by Candace Robb
‘Perhaps. But the manservant who raised the hue and cry is also missing,’ said Owen. ‘What do you know of her background?’
‘Nothing. I would not know where to tell you to search.’
‘The two of you were deep in prayer. For the Swanns?’
Brother Michaelo inclined his head.
Jehannes sighed. ‘That, of course. But you must know, I have just received word that our new archbishop, Alexander Neville, means to visit the minster after Martinmas. So soon!’
‘And you dread it.’
‘I do. He was insufferable as a prebend of the minster, but as Archbishop of York, heady with power … God help us.’ Jehannes made an apologetic face as he crossed himself.
‘God help us indeed,’ Owen muttered.
Michaelo sniffed. ‘I cannot believe Alexander Neville has anything to do with this tragedy. His nose is far too high in the air for him ever to lay eyes on a family such as the Swanns.’
‘I pray you are right,’ said Jehannes.
‘And yet …’ Michaelo paused for effect, catching Owen’s eye. ‘In inquiring about Elwin, the clerk Bartolf Swann used as his recorder, I learned that he has worked for several of the minster canons, including Alexander Neville. He’d had little work from him until Neville was campaigning for the archbishopric, and then his orders came from the family rather than the man himself. Kept him busy. He might prove interesting …’
‘Thank you, Michaelo,’ said Owen. ‘That gives me much to consider.’ Much unpleasantness. Was this a Neville battle? Why would they slaughter such a family? Michaelo was right, the coroner of a royal forest was beneath them.
‘There is one more thing about Elwin. While I was talking to him, he was called to the home of Crispin Poole.’
‘Oh?’ Owen was interested. Poole again.
Michaelo rose. ‘And I believe I might be of further use to you. A woman who goes by the name of Cilla has been biding in the minster yard for the past few days. Badly bruised face, when I caught sight of her.’ He raised a warning hand as Owen began to rise. ‘Not you, you are too noticeable, and not until sunset. Perhaps I might take Dame Lucie to her, to see whether there is aught she might do for the injury?’
‘You are a wonder, Brother Michaelo.’
The monk bowed his head and coughed, as if to hide his pleasure in the compliment. ‘I seek to serve.’
‘Bless you. I will consult Lucie. If she agrees, she will meet you here after sunset. I will escort her.’
‘Better that I escort her from your home, Captain. As if fetching her to someone in need.’
Owen glanced at Jehannes, who gave a subtle shrug.
‘Of course. Most prudent.’
‘And now I shall go see to some tasks.’ Michaelo bowed to Owen, to Jehannes, and withdrew.
Owen said nothing for a few minutes, absorbing the fact that Michaelo was aware of the poor who lived in shacks pressed up against the minster walls.
‘His penance,’ Jehannes said, softly. ‘He dons an old, threadbare habit and goes among them, offering some of his food, praying with those who ask. Difficult to believe?’
‘I had no idea.’
‘Nor had I. I saw him return one evening and asked what had happened – I thought he’d had some mishap, tumbled into the river, borrowed some old clothes at the abbey. He told me. Reluctantly. Since then I’ve learned a little from Brother Henry in the infirmary, things he learned from his teacher, Brother Wulfstan. You know Michaelo is of noble birth, Norman. One of twins. Both sons raised as if to be heir to the land, until Michaelo’s brother won over his father with his martial skill and popularity amongst his peers. Still, Michaelo, with his education and noble mien, expected money to cross hands ensuring him a swift rise in the Church in France or here in England. But something went awry, and he was sent off to a distant cousin in York, abbot of St Mary’s, a man of no influence.’
‘Abbot of St Mary’s? Campion?’
‘His predecessor, who died within months, leaving gentle Campion to deal with the resentful Norman whose cousin had decided he should begin humbly and prove his worthiness.’
‘It explains his resentment.’
‘And his contentment in John Thoresby’s service. If you do accept the prince’s offer … Well, you see why he is so eager to prove to you his worthiness.’
It explained a great deal.
SEVEN
Ripples in Time
Lost in the rhythm of grinding mother of pearl to a dust with her mortar and pestle, Lucie was not aware of Brother Michaelo’s presence until she paused to sip some well-watered wine. It was a dry, dusty chore.
