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.
He gave Jack a nod and turned on his heel to walk back up the path. But once Jack turned away from him toward the nun, he made a stealthy journey back behind the hedges to listen, wondering how much of his pride he had to sacrifice for the price of a man’s life.
Jack stood uncertainly for a moment, measuring the garden, the sky, anything it seemed but the nun. He checked the knife at his belt, pulled at the hem of his new coat, straightened his hood, and finally dropped his hands to his sides. “Well,” he said at last in a halting voice. “I am pleased to see you looking so well, Dame.”
She blinked at Jack but said nothing.
Jack shuffled his feet for a bit and raised his eyes again to the spring sky just opening from a lacy cloud cover. “My master is good at what he does, this finding of criminals. Tracker, they call him.” He made a halfhearted chuckle. “And though I know you would not see a murderer hang, surely you would see that he is stopped before he can do harm to another.”
“Is it always so?” she asked.
“Well, in my experience, the murderer does not stop with one. And poor Wilfrid is the proof of it. Surely you would not see murder done again.”
“If it is God’s will.”
“God’s will in murder? That ain’t—isn’t—right, is it?”
Marguerite paused. She shifted on the bench and shook out her veil, raising her face to the bleary sunshine. “I … should ask my prioress such a question. But of course … I cannot.”
Jack edged closer and stealthily found his way to sitting on the bench beside her. He sat quietly for some time.
Crispin clenched his teeth. That boy has too smooth a way about him.
“Aye. Well. That is the problem, ain’t it—isn’t it? She was murdered, wasn’t she? It’s a sore thing to find a murderer. I’ve been with my master for near two years now and it is never an easy thing. There’s danger. Aye, I’ve seen my share, too, I suppose.” He puffed out his chest and squinted an eye toward her, perhaps to see if she noticed.
Crispin put his hand over his mouth to suppress a laugh.
“Aye. My master has me apprenticing to be a Tracker as well. I expect when I come of age I will have learned a goodly amount. He already depends on me. Wouldn’t know what the man would do without me.”
Crispin smiled and shook his head. Jesu, is this what he sounded like at that age?
Jack surveyed the garden again and moved marginally closer to her. “If you will not speak of it…” And he eyed her but she made no appearance that she would. “Well then. I’ll trouble you no more about it.” He edged closer. “What will you do now? Will you go back to your priory?”
“Of course. As soon as your master allows it.”
“But how can you? After what you’ve seen?”
She shook her head as if the question were absurd. “What else would I do? I am a nun.”
“Well now.” Jack rubbed his thighs and looked down at his coat, seeming to remember it was new and how fine he must look in it. He sat straighter. “For a maiden such as you, I would think there were a fair amount of options.”
She cocked her head at him much like a dove.
Jack went on. “You’re an even-tempered lass. There are many prospects
. Er … a ladies maid, surely. A chatelaine. Or … maybe…” Crispin saw him squirm and swallow. “Maybe even … a wife. For the right sort of lad, that is.”
Crispin nearly stumbled into the bushes. Good Christ!
But Marguerite seemed none the wiser. She continued to stare uncomprehendingly at Jack, blinking.
Slowly, carefully, as if picking up an injured bird, Jack scooped up her hand and held it in his own. She looked down at her white hand in Jack’s and still said nothing. Jack was breathing heavily, his gaze concentrated on her face. “You see, Dame … That is, Marguerite. The right sort of lad may be right under your nose. That would be a lad who has learning. And a vocation. Maybe his wage isn’t so much, but that will change.” He scooted closer until his thigh rested against hers hidden by her brown woolen gown. “A wage, a wife, and maybe a babe or two is all the happiness some lads need. It’s … all I’d need.”
She stared at the spectacle of her hand in Jack’s but made no attempt to pull it free. “I do not understand you,” she said, voice softer. Crispin had the feeling by the look of her eye that she understood him quite well indeed. “Are you saying that I should look to another vocation?”
