by Candace Robb
‘Do you recognize the belt?’
‘Sweet heaven, I see many buckles in a day, I cannot remember them all.’ Her fisted hands and red eyes belied the brusqueness of her response.
‘Forgive me. I did not come here to torment you. I had intended to sit in a corner with a tankard and my thoughts.’
Bess leaned on one elbow and with her other hand stroked the wood in front of her, as if smoothing away the waters to see herself. ‘What you need to hear is the rumours about Cisotta, God give her peace.’
‘That might help,’ Owen said.
Bess pushed the belt towards Owen and shivered. ‘I have it well in my head now, put it away, I would not look at it more. If I see aught like it, you will know.’
Owen removed it from her sight.
‘Many folk feared the charms Cisotta wove,’ Bess said.
‘She wove what they requested.’
‘Aye, the problem was the charms she called her fending charms – some considered them curses. Knowing that, they feared she might curse them some day. I do not think many folk believed it of her, but there was talk.’ Bess watched Owen over the rim of her tankard. Setting it down on the table, she added, ‘I disappoint you.’
‘I see no passion in that, nothing that could lead to such a murder.’
‘Passion. As for that, wives did not like the way their husbands eyed Cisotta.’ Bess gave Owen a weary smile as he began to ask a question. ‘Had they cause to distrust her? Now and then she strayed from Eudo, I think. I do not know how she kept it quiet – her lovers must have been a loyal few. It is possible a woman might have had the strength to strangle her.’
Owen instinctively touched the patch over his left eye, thinking he knew well what a woman was capable of. ‘It is not a woman’s belt.’
‘It is small, though. Is this all of it?’
‘You saw how the edge was burned. I do not know how much longer it was.’
Tom called to her from the tavern. Bess pushed her chair back. ‘Can’t leave my husband alone all the evening.’
‘Just one more question. One of the bishop’s clerks claims to have eaten here last night, then departed with all the others to help with the fire. Alain. He would have been …’
‘Handsome and almost as tidy as Brother Michaelo.’ Bess nodded.
‘Aye, that would be him.’
‘He sat so straight and ate so well I did not believe he could truly be a cleric, but his hands are soft and elegant, and he owned he was part of Wykeham’s household. I thought better of him for joining the others who rushed out to the fire. He did not hesitate, though he is a stranger here.’ She touched Owen’s shoulder gently as she passed. ‘Sit here as long as you like, have some quiet. We must find the man who did this terrible thing.’
Owen felt his energy ebbing. He should go home. But he could not bring himself to waste the gift of peace, something he had enjoyed precious little of since Lucie’s accident – even longer, now he thought about it, with Jasper’s occasional threats to ask to be accepted into St Mary’s as a novice, Dame Phillippa’s incoherent days, Gwenllian’s stubbornness, Hugh’s delight in disappearing and sending the entire household searching the streets, and most of all Lucie’s difficult pregnancy, for it had given her far more discomfort than her earlier ones. Now and then he missed the simpler days, when he was captain of archers and his men all jumped at his command. Owen pushed his tankard aside and rested his head on his arms.
Eleven
NIGHT THOUGHTS
By the time Owen returned, the children had been tucked in for the night and Lucie had run the gamut of emotions about his absence from irritation through anger to fear, the latter having won out. Phillippa had given up and eaten with Kate, then gone to bed. Jasper was not so easily discouraged, though he sat nodding across the table from Lucie. When Owen stepped into the lamplight Lucie saw the deepened lines on his forehead and down alongside his mouth, the shadows beneath his eyes, the slump of his right shoulder, where an old wound bothered him when he was weary, and she tried to hold her tongue about the guards who had disappeared when she most needed them.
But she snapped when he gathered her into his arms and she smelled ale on his breath. ‘All the while I worried and prayed, you were drinking?’ Hearing her own voice, she hated herself for sounding like a shrew, but the words were out, there was no taking them back now.
‘You know what I have been about, my love.’ Owen’s voice was gravelly with a long day of talking. ‘Let’s not quarrel over the time. The day began badly – if I can even consider yesterday to have ended.’ He drew up a stool near the brazier at the end of the table, doffed his cap and shook out his hair, which was curled from the damp. Lucie took the cap, asked Jasper to help Owen with his boots. ‘You know I slept precious little.’ He leaned back to brace himself for Jasper’s tugs. ‘In truth, I wanted to put my thoughts in order so that we might talk of what I have heard today, so I stopped at the tavern. But I fell asleep where I sat. Bess just now discovered me and pushed me out of the door. Jasper said you were unhurt. Was he wrong?’