‘Grinding pearls?’ he said, from his perch on a bench by the door, one of the few cleared spaces. Harvested plants and partially completed mixtures crowded the workshop as she prepared the apothecary for winter illnesses.
‘Brother Michaelo! Forgive me for not noticing you.’
‘I thought it best not to interrupt. Such a fine powder, I did not wish to be responsible for a disaster. Might I ask the purpose of such a powder?’
‘Curing rashes, quieting the thoughts, purifying the liver. The barbers add it to many salves.’ Lucie took another sip as she blinked away the dust. How strange to see Brother Michaelo in an oft-mended, ill-fitting habit. Had Owen not warned her, she would have wondered what mishap had necessitated his borrowing a fellow monk’s clothes. She took off her apron, setting it aside and smoothing down her simple gown.
‘Come.’ She plucked a hood and a short summer cloak from the pegs by the door, completing her costume for the mission, and picked up a basket of remedies she’d gathered, choosing them in the hope that Cilla was amenable to her ministrations.
Jasper appeared in the doorway to ask whether he should finish the work.
‘No need. I will not be long.’ She did not bother to reprimand him for the discourtesy of ignoring Michaelo. Jasper’s deep-set distrust of the monk was not easily mended. ‘I am grateful to you for closing up the shop this evening.’
As they walked up Stonegate, Lucie wondered aloud why Cilla would seek refuge in the minster yard.
‘To an extent, it is a safe haven,’ said Michaelo. ‘The folk living there keep careful watch, knowing that at the first sign of trouble the dean and chapter will drive them off and destroy their hovels to prevent their return, so they do their best to keep the peace.’
‘How terrible it must be to …’ She was interrupted by a man expressing his thanks that Owen was to be captain of the city bailiffs.
‘He will see to scoundrels and crooks,’ the man said.
When Lucie explained that he had taken on his present investigations as favors to the Swanns and the Braithwaites, that nothing had been decided about Owen’s future, the man seemed to wilt.
No sooner had he walked on than a woman touched Lucie’s arm, shyly asking whether Owen had found Old Bede, and whether it was true that a wolf was running loose in the city. No wolf in the city, Lucie assured the woman, but Old Bede was still missing. Again, the disappointment was visceral.
‘Their fear has me questioning the wisdom of escorting you to the crowded yard,’ said Michaelo.
‘I take responsibility for my own safety,’ said Lucie. She was watching alleyways and the shadowy areas close to the shop fronts, alert for danger. ‘Are the dean and chapter eager to evict the poor from their yard?’
‘I have no doubt they pray for a reason to do so.’
Lamps were being lit in the homes they passed, and within the minster gates the stonemasons were saying their goodnights as they quit work on the east end, Thoresby’s lady chapel.
‘He would be pleased that the building continues,’ she said as they passed.
‘Let us pray that the dean and chapter manage to hide the funds from the grasp of the new archbishop,’ said Michaelo.
‘He is a greedy man?’
A sniff. ‘He is a Neville. Sir Richard Ravenser would have seen it finished, and finished well.’ Thoresby’s nephew and t
he late archbishop’s personal choice to succeed him. The powerful Nevilles had outmaneuvered him, winning the king’s support. ‘An opportunity squandered,’ said Michaelo. He drew a square of linen from his sleeve as they approached the shacks huddled against the north end of the minster. Lucie caught a scent of lavender as he shook it out and held it to his nose.
And yet, as they picked their way along a narrow path between the shacks folk smiled and bobbed their heads at Michaelo as if he were a familiar, trusted figure. He nodded in turn, and responded to many by name. Wattle and daub, reed mats, piles of stones, half-burnt timbers – the folk fashioned their dwellings with whatever came to hand, and few seemed sufficient to protect them from the harsh Yorkshire winter to come.
‘Did you tell Cilla you were bringing me?’
‘No, I merely inquired as to her welfare, having heard that she’d suffered a fall and badly bruised her face. Here we are.’ He handed Lucie the basket.
Tucked into the corner where the nave met the north transept, the shelter was nothing more than planks of wood angled against the stone edifice. Well shielded from the wind, perhaps, but little else. The sharp angle shaded it, so the stone would be cold and damp.