“Well. Mayhap. A maid as young as you are. How can you put yourself away in a monastery? It seems a crime! I mean, you’re lovely … if I may say so.”
For the first time, Marguerite seemed to awaken and she blushed.
This seemed to encourage Jack and he scooted closer, bringing her hand to his chest. “I’m a fool, I know it. But when a lad looks upon such beauty he cannot keep it to himself. He must needs tell the world. Or at least the object of that beauty. And so … I am telling you … Marguerite!”
Her face turned fully toward him now, and though Crispin thought she should be appalled, she looked far from it. In fact, he was not so certain that she wasn’t edging closer to Jack. Jack’s attention was on her face alone. The very sky could have collapsed atop him and he would not have noticed. She leaned forward and so did he and suddenly their lips met.
Crispin exploded from his hiding place. “JACK TUCKER!”
17
JACK SNAPPED TO HIS feet, eyes round, face white. He threw Marguerite’s hand aside. “Master Crispin!”
Crispin grabbed his arm and hauled him forward, shaking the limb. “You’ve disgraced yourself! Apologize to Dame Marguerite at once!”
“I … I…”
Marguerite rose slowly. “Master Crispin. Forgive the boy. I certainly do. It was not his fault. It is the fault of Woman. We are temptresses, no matter our vocation.”
“Dame, your charity is exemplary. But it does not excuse his behavior.” He glared at Jack. “Come!”
Dragging the boy back through the kitchens, Crispin smoldered. He’d never been so angry at the lad. He said nothing more until he reached the tavern’s great hall. He tossed him forward toward the hearth and Jack stumbled before righting himself. He straightened his jacket and faced him, his face composed but fearful.
“I ain’t ashamed of what I done. I love her!”
“Tucker, do I have to remind you that she is a holy sister? She has taken vows. Among them is the vow of chastity. What you did was unforgivable.”
“I done what I done, and I’d do it again.”
Crispin lurched forward, his face mere inches from Jack’s. “Harken to me, boy. I am telling you that you will not do this again. I am your master and I am ordering you—” Crispin stared at Jack’s trembling fists, his taut shoulders. Damn the boy! “You will make a confession, do you understand? To Father Gelfridus.”
Jack glared back with all his might, his lips pressed tightly together. He made a feral nod of his head and clasped his arms over his chest.
Just as Crispin was about to say more, footsteps lumbered down the stairs. He jerked his head and spied Gelfridus making his way down the steps. “Father Priest!” he called, but Gelfridus seemed distracted and did not notice his hail. The priest walked carefully over the inn’s plank floor, kicking the dust with his long-pointed shoes. His hand cradled his jaw, and a finger absently stroked the stubble on his cheek.
“Father Gelfridus,” said Crispin again. This time the man raised his head and looked at him, yet his eyes remained unfocused and he could have very well been looking past him. Crispin went to the priest and touched his sleeve. “Father,” he said in a softer tone. “What is amiss?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all. What may I do for you, Master Crispin?”
“My apprentice would be shriven, sir.”
“Shriven?” he said vaguely, turning his face toward Jack. “Indeed. Everyone seems to wish to be shriven today.”
“Oh?”
The look of the priest’s face grew stricken and his cheek paler. “Yes.”
Crispin glanced up the stairs. “Did Sir Philip make confession, Father?”
“Yes, as I said. Everyone in the inn seems to have done so today.” He wiped the sprinkling of sweat from his upper lip.
“And what exactly did he confess?”
Awakened at last, Gelfridus drew himself up. “Sir! I am not at liberty to divulge such matters. It is the sacramental seal. Sub Rosa. A priest may never reveal what has been confessed to him.”
Dame Marguerite entered the room and stopped when she spied the strange tableau of Jack, Crispin, and Gelfridus. She looked from one to the other, bowed to the priest, and trudged carefully up the stairs. Gelfridus watched her go.
“A murderer’s confession would expedite matters considerably,” urged Crispin, but Gelfridus tried to get away.