‘No, Eudo pushed me aside and I stumbled, but I was not hurt.’
One boot dropped with a thud.
‘God’s blood that feels good,’ Owen said as he lifted the still booted foot to the boy.
‘I was so frightened for Jasper,’ Lucie said. ‘Eudo was so angry I did not know what he might do. I ran for the guards, hoping they might scare him into his senses.’
Owen rubbed his hands over the brazier. ‘They should not have deserted their posts. They will be punished for it, do not doubt it.’
Lucie noted how he kept his eye averted. He sensed an argument in the making. ‘I should not have spoken to you like that,’ she said.
He glanced up, nodded. ‘My arms make a sorry pillow. I have suffered for my truancy.’
‘We have not yet eaten. Have you?’
‘You waited for me? No wonder you were angry. Jasper, too?’
Lucie called after Jasper, who was headed for the kitchen with Owen’s boots. ‘Ask Kate to serve us now. Come, sit with us.’ To Owen she said, ‘He is anxious to hear what happened after he left the palace, what is to become of Eudo.’
‘I can eat in the kitchen,’ Jasper offered.
‘No, eat with us,’ said Owen. ‘Then I need tell my tale but once.’ When Jasper had disappeared through the door, Owen leaned over to take Lucie’s hand. ‘I confess I am glad to be rid of Poins tonight. Perhaps at least the time we are together will be peaceful.’
‘Aye.’ She kissed his hand. ‘How is he?’
‘Much the same, despite Eudo’s intentions. Are you not relieved to have him gone?’
‘I am, my love.’ Lucie knelt beside him and kissed him warmly.
Jasper and Kate interrupted them with a steaming pot of stew, two trenchers of brown bread a few days old and a pitcher of ale.
‘The ale is from Tom Merchet,’ said Kate. ‘He brought it over – said you had little chance to drink at the tavern tonight.’ She bobbed a curtsy. ‘I’ll go up to the children and see that they are not a bother to Dame Phillippa.’
Lucie, Owen and Jasper talked as they ate.
Owen recounted his altercation with George Hempe, the bailiff. ‘We shall hear more from that, I warn you,’ he said in such a weary tone that Lucie wondered he did not speed his meal and seek his bed.
But Owen waited until Jasper could no longer keep his eyes open, then suggested to Lucie that they take the remainder of the ale up to their bedchamber. Sitting on the bed, sharing the last cup, they spoke of the storm, and the cost of the sweet vinegar and barley sugar at the market. As Lucie was beginning to think Owen would fall asleep with his next sentence, he perked up a little, downed the rest of the ale and told her what he had learned from the masons.
‘Ivo and John were the culprits? Merciful Mother, what were they thinking?’
‘They were having a bit of fun and were not thinking. It is the masons I fault, they should have spoken
up at once.’
‘They would have saved themselves much trouble, for now Wykeham will wonder at their silence.’
‘Did you have any sense that Emma was worried about the boys?’
‘I saw no sign that she knew of it. But I had noted that John and Ivo were unusually subdued and solemn today. Emma ascribed it to their missing Sir Ranulf.’ Lucie thought of Gwenllian, how anxious she became about hiding anything from her parents for long, her imagination creating a far worse punishment than a parent could bear to inflict. ‘What must the boys have suffered, isolated with their secret? They must have been affrighted – and no one to comfort them.’
Owen set aside the cup, rubbed some salve into his scarred left eye, a little more into the puckered skin on his shoulder. ‘Aye. Peter seemed most worried about their silence.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He fears Lady Pagnell is poisoning the boys’ minds. He asked whether I would tell the bishop. Which I must, of course.’
‘Of course you must.’
Owen slid down on to the pillows.
‘I am more sorry than I can say for my temper this evening,’ Lucie said, slipping down beside him.
Owen pulled her to him. ‘And in the morning I face Wykeham with the tale – after Cisotta’s service.’
‘You will attend?’
