The Cross Legged Knight (Owen Archer Book 8)

by Candace Robb

  ‘Where did she say she would be?’ Hempe asked.

  ‘She told me nothing. It is Anna she would have told, but…’ Eudo stopped, mouth open, and shook himself as if waking himself up. ‘I said such things to the children in anger last night while Cisotta lay in the burning house giving up her spirit. May God smite me.’ He beat his chest and began to sob.

  ‘We shall get little out of him today,’ Hempe muttered.

  Eudo might have been more forthcoming had the bailiff a less confrontational approach, Owen thought. He needed to distance himself from the man.

  ‘What of the girl?’ Hempe asked, beginning to rise.

  ‘Let me speak with her,’ Owen said. ‘You might stay with Eudo in case he says anything of import.’

  Anna had curled up on the box bed beside her little brother. The other two boys huddled together on the floor by her, watching Owen approach.

  Crouching again, Owen placed a hand gently on the shoulders of the two boys. ‘You have nothing to fear from me, lads. Your ma was a good friend.’

  The boys twisted round to see Anna’s response. She nodded to them. ‘He is the husband of Mistress Wilton, the apothecary.’ She met Owen’s eye. ‘I heard what you asked. Ma said she was to see someone, but she would be back early. She was worried about little Will. His stomach was already gripping him.’

  Goodwife Claire cleared her throat to remind them she was close at hand, rinsing out rags in a pot over the fire. Owen straightened his aching knees and perched at the edge of the bed, facing the neighbour.

  ‘There was a man waiting by the back door the other day,’ the goodwife said. ‘I did not know him. Dark hair, dressed well, but plainly.’

  ‘I remember him,’ said Anna. ‘He was here when Ma and I came home. He frightened me. Ma told me to go inside.’ Her eyes were swimming with tears.

  Owen just nodded and gave Anna the linen cloth he carried in his scrip to dab at her eyes. Then he withdrew from the children, gesturing to the goodwife to follow him. ‘How old was this man?’

  ‘Her age, Cisotta’s, I would say.’ The goodwife searched his face. ‘Is this important?’

  ‘It might be. What else can you tell me about this meeting?’

  ‘Sadly, I can tell you no more. I did not watch after that. I do not wish to know too much.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘She was a beautiful woman, Captain, in an unhappy marriage.’

  ‘Are you certain of that last part?’

  She regarded him. ‘I heard Cisotta and Eudo quarrelling most evenings.’

  ‘You’re certain you had never seen this man before?’

  The goodwife nodded.

  ‘I am grateful for your sharp eyes. Can you stay a while for the children?’

  ‘As long as they need me, Captain.’

  Owen returned to Eudo, who was still weeping. He hesitated for a moment before drawing the belt from his scrip and asking the tawyer whether he could identify it. He did not explain its significance.

  Eudo raised his head, gazed on the belt for a good long moment, reached out, drew it through his rough, tanned hands, looked up at Owen as he felt the burned edges. ‘This was found at the bishop’s house?’ His voice was hoarse, tremulous.

  ‘Aye. Found in the undercroft, where the fire began. As you are a tawyer, I thought you might recognize the workmanship.’

  Eudo wiped his eyes on his sleeves, heaved a shuddering sigh, studied the belt. ‘Nay. If I worked on such fine cordovan I would have a team of apprentices, not one.’

  Owen had not noticed the quality of the leather, stained as it was and partially charred. ‘What else can you tell me about it?’

  ‘The buckle is good brass. The strap is narrow. A boy’s belt, I would say.’

  ‘So this would cost dear.’

  Eudo nodded.

  Owen put the belt aside. ‘How did you know to go to the Dale house?’

  ‘I went out for more ale, heard the gossip. Later, towards morning, I thought it could be …’ He turned away, a hand to his eyes.

  ‘Now I must ask you something far more difficult. I promise I’ll then leave you in peace.’

  ‘What peace can I have?’

  Owen held out the ruined girdle. ‘Was this Mistress Cisotta’s?’

  The tawyer’s heart-rending sob was answer enough.

