Free Troubled Bones by Jeri Westerson Page A

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 one 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?