‘Aye. I loved her for what she did for you.’ Owen kissed Lucie on the neck.
They lay quietly for a moment.
‘What will the bishop do with John and Ivo?’ Lucie asked.
‘I pray that his abiding interest in the education of boys will guide his decision.’ Owen’s voice had softened to a rasping whisper. ‘I must sleep.’
Lucie settled her head in the crook of his arm, enjoying the warmth of his body.
A dog barked outside, a church bell tolled, fiddle music drifted from the tavern next door. When Lucie had first come to the city from Freythorpe Hadden to live at the convent of St Clements the night noises broke her sleep, or if she did not waken they grew and invaded her dreams. The bells swelled, filling the sky; faces thrust out from the walls screaming and shouting curses; animals with teeth bared chased her down endless avenues of trees. She had not expected ever to grow accustomed to the night sounds of the city. Now she found them reassuring, a sign of life, the promise of tomorrow.
It was also oddly comforting to have Owen fall asleep before she did – a touch of normality in a hideous time – but Lucie had hoped she would sleep well tonight. She had been up since before dawn, more active than in many a day, yet although the pain in her lower abdomen had eased with several cups of wine and her body was heavy with fatigue, her mind spun through the previous night and the day past, round and round, as if by frequently circling past her anxieties she might control them.
She folded her hands and whispered a ‘Hail Mary’, and another, but by the third prayer her mind was wandering again and her cheeks were aflame.
Pushing back the covers, she sat up at the edge of the bed, dangling her feet over the side. As she slid down to touch the cool floor she felt a warmth between her legs and all at once realized what she had been feeling – her flux had begun once more. How her fear had blinded her. Smiling to herself, she pulled a shift over her head and draped a wool scarf over her shoulders. She must fetch a rag to absorb her flow. Then she would make a warm tisane of gaitre berries and wild lettuce to soothe the cramps, perhaps adding a little valerian to help her sleep.
The stair landing was dark. She felt her way down and was crossing the hall to the kitchen door when the hairs on the back of her neck prickled. The door that led to the street stood ajar. No one in the household used that door at night. The privy was in the other direction, out behind the kitchen. Remembering the prowler frightened away from the Dales’, Lucie held her breath, pressing her hands to her heart to muffle its pounding. She could hear no one in the hall, but if anyone was within they would be able to see her most clearly, for the moonlight spilling in from the doorway picked out her pale linen shift as if beatifying her. But now, from beyond the open door, she heard gravel crunching in an uneven rhythm, and a softer susurrus. Staying low, she crept towards the open door, pressed herself against the wall beside it, then peered out. A woman in a dark gown paced back and forth on the path to the street, limping a little and speaking in a soft voice. It was Phillippa, sleepwalking.
Lucie crept out through the door, moving into the shadows beneath the eaves while she waited for her heart to quiet.
‘… riding at night. So dark. He has fallen from his horse. He is lying somewhere, bones broken. I must send Adam to search for him.’
Lucie stepped on to the path and called her aunt’s name softly, then took her arm and led her into the house.
Thoresby lay in bed listening to floorboards creak, shutters rattle, a door slam shut somewhere in the palace. The page who slept near the door wheezed in his sleep. What an irony it was that in old age, when one’s body yearned for rest, one slept but a few hours at night. Which led to drowsiness by day, nodding off while listening to a speech, while sitting in the garden, while praying. There were sleep potions, of course. Thoresby prided himself on never having used them, but to everything there was a season. The Riverwoman must know many sleep cures. He might speak with her on the morrow.
For now he rose, slipped a simple gown over his nakedness, padded over to the small altar in his chamber, knelt on the prie-dieu, bowed his head, closed his eyes. ‘Our Father, who art in Heaven …’
The page’s snoring forced Thoresby’s prayer into an unaccustomed rhythm. Irritated, he left the prie-dieu and bent over the sleeping boy, prodding his shoulder. The lad flung out an arm in defence. Thoresby caught it. ‘Accompany me to the chapel for prayer,’ he commanded. He let go of the page’s arm, seeing him wide-eyed and struggling to sit up, and went in search of his sandals. His preference for the open shoes was just another indignity of his advanced age. Of late his feet swelled horribly by evening and his toes had begun to twist at the joints. Sandals were easy on his aching feet, though he did not wear them when anyone outside the immediate household was about.
