Free Troubled Bones by Jeri Westerson Page B

Was it a cassock you saw?”
    The door opened again, and they both turned. Jack stood in the doorway with an elongated bundle wrapped in linen. Crispin stood and joined him at the door. Jack handed the bundle over without looking at Crispin and moved to the head of the bed. The lad’s voice was gentle and his manner more refined than his usual. “Can I bring you water, Dame? Anything?”
    She looked at the boy with little recognition. Crispin took Jack gently by the shoulders and pulled him out of the way. Then he clutched the bundle and knelt again. “Dame Marguerite. You are doing very well. If you can just tell me. What did he look like?”
    She shook her head and pulled the covers up to her chin. “I don’t know.”
    “Tell me the rest.”
    “I do not remember much. It’s … all foggy in my mind. I know he killed her.”
    “But you were standing right there. Did he try to … to…”
    “That’s right,” she said, her voice sinking into the blankets. “He did turn to me. He … said something, but I do not know what it was.”
    “Another language?”
    “Yes. Yes. Latin, I think.”
    “But you speak Latin—”
    “Only enough to understand the Divine Office. Nothing more. Yes. It must have been Latin.”
    “Do you know what it was?”
    “No,” she said vaguely. “Perhaps—” She screwed her face and stared at her rosary. “ Fortis et Patientia ?”
    Crispin stored this information for later and unwrapped only the pommel of the sword. He gingerly presented it to Dame Marguerite. “Do you recognize these arms?”
    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