by Candace Robb
‘It seems you are being forced to learn quickly,’ said Hempe.
Still standing at the southern edge of the bridge, Owen had begun to question his motive in confronting Gisburne himself. Hempe might handle it, allow Owen and Crispin to return to the scene of the attack.
‘Let us leave Gisburne’s household to Hempe and his men, Poole,’ said Owen.
‘And where will you be?’ Hempe asked.
‘At Poole’s house.’
Hempe grinned. ‘Good plan. It will be my pleasure to discomfit King John.’
Michaelo was expected back momentarily, Jehannes’s servant informed Geoffrey, and the archdeacon was also away. He invited Geoffrey to wait in the hall. When he’d left, Geoffrey turned slowly, absorbing the beauty of Jehannes’s hall, the painted vines, the hangings, and then, out the window, the garden planted with a thought to pleasing the eyes. He had never guessed the archdeacon a man of such refined taste.
‘Master Chaucer.’ The monk startled him.
‘You do like to steal up on a man,’ Geoffrey exclaimed. But he smiled, ever charmed by how Michaelo floated rather than walked.
‘I understand there has been another attack?’ The monk’s nostrils quivered on the last word.
‘No deaths this time, much thanks to Alisoun Ffulford, who shot down one of the attackers, routed the other. I witnessed her courage, and that of Dame Euphemia’s manservant. The surviving attacker ran off with the hound. Captain Archer asks you to walk through the minster yard as he believes it your custom to do of an evening, offering comfort. While you do, keep your ears pricked for any whispers of a man and a hound, wolf, whatever they call it.’
Such a smooth, etched face, homely when in repose, but now, as the monk’s pleasure in being called to serve lifted all the corners – why, he could be quite handsome. Geoffrey had never seen him look so – beatific. He had an amusing thought. Owen Archer was a handsome man in his own way, certainly the women behaved as if he were uncommonly alluring. Was Michaelo smitten? Oh, now that would be delicious.
‘And if I learn anything? See anything?’ the monk asked.
Geoffrey prayed he’d not smiled. How to explain? ‘My mission, after speaking with you, is to inform the mourners at Swanns’ of the state of the victims at the Poole home. Then I am to await Archer at his house. Come to me there.’
Michaelo tucked his hands up his sleeves and bowed to Geoffrey. ‘I will do as the captain asks.’
Geoffrey had no doubt he would.
Brother Michaelo saw the king’s man out the door. How the captain could entrust that man on such a mission … Perhaps he’d merely meant to keep the blankly smiling fool out of the way, and out of earshot. For the captain knew that Chaucer was a gossip. A prudent ploy? Yes, that must be it. Michaelo was moved that Owen recalled his practice of providing spiritual counsel to those living in the minster yard. Dame Lucie perhaps described his reception. He wondered when they shared such moments in their day. In bed before sleep? What must it be like to have such a companion?
He shook himself. Such thoughts did him no good. He had work to do.
Chaucer … Geoffrey Chaucer had not mentioned stopping first in the Bedern. Michaelo wondered whether that part of Chaucer’s route concerned his own official mission for the prince. One must never forget. Several of the clerks residing in those lodgings were used by officials in the city as messengers to London and Westminster. Paired with the matter of the stranger who had arrived at the abbey staithe last night in the company of Archbishop Neville’s secretary, the former intending to bide at the abbey, the latter at Holy Trinity Priory in Micklegate, there might be treachery afoot. The captain should know of these developments.
The thought of the new archbishop’s secretary brought on a headache, and Michaelo paused, composing himself. Of all the clerics in the land, that Neville should choose Michaelo’s cousin Dom Leufrid, the thief who stole the money Michaelo’s family had intended would buy him a comfortable position in a wealthy abbey in the south of England. Because of Leufrid’s greed Michaelo had wound up in York, so far north, with little to offer the abbot, a distant cousin. Leufrid, the bastard, now secretary to the worm who had stolen the archbishopric from Thoresby’s worthy nephew, Richard Ravenser – infuriating.
Michaelo prayed for the compassion to forgive, but deep in his heart he yearned to ruin the loathsome Leufrid.