By now the page awaited him at the door, lamp lit, a light cloak over one arm, for Thoresby’s old bones, he guessed. His increasing frailty had been noted, though never mentioned. Down the corridor their footsteps whispered, through the hall past sleeping servants, out on to the porch, where Thoresby assured the guards all was well, through the great hall and into the screens passage.
The page stopped suddenly by the door leading to the chapel. ‘Someone has passed through here, Your Grace,’ he whispered. ‘I smell lamp oil. Shall I inspect the chapel first?’
This business made everyone edgy. ‘We have a house full of guests, including several clerics, as well as those of our household. I do not wonder that someone is there before me.’ It had been a long time since Thoresby sought out the chapel for his night prayers.
The page pushed open the chapel door. Inside, one of Wykeham’s clerics knelt before the altar. Guy – the name seemed inappropriate for a cleric, yet he seemed by far the more devout of the two, praying in the minster all last evening, the chapel tonight. Thoresby knelt down beside him. Guy glanced up, bowed his head in obeisance. Thoresby acknowledged his greeting, then, dropping his head in his hands, turned his mind to Sir Ranulf Pagnell.
The death of his old friend weighed on him with a heaviness for which he had been unprepared. He had been fond of Ranulf, had been humbled by his piety, admired his goodness. But they had often been out of touch for years at a time. Thoresby did not understand why he felt such a void. It had occurred to him that God had given him this pain for a purpose, perhaps to draw his thoughts to the example of Ranulf’s life, one well lived in God’s grace. And so his prayers for Ranulf were meditations on his friend’s goodness.
In comparison, Thoresby found his own life lacking. He had accomplished some, perhaps even much, good, but more often than not he had been irritated by the necessity of breaking
from his routine to see to others. Yet there had been a time, not long ago, when he had assisted in feeding the poor outside St Mary’s Abbey at least once a month and he believed his commissioning of a catechism in the vernacular would reach many lay souls. These days he did little more than what was necessary as archbishop. He lived quite a solitary existence. His household had once been large and noisy – knights, clerics, wards, their tutors, visiting dignitaries, retainers – which was only proper in an archbishop’s palace, and he had been full of plans for reaching out to more of the faithful. In the past few years he had interacted little even with his wards, dining with them when he was at Bishopthorpe, seeing them in his parlour when they needed permission to travel or receive guests, conferring with their families on occasion, but he left their education to their tutors, a trio he paid more than they could possibly be worth. Perhaps he should give his wards more of his attention. Wykeham had tutored Guy closely as a boy and the man had grown into a devout, efficient member of his household.
He glanced over to the balding Guy. His two short-comings were that he mumbled and that he overindulged at the table. No wonder he sweated so – even now, in the chilly chapel, the lamplight reflected off a sheen of sweat on his forehead and upper lip. He would die young with such bad habits.
Alain was another matter, fastidious in person and speech, and yet lacking the solidity Thoresby sensed in his fellow clerk. Alain had not been educated in Wykeham’s household.
Thoresby’s thoughts had strayed far from his purpose, and his hands and feet were chilled beyond his ability to ignore them. Giving up the effort, he woke his dozing page and headed back to bed.
Lucie had stoked the kitchen fire, heated water, and now sat in the warmth and light, her head bent over the steam from her tisane. Phillippa had been too distressed and disorientated to climb the stairs to her chamber, so Lucie had guided her instead to the kitchen, coaxed her into drinking a cup of wine laced with valerian, then made her comfortable on the pallet on which Poins had lain the night before. It hardly seemed possible that the woman lying there in such state had spent the afternoon stuffing the pallet with clean straw, sweeping the old rushes from the room, scrubbing stones, putting down fresh rushes and dried herbs. Firelight flickered over Phillippa’s pale, bony face. Her mouth was pressed tight, her brows drawn down in unhappy thought, even in sleep. She had confided to Lucie how much her spells frightened her – and how humbling they were. They had struck her less often of late and Lucie had hoped that perhaps she was free of them, though she had not believed, as Phillippa did, that it was Cisotta’s charm against elf-shot that had driven away the confusion. She wished the charm had worked. To suffer such confounding of one’s wits in old age seemed a cruel ending.