  ‘Forgive me.’ Owen rose as he placed the items in his scrip. It was time to leave. He did not like the bailiff’s expression. If they were to argue, he wished to do it out on the street, not in this house of mourning.

  In the shop, the apprentice sat slumped forward, his head on the pillow of his forearms. They left without disturbing him. Expecting Hempe to continue the argument, Owen headed towards the yard of St Sampson Church, where they might not be overheard. He sensed Hempe’s hot breath on the back of his neck as he passed gossiping townsfolk who watched him with interest. Stepping out of the street, Owen felt an unfriendly hand on his shoulder and instinctively swung round. ‘Never grab a soldier like that,’ he said.

  ‘The archbishop will hear from the council.’

  Owen drew closer to Hempe, speaking as softly as possible. The churchyard was not as deserted as he had hoped and the bailiff’s behaviour already drew curious eyes. ‘The bishop was lately one of the king’s chief counsellors. He has many dangerous enemies. What seems the city’s concern may prove to be the realm’s concern.’

  ‘You have planned this from the beginning. That belt you showed him – what part did it play in last night’s tragedy?’

  It was true that Hempe had the right to know, but Owen was not about to discuss the crime in public. ‘I did not say that it played any part. I found it near his wife’s body.’

  Even as he spoke, Owen was looking about, noticing a ripple of excitement passing through the crowd. Down Girdlergate came a small procession, Father John of St Sampson’s leading four men carrying the plank on which Cisotta’s shrouded corpse lay.

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ the bailiff said.

  ‘Come to the archbishop’s palace with me, if you like. But I shall not discuss it in such a crowd.’

  ‘I shall come anon. First I’ll report to the council.’

  Owen thanked God for the man’s sense of order.

  Eight

  A CONTRADICTION

  The crowds had thinned by the time Owen made his way up Petergate again, but several people stopped him to ask after Poins, or about Cisotta. Speculation was rife about why she had been unable to escape the fire, whether she had been trapped, and one passer-by asked Owen whether she had injuries besides her burns. He said little, fearful that he might reveal more than he intended. One thing was certain – Wykeham would not be pleased by how much the city guessed.

  Owen was saddened by the morning’s task, questioning Eudo about his wife’s death while not telling the truth. And yet he was uneasy about Eudo’s temper. Without evidence to the contrary he could not rule out the possibility that the tawyer had killed his wife. He would not be the first spouse to lose control in an argument. They might have fought about the man who had frightened Anna. Owen resolved to post a guard at the tawyer’s shop and in the yard behind his house both to watch Eudo and to protect him. It was always possible that the mysterious intruder in the Dales’ kitchen the previous night might seek him out.

  Close to the scene of last night’s fire, Petergate was much quieter than it had been earlier, although a few clusters of people lingered near the bishop’s gutted house. The right corner of the roof had caved in – that was where Owen had seen the flames climbing when he had been inside. That entire corner was blackened, the boards burned through in places. It reminded Owen of a black lacquer cabinet with elaborate carving that he had once seen, he could not remember where. The steps to the living quarters had survived almost intact, up to the last few and the landing, where the boards were blackened and several hung down and swung gently, caught in a draft in the alleyway.

  The undercroft door was gone
– two wickets shoved into the opening were all that secured the remains from animals, theft, or the curious. Owen was considering where he might find a lantern so that he could ascertain whether a better closure was needed when someone joined him on his blind side. Remembering his earlier encounter with the bailiff, Owen turned slowly.

  A short man with a shock of greasy hair stood beside him, hands clasped behind him, rocking slightly back and forth on his feet. ‘Good-day to you, Captain Archer.’

  ‘Good-day to you,’ Owen said, searching his memory for the man’s name.

  ‘Such a fine house. It would be a pity if Bishop William abandoned it.’

  ‘It would indeed.’

  The man turned to Owen. ‘Corm’s the name. I live at the back of Edward Taylor’s messuage.’

  Now Owen remembered him, once a regular at the York Tavern, now married to a woman who embarrassed him by fetching him home when he strayed, thus training him to stay put.

  ‘You must have said a prayer of thanks when the fire was contained,’ Owen said.