“No. Much as I would like to help you … no! I cannot. My vows forbid it.”
“Father—”
“Master Crispin! You, who have suffered greatly from your sins, must surely be aware that others strive to shield themselves from that same mischief.”
He scowled and drew back. “I am reminded daily of my sins, Father. I live with their consequence forevermore.”
“There now. You would not wish the same fate to me, hmm? We will discuss it no more.” He looked at Jack. “You will be shriven, young man?”
Jack glared. “It would seem so. That’s twice today. It’ll be bread and water for me again. I’ll not see meat for a fortnight!”
“But your soul will be the better for it,” said Gelfridus as if by rote. He took Jack’s shoulder and steered him to a quiet corner.
Crispin walked to the staircase and looked up into its shadows. That damnable murderer confessed, and he was helpless to do anything about it! If only this priest were a weaker man—but no. Here he was wishing sin on another. Gelfridus was right. Hadn’t he sinned enough?
He cast a glance at Jack sourly confessing to the priest who shielded his face in the cage of his fingers.
The priest put him in mind of Dame Marguerite and he suddenly remembered the solitary bead of her rosary still couched within his purse. The rosary. Something about it bothered him. He scarce had time to consider that night, what with Geoffrey in peril, the archbishop breathing down his neck, Sir Philip’s treachery, and the evil he knew that the Summoner and Pardoner were getting up to.
All these worrisome thoughts clawed at his mind and they must have played on his face, for when Alyson stepped into the hall his expression seemed to stop her and she hurried toward him. “Crispin,” she said in a quiet tone. “What is amiss? You seem greatly troubled.”
He cast a curt glance at Jack, begrudgingly confessing, and turned away. “We must solve this inquiry as soon as possible and get free of this place, or it will surely destroy us.”
She touched his arm and silently asked again. He moved away from the priest and the boy. “I am at a loss, Alyson. What would make a boy desire a nun, and a nun a boy, especially under such circumstances as these?”
She looked back over her shoulder at Jack. “Young Master Tucker and our Dame Marguerite? By Saint Catherine!”
“I am no prude. Certainly you must know that.” She looked as if she would pull a face but thought better of
it. He sighed. “And yet, such a thing turns my stomach. Is Jack such a paramour? Is she so willing to sin?”
“Peace, Crispin. What did you catch them at?” She pulled him back to the hearth and eased him into a chair.
“A kiss. And yet one kiss easily leads to another, and another, and then on to other sin.”
“True. Judas did kiss Christ and from that received his everlasting damnation. But should it be so for young Jack?”
“I cannot abide it, Alyson. What would make so chaste a woman concede to it? Could it be the shock of the murder?”
“Ah me. I do not know. As you might have surmised, I am not a woman to succumb so easily to shock. But a frail thing like Marguerite? I do not know. Her past would seem to have prepared her.”
“Yes. So you said. Her mother was with child when she came to the priory and Marguerite herself is a bastard. Was she treated ill by the Prioress as well?”
“She never said so. No, I would think not. She was glad to become a nun. She has said this repeatedly.”
“Her surname is Bereham? Any relation to Barham? Does her mother hail from these parts?”
“Yes. So she said. But her mother is dead. I expect that became part of her decision to take the veil.”
“A difficult life.”
“Possibly. But look at me.” She planted her hands on her wide hips. “I started out as a simple merchant’s servant and married my master. The more I married the wealthier I became. And now they call me a lady, or near like it. It is a sore world indeed when servants become masters and masters servants.”
“Indeed. How well I know it.”
She blushed. “Bless me. Forgive my wayward tongue. I did not mean to speak ill of you.”
He nodded and stared into the flames. “I know. Do not apologize.”
She took his hand and he squeezed the warmth of her flesh in his. It did comfort him.
“She could seek solace from her family, if she knows them,” he said. “But then again, they cast her mother out, so that is unlikely. She wishes to return to her priory.”
Troubled Bones Page 18
