Crispin had viewed many saint’s relics in his day. They had all been ensconced in great shrines such as Saint Thomas’s, sometimes touched, sometimes only seen through cloudy glass.
But to hold Saint Thomas, to touch the past, nearly took his breath away. Crispin stared down at the small bone in his palm for a long time and then finally raised his head and looked around somewhat sheepishly. Gawking like a schoolboy! He shook his head at himself and carefully placed the bone in his money pouch, sorry he did not have a cloth in which to wrap it.
He continued his search along the floor for more remains. Before he had been struck, he remembered hearing a door bang, but the nature of the cathedral made the placement of sounds nearly impossible to fathom. Where was the nearest door?
The transept doors were far away. The closest to the shrine was behind him: the stairs to the roof of the Corona tower. Crispin hurried to the door and pulled. Locked. But it might not have been locked before. After all, the killer certainly had his own set of keys. Perhaps the murderer waited behind the door for the church to empty before he slipped from his lair to dispatch the Prioress and plunder the bones. But he hadn’t counted on Crispin being there. Had the killer crept past him while he slept? Could the killer have counted on Crispin’s sleeping? Or was he prepared to dispatch Crispin as well? But if so, why am I still alive?
He held the candle high and searched every recess and dim corner. A dark patch appeared at the foot of the doorpost. Crispin bent to look. Stuck between the door and the jamb was a small square of cloth. Grasping it, he pulled it free. Someone had caught their gown or cloak in the door and tore this bit, leaving it behind. Scarlet material. Most likely a gown. He examined it a moment longer before he tucked that within his pouch, too, and gave one last look around the quiet chapel before descending beneath the church to the cellar door once more.
Alyson was waiting for him. “Ready,” she said.
He gave a quick nod and stepped into the room. The Prioress lay covered with a sheet. “I will dress her with a shroud when you are done,” said Alyson solemnly.
Beside the body sat a basin, water clouded with red. It looked like a bowl of blood.
Alyson grasped the edge of the sheet and slowly peeled it down to the small of the Prioress’s naked back.
Crispin bent over the thin white body. He felt a tinge of shame peering at so chaste a woman.
The scent of rose water wafted from the newly bathed skin. With wounds cleansed he could plainly see how each blow cut and how deeply.
“The assailant used the sword to chop at her vertically, with little side to side movement,” said Crispin mostly to himself. He pointed to the wounds from the neck down. “See how this chop goes this way, then this one the other way, thus.” He demonstrated the chopping motions with an invisible sword. “A sword is easier to use this way. I might make a guess that this stroke to the shoulder was first. It is a timid stroke. After blood is spilled, bloodlust takes over. She was kneeling, I think, and this last stroke at her shoulder blade was taken when she was completely prone. They came in quick succession.” He pictured it in 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 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.”