  ‘Aye. It was a night I’ll not soon forget. Nor will any of the women of this parish. Are they safe, Captain?’

  Here again was the assumption that Cisotta’s death had not been accidental. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because of the man I saw hurry away from the undercroft.’

  Owen tried to hide his excitement. ‘Tell me about him.’

  Corm stepped closer to Owen. ‘He rushed out from the undercroft door.’

  ‘Rushing from the fire?’

  Corm shook his head. ‘Nay. I cannot be certain, of course, but I do not believe the fire had yet begun. I heard voices before he appeared, angry voices they sounded to me.’

  ‘You saw no fire behind him in the undercroft?’

  ‘There was light, but I did not think of fire then. Later, after I carted my sacks of grain back to the house, unloaded them and returned the cart to Taylor’s shed, that is when I raised the alarm about the fire.’

  ‘What did you see then?’

  ‘The door was ajar and smoke poured out, flames flickering behind.’

  Owen backed up to the alleyway between the bishop’s house and Edward Taylor’s. ‘You went down this way?’

  ‘Nay, on the far side of Taylor’s house, by the shed.’

  ‘The shed to which Mistress Cisotta was taken?’

  ‘Aye, the very one.’

  ‘You heard voices raised in anger?’ Owen wondered about that, with all the noise of the city of an evening.

  ‘Aye. It was a quiet evening, until the fire. It was no accident, was it?’ Corm rocked back and forth.

  ‘Your tale makes me wonder. Have you told anyone else?’

  ‘My wife, that is all.’

  ‘I would ask you to keep it a secret for now, Corm.’

  The man nodded solemnly.

  ‘Would you walk me through your movements that night?’

  Four heavy sacks of grain the man had carried down the alley from the street and set them down at his door, one at a time, which was all he could manage. Long enough for a blaze to begin behind the departing man, but surely Corm would have noticed something amiss before all four bags had been stowed inside.

  ‘Were they men’s voices?’

  ‘I couldn’t say for sure, Captain, nor what they said.’

  Upon turning on to Stonegate, Owen found the Fitzbaldric and Dale families gathered by the front gate of the goldsmith’s house, with two of Wykeham’s men standing off to one side. Except for the Dales’ two daughters, who were clipping late roses, arranging them in a nosegay, it was a grim gathering. The lovely Julia Dale, looking tired and dressed in more sombre garb than Owen ever recalled her wearing, was urging Adeline Fitzbaldric to accept an armload of wool cloth – fine wool, by the look of it. Adeline wore the same gown she had worn the previous evening, damp spots revealing attempts to clean it. Her eyes were narrowed in temper, though her tone in addressing Julia Dale was cordial. The servant May stood back a little, leaning against the garden wall. Her face was sallow, slack-skinned. Owen wondered why she did not wait on the garden bench nearby. But perhaps that was not considered appropriate behaviour for a Fitzbaldric maidservant.

  ‘Good-day to you,’ Owen said. ‘I hope you have had no further trouble that has driven you from the house.’

  Fitzbaldric, still suffering his ill-fitting clothes, would not meet Owen’s eye, so it was up to Adeline to explain. ‘His Grace has offered us shelter and we have accepted. We cannot continue to impose on the Dales. They have their family to think of.’

  As I do. Owen must speak with Thoresby about moving Poins. ‘His Grace is most generous,’ Owen said. He wondered whose idea it had been to take in the Fitzbaldrics. Thoresby seldom mixed with the citizens of the city.

  ‘It is better this way,’ said Adeline, tight-lipped.

  Julia Dale had shifted her gaze to her daughters. Tension was thick in the air. The girls had completed their nosegay and now watched Owen, bobbing their heads and blushing when they found him looking at them. Whatever had transpired among the adults, the daughters thought all this exciting. They would regret the abrupt departure of their guests.

  Owen would like to talk to Robert and Julia about the Fitzbaldrics, but it must wait. Perhaps he might find them alone and expansive on the morrow. For now, as the Fitzbaldrics and their maid had salvaged nothing from the bishop’s ruined house and had two of Wykeham’s men to carry what little they had, Owen did not consider it his duty to escort them to the palace.