‘If it’s Cecelia you seek, you’ll not find her here.’ The speaker leaned on a crutch fashioned from a branch, the top wrapped round with rags as filthy as the ones that hung from his large, emaciated frame. ‘Gone in the night.’
‘Gone?’ Michaelo looked round as if not believing him.
Lucie looked round, noticed a girl peering out from the shelter beside Cilla’s. She crouched down to speak to her. ‘I brought salves for Cecelia. I’d heard she was badly bruised.’
The girl’s head seemed to sink into her shoulders as she shied away.
‘Would you know where I might find her?’
A shake of the head revealed horrible scarring from a burn on one side of her face, and Lucie realized that the child had only one arm.
‘She won’t want you to find her.’ Her mouth twisted as she spoke, the scar making it difficult for her to form her words.
Lucie drew out a jar of the salve Owen used to keep the skin of his blind eye soft and malleable. ‘This will soften the skin on your face,’ she said. ‘A little each morning and each night.’ She handed it to the girl. ‘A gift.’
A twisted smile. ‘The man with the hellhound came for her in the night.’
‘Grace!’ A woman plucked the jar from the child and handed it to Lucie. ‘We do not need your pity.’
‘Forgive me,’ said Lucie. ‘I am—’
The woman withdrew with the child.
Michaelo touched Lucie’s arm. ‘Come. We are not welcome here.’
‘The child was about to tell me something.’
‘No matter.’ Michaelo took the basket from her arm and guided her away.
As they picked their way among the dwellings, Michaelo asked a few whether they knew where Cecelia had gone. The question was met with uneasy glances as folk shook their heads. At the edge of the camp a woman fell into step with Lucie.
‘They are afraid of the hellhound,’ she whispered. ‘But the beast cannot harm Cecelia.’
Lucie turned to ask the woman how she knew, but she’d vanished.
‘In faith, she was there yesterday,’ Michaelo was saying. ‘Forgive my error. When I inquired after her wellbeing earlier and heard she was away I took that to mean for the moment.’
‘Who was the woman who spoke to me just now?’
Michaelo frowned down at her. ‘I did not see.’
Wrapping Dame Muriel against the evening chill, Alisoun led her out onto the solar landing, walking her back and forth to work out a cramp in her calf. The landing stretched the length of the house, affording a view of the Fenton garden, the York Tavern, and, at a slight angle, Lucie Wilton’s apothecary garden. Dame Janet would be horrified to see them out there, believing as she did that her daughter must remain in bed. But Muriel was no longer hobbled by the cramp, and she breathed with more ease. Even such a simple exercise might induce a deeper, more restful sleep. They continued their pacing, saying little, both lost in their own reveries, until Alisoun caught a movement near the rear door of the Fenton house. As she watched she saw a man gesture to an animal so large that as it began to dart away he hardly needed to bend over at all in order to catch it by the scruff of its neck and make it stay.
She must alert Ned without alarming the household. ‘I pray this has encouraged your appetite, Dame Muriel.’ She hoped her companion did not hear the tremor in her voice as she tried to lead her toward her bedchamber.
But Muriel resisted. ‘A few more turns. My leg feels so much better.’
Alisoun rubbed Dame Muriel’s shoulders. ‘We will stay out longer in the morning.’
Muriel shook her off and stepped over to the railing. ‘Is that the new servant in the Fenton garden? What was his name? Ned. Yes, like my cousin. Why would he trespass?’
Alisoun joined her. Ned was indeed stealing toward the Fenton house. The man and dog were no longer in sight. She felt a wave of relief.
‘He is following Captain Archer’s orders, guarding your household,’ said Alisoun. ‘The Fentons’ house being empty, he’s right to check it.’
‘Bless him. Bless all of you.’ Muriel touched Alisoun’s forearm. ‘I could not ask for more loving care. I believe I might eat something now.’
Alisoun hurried down to the kitchen herself, telling the cook what she wanted, that she would return for it in a moment. At the gate into the Fenton garden she saw no one. Hurrying to the house, she found the door ajar. She pushed it open and was stepping through when someone grabbed her from the shadows, holding a dagger to her throat.
