bed. I have learned this lesson well from my Lady Prioress.” She crossed herself unsteadily. “ Requiescat in pace .” She made her way to the bench and melted into it. Jack knelt beside her and whispered something. The nun raised her eyes to him and seemed to see him for the first time.