Free Troubled Bones by Jeri Westerson

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