  He made his farewells and departed, feeling all eyes on his back as he headed for the minster gate. Once in the close, he slowed his steps and considered whether he had the time to say a few prayers in the minster. He did not want to become so caught up in the investigation that he forgot the tragedy of last night – that a woman had perished and a man had been horribly injured. More than Owen’s efforts to learn what had happened to them, they needed his prayers. Inside, in the chill dimness that echoed with the whispered prayers of his fellow supplicants, Owen knelt and prayed for Cisotta and her family, and for Poins. Before continuing to the palace he added a prayer for Lucie.

  When Lady Pagnell and Emma fell to arguing once more about Matthew’s behaviour, Lucie judged that it was time she took her leave. Emma escorted her out to the street, promising to pay her for the sleep powder when next she escaped from the house. She did not wish to draw her mother’s attention to it by fetching her purse.

  ‘Is Matthew not an unpleasant man, just as I said?’

  ‘It is difficult to judge on so little evidence,’ Lucie said, her mind elsewhere. ‘Do you and your mother ever agree?’

  Emma drew her hem away from a dog that had wandered into the courtyard, shooed it out to the street. ‘Did our arguments disturb you?’

  ‘No, it is not that. Only – you are so fortunate to have her here.’

  ‘You mean I should honour my mother while she walks among us. I know. Father hated our bickering.’ Blinking, Emma dropped her head, crossed herself.

  ‘I did not mean to chide you.’ Lucie understood how close to the surface her friend’s emotions were in this time of mourning, how fragile her composure. She had noticed the solemnity of all the household. ‘The boys were so quiet today,’ she said.

  ‘Do you think so?’ Emma glanced back at the house with a sympathetic expression. ‘They miss Father, too. He doted on them.’ She embraced Lucie, stepped back to study her. ‘You must have a care. Let Magda and Phillippa fuss over the servant while he is in your house. I shall pray that Owen finds another good Samaritan. You do not need the extra burden so soon after the loss of your baby.’

  Emma was one of the few people who openly spoke of Lucie’s miscarriage, and did not dismiss it as God’s will as the older women tended to do.

  Lucie pressed her friend’s hand in thanks. ‘Once Owen sets his mind to something, it is soon accomplished,’ she said. ‘I must hurry now – I promised Jasper sweet vinegar and barley sugar from th
e market.’

  Only after she was out of sight of the Ferriby house did Lucie slow, worried about a deep, dull pain in her belly. She tried to distract herself from it by going over the conversations at Emma’s house, searching for what she had gleaned. In doing so she walked past Thursday Market and down Coney Street, remembering the vinegar and barley sugar only when she crossed into St Helen’s Square and passed a customer carrying a jar of physick. She was about to turn back, but thought better of it. She would send Jasper. He could do with an outing.

  As Owen entered the palace garden, Brother Michaelo rose from a bench and joined him, his neat habit somehow shedding the leaves and dried blossoms that tried to cling to it. ‘I thought perhaps you would escort the Fitzbaldrics,’ said the monk.

  ‘With two of Wykeham’s men at hand they did not need me.’

  ‘Ah yes. The bishop has spread his men all about the city today. Four were dispatched to bring the Riverwoman and her patient here. The crone came – can you believe it?’

  That Magda and Poins were already at the palace was an unwelcome piece of news. The suffering man should have been left in peace for a day or two. And Lucie would take it ill, Owen was sure of it, thinking he had urged such speed. ‘I did not expect them to be moved so soon. Who was in such haste?’

  ‘Our masters. They thought it best to have them here. May God watch over us.’ Michaelo crossed himself as he spoke the last words.

  So be it. Owen had wanted Poins gone and so he was. Now he must make the best of it.

  Michaelo flicked the hem of his robe away from a cat lying near the path. ‘That wanton prevented me from hearing what Guy and someone in the Pagnell livery were arguing about the other day.’

  ‘The cat did?’

  ‘I’d caught her moving her kittens to the porch behind His Grace’s quarters. They made such a fuss as I was carrying them back to the stables that they broke up the argument. Pity. It seemed quite heated.’

  Owen smiled at the image of the fastidious monk carrying a litter of squealing kittens.