Jeri Westerson - Troubled Bones

Maufesour turned a frown on him. “You cannot stop us from doing our duty.”

“Indeed,” said the other. “We are on the Church’s business.”

Crispin continued to toy with the blade. “I must tell you a truth about me, gentlemen. I am intolerant of liars. Less so of thieves. Not at all of murderers.”

Maufesour sputtered again. “We are not murderers, sir!”

“Thieves, then?”

“No!”

“Liars?”

Maufesour huffed. “It is clear you insist on accusing us of ill deeds. Accuse, then. Say your peace.”

He leaned toward them, close enough to smell Maufesour’s foul breath and Chanticleer’s overly perfumed hair. “You two are as guilty as they come,” he said softly. They stiffened at his words. “I am of the mind that you have something to do with the theft in the cathedral.” They both tried to rise but he shoved them back down. “I will give you exactly till sunset to return that item to me or I shall have both your heads on a platter. Have I made myself clear?”

Maufesour tried a “But-”

“ Have I made myself clear? ”

Slowly, they both nodded their heads. Crispin released them and straightened. “Good. Now. Begone to whatever devilry you had planned.” In a flash, they were up and out the door.

He straightened his new coat and looked back toward Jack, waiting by the stairs. Time to speak to Dame Marguerite. But as he approached the stairs Alyson was making her way down. Her face broke into a wide smile on seeing him and she gave a coy lilt to her shoulder. “Crispin,” she said. “I missed you last night.”

He didn’t look at Jack, who was making himself scarce at the other end of the hall. “Alas. I was far too agitated to be of good company, Alyson.”

Slowly she descended the stairs until she was at the foot. “But that is when such company can do you the most good.”

He smiled. “Sometimes. But murder and the involvement of old friends makes for a troubled mind, which leads to troubles … elsewhere.”

“Bless me, Crispin! But no man has ever had those troubles in my bed.”

He suddenly longed to embrace her, but knew it would not be proper in such a public place. “I do believe you,” he said softly. “Unfortunately, I am working at the moment and need to talk to Dame Marguerite. Is she still abed, do you think?”

“Oh no. She is much better these days and has taken to spending time in the inn’s back garden amongst the herbs and flowers. I think the fresh air is good for her.”

“Can you show me the way?”

She took his hand and led him through the hall to a narrow alley to the kitchens. Jack followed at a discreet distance.

The innkeeper and his staff watched warily as the entourage filed through, and then Alyson opened a back door. At first they encountered a dirt yard with hewn stumps no doubt used for beheading poultry as evidenced by its bloodstains and scattered feathers, but beyond that lay the greening of a garden. “There,” she said with a raised arm, pointing. “There is a bench beyond that myrtle. Would you like me to stay?”

He glanced back at Jack, who was pretending to be absorbed by a beetle climbing up a stump. “Thank you, no, Alyson. I prefer to ask my questions without too much of an audience. She might be more at ease with less of us in attendance.”

“You know your business best.” She turned to leave but leaned back, resting her hand on his cheek. “At your leisure,” she whispered.

“As you wish.” He watched her backside until his gaze rose and met Jack’s. The lad was smiling. “Come along, Jack.”

They strode past a short wooden fence and onto a gravel path. The garden showed dark earth with sprigs of green shoots emerging from the tilled rows.

Dame Marguerite sat on a mossy bench and fingered her repaired rosary hanging from her rope belt. Her face was tilted upwards into the spring sun and her brown eyes seemed to be gazing distantly. Encased in her nun’s weeds of brown, she blended into the shadows cast by the myrtle and the rear wall of the stable. Crispin and Jack were not necessarily silent as they approached, but she did not acknowledge them.

Finally, he cleared his throat, and she struck her gaze from that faraway place and lowered it to him. She looked him up and down, in fact, and then did the same to Jack. “Master Guest,” she said in her same shy way. “And Master Tucker.” He did not look at Jack’s face, but he noticed the boy throwing back his shoulders in a fulsome manner.

“Dame Marguerite,” he said gently with a slight bow. “Forgive me for interrupting your prayers, but have you heard the further tidings from the cathedral?”

“Of the murder of Brother Wilfrid? Yes, it is most distressing.”

“Indeed. I came to discover if there was perhaps more you could tell me about the death of your prioress.”

She raised her head and cocked it at him. “What more could I say?”

“I hoped you could better identify the assailant. Tell me for certain what he might have been wearing, for instance.”

“Whatever I told you before could not have changed.”

“But you were in great distress at that time. Now with the passage of days-”

“But why would my words be different? Why would my eyes have witnessed more as time passed?”

He drew silent. Was she being deliberately abstruse? More likely she was just a simple maid who understood little.

“Master Crispin, I wonder when I may be allowed to return to my convent. I must get on with my life in God.”

“Your life at your convent is important to you, I know. May I ask how long you have been a nun?”

“It seems all my life, and yet that is not so. I was raised in the convent. My mother worked as a servant, and as I grew and worked with her in the kitchens, I saw the wonder of that life and begged to be a part of it. Madam Eglantine took me as a novice when I was fourteen. I became a nun only last year.”

“You speak well for the daughter of a scullion.”

She didn’t exactly smile, but her face wasn’t quite blank either. She offered no more. He shuffled his feet. “Have you given any more thought to what the assailant was wearing? You seemed uncertain whether he was wearing a cassock or not.”

“No. No thoughts at all.”

“Dame Marguerite, I am trying to ascertain the murderer. Surely you want to help me in this?”

“And should you find him, what would you do to him?”

“I would have him arrested.”

“And then what would happen?”

“He would be judged and sentenced to hang.”

She lowered her face and studied her belt. “Then I shouldn’t truly like to help you if that is the outcome.”

“But justice must be served.”

“Aye, justice. But does not God ultimately decide justice, no matter what little thing we do on earth to determine it?”

“So says your catechism, but we are mere mortals. We must do what we must to live in a just society, and our society has decided that murderers must die.” He stepped closer. “You are not protecting someone, are you? Someone you know?”

She offered him a consoling smile. “And if I were … would I tell you?”

No, not a simpleton. He conceded with a bow. “If you have nothing further to offer, then I take my leave.” He turned to go but a hand plucked at his sleeve. His eyes fell on Jack.

“May I stay a moment, sir? I would speak with Dame Marguerite.”

Crispin looked from the determined face of his protégé to that of the sedate nun and then back again. What goes on here? He knew the boy seemed to have an infatuation for the girl. Perhaps Jack might get more information from her than he did. It was a guilty thought, because it meant using the boy, and it also meant eavesdropping. But the flush of guilt was only temporary. There was too much at stake. Geoffrey’s innocence for one.