Jeri Westerson - Troubled Bones

She edged closer to Jack. Crispin shoved the struggling boy behind him.

“Did you kill the Prioress?”

She smiled. It was the same as her pitying smiles. It chilled him to the bone.

“Yes, of course. She needed to die.”

The words, so gently spoken, could well have been mistaken for something else. But Jack’s gasp behind his back told him it was true. Crispin felt the boy’s fists at his spine and Jack suddenly burst forward. Tears streaked his face.

“But why, Marguerite?” he cried.

She turned dull eyes on Jack, where they softened. “Because she was most cruel to my mother. Is God not love? Isn’t that exactly what my Lady Prioress preached? And yet. There seems to be so little love in the world. My mother was not loved by her family and they sent her away all because of a babe. An innocent babe. And my Lady Prioress showed little love to her, treating her cruelly, giving her much penance and hard work, all because of this babe. She was a lady once. My mother. She died a peasant. And she died saddened to her soul. She was not loved. But I loved her. And I swore to her as she lay dying that I would avenge her. And I have. But I am sorry about the monk.”

Jack closed his eyes. His lashes were dark with tears. Without opening them he asked, “Did you kill Brother Wilfrid?”

“I regret that I did. You see, he knew the nature of my name. He works in the treasury and the rolls of the church, so he said. He knew my name and knew it used to be Fitz-Urse. He was going to tell. And then everyone would have known it was me.”

Crispin wanted to be far from this place. But it had to be done. Questions needed to be answered. “How did you get the dagger?” he asked.

“Master Chaucer was leaving his room when I noticed he had quill and parchment. I begged him if I could borrow a portion of parchment to send a missive to my priory. He was kind and allowed me to write my note in his rooms. But he is also careless. For he left his dagger behind. I took it. It was a pretty thing with gems upon it. The Prioress was fond of pretty things. She had beautiful sleek greyhounds who ate meat and gnawed good bones better suited for soup, while my mother ate rough bread and stale cheese. I’d lost my sword, you see, so I took the dagger in compensation.”

He glanced back at Chaucer and his face was white and grim. “But how were you able to smuggle the sword into the church?”

“I told my Lady Prioress that I had forgotten my rosary and I went back for the sword in my things. I have kept it carefully hidden in my trunk. We are not allowed to own anything of our former lives, you see. But I knew I needed my mother’s sword. It was all that was left. And I killed my Lady Prioress, and I killed him. And I have confessed it, and so I am absolved.”

And Father Gelfridus was the beneficiary of that! He now understood the priest’s agitation. A murderer did confess, just not the one Crispin thought. The priest was not allowed to say. To even warn anyone.

“I cannot allow you to go free, Dame. And I certainly would never allow you to go away with Jack. You are my prisoner now.”

She frowned and looked down. She shook her head. “No. I think not.”

“You have confessed it, Dame, before witnesses. You must pay for these crimes.”

“But I have confessed it to a priest. I was absolved. I am a nun and I have killed my prioress and a monk. Surely it is a matter for God.”

“For God, yes. But first for the hangman.”

Her eyes suddenly took on a wild expression. She looked at Jack, his face marred with tears, and then caught sight of Chaucer and Dom Thomas cringing in the near darkness.

Like a frightened sparrow, she darted away into the smothering shadows.

Everyone moved at once. Crispin cursed. “Be still! I cannot hear in which direction she has gone!”

“That way!” pointed Chaucer.

But Dom Thomas lifted his arm and aimed at another direction. “No. It was there!”

“God’s blood! Everyone go off and search!”

Crispin looked back at Jack. The boy slid to the floor, the sword clutched in his hand. He left him alone. The boy needed to grieve.

He heard Chaucer retreat toward the quire and Dom Thomas down the nave to the west entrance, but Crispin headed toward the north aisle, ears cocked and listening.

He made his way up the north ambulatory, spying around corners and pillars, but he saw no one. Darkness had fallen, and the church was draped in deep shadows and a few flickering candles. Starlight shone through Saint Thomas’s miracle windows.

He crept up the pilgrim stair and carefully entered the Chapel of Saint Thomas, scanning over the many silent tombs. The candles around Becket’s shrine had been extinguished. No need for candles when the relics were not there.

When he turned back, a shadowy figure stood at some distance. Startled, Crispin squinted. Who was it? He recognized the odd shape of the miter on his head. It was not a tall miter as he usually wore, but a shorter version. His face was a dark silhouette. “Your Excellency? What are you doing here?”

The archbishop said nothing. He raised an arm and pointed toward the Corona tower door. Crispin looked. The door hung open.

“Much thanks,” he called over his shoulder and ran for it. He reached the door and gently pushed it open. The stairwell was empty. Crispin felt like a fool, but decided that “better a live fool then a dead one” and pulled his dagger. Slowly, he climbed the stairs, sliding his back along the stone wall. The dark stairwell was cold from a draught swirling down from the open door above. He could see stars through the opening and finally reached it. He peered around the doorpost and spied the nun standing by the battlements, looking out across the city.

“Dame Marguerite.”

She did not turn. “Look at all the houses down there. See the little candles in the windows? Is it lovely having a family, all homely together, I wonder?”

“I am sorry for the cruelness of your life, Dame, but it is never a matter for murder. Surely you could have left the priory when you came of age and found your own husband.”

“Who would take me? No dowry, no name. I am no one.”

Crispin flinched. Yes, how cruel the world could be to those without a name. “And so, too, did I lose all. But I have made a life.”

She turned then and studied him with deadened eyes. “You find criminals and bring them to justice.” Her voice was unsteady.

He nodded. “I do.”

“Am I a criminal?”

“I fear, Dame, that this is so.”

She seemed to consider this. “Will the sheriff hang me?”

He hesitated. “Justice … must be served. Would you see another die in your place? Master Chaucer was accused of these crimes. He was slated to die tomorrow for them. Would you see that happen to an innocent man?”

“Master Chaucer? And he is such a merry fellow. I would not see that happen.”

“And so. You will have to accompany me to the sheriff and tell him your tale.”

She sighed and turned back to the sparkling city with its torches and candlelight glittering on the evening air. “I shall never have a family. Not a proper one. I wish … Alas. Wishes are sometimes like prayers, are they not? They are as lost and as futile.”

“Prayers are not futile, Dame. God listens to us.”

“He listens, but does He act?”

Crispin fingered his dagger before sheathing it. “I am no theologian.”

“No. You are a man. I am a woman. And I have sinned. Death is the only course for sinners, no?”

“Dame…”

He should have suspected; he should have been better prepared, but it happened so fast.

Marguerite gave him a sad smile before she pivoted on the stone, stepped up between the merlons, and flung herself over the edge.