‘Be silent. You are safe so long as you say nothing. You did not see me. You were not here.’
Feeling the stump of the arm pressing into her chest, she knew it to be Crispin Poole.
He pushed her out the door and shut it behind her.
Back in the Swann yard, she vomited in the midden.
Jasper stepped out from the apothecary workshop as Owen passed on his way to the tavern. ‘Brother Michaelo was here again, talking to Dame Lucie. Are you both working with him?’
His mind on other matters, Owen nodded. ‘He believes he’s found Cilla.’
‘Oh.’
The disappointment in Jasper’s voice got Owen’s attention. ‘What’s troubling you?’
‘How can you work with the man who poisoned Brother Wulfstan?’ The infirmarian at St Mary’s had survived the poisoning, living to save Jasper’s life the following year, becoming a beloved spiritual guide to the orphaned boy while he lived.
‘I believe in the power of redemption,’ said Owen. ‘Happens he’s …’ He lost the thought as Ned hurried through the gate. ‘Trouble?’
‘A man and a dog, standing beneath the eaves of the Fenton house just now.’ Ned took a breath. ‘Watching Alisoun walking Dame Muriel on the landing above.’ Another breath. ‘And then he was gone. I thought you’d want to check the house with me.’
‘What did he look like?’ Owen asked, thinking of Braithwaite’s man Galbot and the dog Tempest.
‘He stayed in the shadows so I could not see his face. A short man, or the dog is uncommon tall.’
Tempest was a large dog, but not so large as to make Galbot, who was of middling height, seem short. Still, Ned was guessing.
Jasper had ducked into the workshop and reappeared with Owen’s bow and a quiver of arrows. ‘I pray you don’t need them.’
Owen pressed his shoulder in thanks and strode out after Ned, who had hurried ahead. Owen kept a casual gait. No need to raise an alarm.
Ned waited by the house. ‘They stood right here, looking up.’ He pointed to the windows on the upper floor of the Swann home. ‘Alisoun was walking Dame Muriel back and forth,’ he said quietly. ‘I’d heard the creaking up above, came out to see who it was. Then I noticed the man and dog standing here.’ He raised his hand in greeting as Alisou
n appeared at the railing, but she did not respond, backing out of sight.
Owen tried the latch on the door. Not locked. In fact, the door swung inward at his touch. ‘You?’
‘No. I found it this way.’
Owen pushed it wide and stepped into a corridor, kitchen and pantry to either side. He stopped, held his breath, listened. He motioned to Ned to search the rooms to either side while he moved forward into the hall. Warm coals in the fire circle. The Fentons had been gone for weeks, but someone had been here today. The street door was slightly ajar. No one on the street with a dog.
‘Damn,’ Ned muttered at his shoulder. ‘He moves quickly.’
‘And unnoticed. He knows this street. Knows this house, perhaps. At least we know he’s still in the city. Warn Alisoun. But first, go to the Braithwaites – you know it, two doors away?’ Ned nodded. ‘See whether the dog Tempest is tied up in front of the house, guarding it. If not, ask to talk to Galbot, his handler. See whether they’ve been out walking.’
‘But what if it was him, and he’s up to no good?’
‘He’ll know that we noticed. Come to the York Tavern to tell me what you learn. Wait for me if you return before I do.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘The minster yard.’
With a nod, Ned strode out into Coney Street.
With that long, fast stride, hand resting on his sheathed dagger, Lucie knew that Owen expected trouble. She broke away from Michaelo to hurry to him.
‘Owen!’
He took a moment to recognize her. Clearly she did not fit the scene he’d envisioned. ‘God be praised.’ He gathered her to him in a fierce embrace.
‘What is it?’ asked Michaelo, joining them.
‘A man and a large dog watching the Swann home. They disappeared and I—’ He stepped away from Lucie, shaking his head. ‘I encouraged you to go to Cilla and then when I thought—’
She stood on tiptoe to kiss his lips. ‘We did not find her. The man with the hellhound took her away, according to a little girl. And a woman who did not stay long enough for me to see her told me not to worry, the beast cannot harm Cecelia. I did not have a chance to ask what she meant by that. Who saw the man with the dog?’