Hereby lies a tale, Geoffrey thought as he hurried down Stonegate. The blind goodwife and the wolf. Pity it wasn’t a fox, but what of a wolf dressed as a man? The wolf fools all but the blind. She ‘sees’ him for what he is and cunningly turns the tables … Pah. He had more immediate concerns on which to train his mind. He ordered his thoughts as he cut through the yard of the York Tavern and passed through the Fenton garden into the yard of the Swann home.
As soon as he stepped through the door conversations halted, servants carrying platters turned to look at the new arrival, and the musicians ceased playing. He’d hoped for a quiet word, but that was clearly not to be.
In a rush of silk, Olyf Tirwhit was upon him.
‘Is Crispin injured? I should go to him—’ Her breath was sweet with wine and she staggered aside as her husband stepped between them.
Geoffrey was relieved to see Muriel Swann and Janet Braithwaite in the man’s wake, John Braithwaite, Paul, and his wife not far behind. Ned brought up the rear, hurrying in from the kitchen.
‘I suggest we step into another room,’ Geoffrey said. ‘All eyes in the hall are upon us. You can then decide how much information to share with your guests.’
Janet led the group into the buttery, a morbid venue, Geoffrey thought, remembering Bartolf’s bloody corpse on the table, and no doubt Hoban’s before that.
‘I heard from the bailiffs’ men, and much has passed round the hall,’ said Ned. ‘Is it true that Mistress Alisoun shot a man between the eyes?’
‘Neck.’ Geoffrey touched either side. ‘As if preparing to roast his head over a fire.’
The young man’s grimace halted Geoffrey from further comment.
‘I pray you tell me, is it true that Alisoun is mortally wounded?’
Geoffrey patted Ned’s shoulder. ‘Magda Digby and Lucie Wilton tend her.’ The young man gave a cry like a whimper. Seeing his distress, Geoffrey regretted speaking while distracted.
‘Is she?’ Ned asked.
Geoffrey could hardly soften it for the lad when he was about to share the ugly details with the rest of those gathered in the buttery. ‘I pray you, patience. I hope to make one report to all here.’ He patted Ned’s arm.
By now the Swanns, Braithwaites, and Tirwhits stood assembled before Geoffrey. Clearing his throat, he recited the tale plainly, with no bardic embellishments – though he had considered some poetic phrases.
He watched their reactions. Owen would ask. Olyf’s cry of relief when she heard of Crispin’s absence won a poke from her husband and a disgusted look from Muriel. Paul Braithwaite looked drained of blood and teetering, but they all reeked of sweet wine, so it might mean nothing. To their credit, though in their cups the group listened with interest and concern. He noticed that none asked for details of Dame Euphemia’s injuries, none cried out at the profound cruelty of attacking a blind, elderly woman – he’d been wise to omit his embellishment regarding her snowy white hair falling down round her shoulders, one long strand dipped in her would-be murderer’s blood. It would have been wasted on this audience. However, all expressed amazement at Alisoun’s courage – and that of the manservant – and dismay about the extent of the young woman’s injury, tempered with relief that Magda Digby and Lucie Wilton were there to nurse her.
‘Oh, my dear Alisoun.’ Muriel Swann looked as if she might faint. ‘She has been so kind, so caring. What can I do?’
‘Continue with the regimen she has prescribed, daughter,’ said Janet Braithwaite. ‘Give birth to a healthy baby she will delight to see when she is able.’
As an argument ensued between mother and daugh
ter, Geoffrey took the opportunity to slip away. Opening the garden gate, he lingered at the spot where Bartolf had been murdered. Except for the hours spent in his company on the way to York, Geoffrey had not known the man. Nor had that encounter allowed insight into his character. On that day he’d not been the respected, perhaps feared coroner of Galtres, but a mere mortal man shattered by the violent murder of his only son. What had he been like the day before? Geoffrey would never know.
Owen and Crispin headed back across the river, both alert for the missing man and dog.
‘So Gisburne is not to be trusted,’ Crispin noted.
‘In my experience, no.’
‘He behaved in such wise when you were Thoresby’s man? Did the archbishop do nothing?’
‘He would allow Gisburne to make a generous donation to the fund for the minster’s lady chapel.’
‘But John Thoresby was highly regarded. A saint compared to Neville.’
‘He was no saint.’ Owen glanced at Crispin. ‘It would seem you are doing more than making a list of influential citizens for Neville.’
The man pressed his lips together, eyes fixed on the street ahead.
Owen grew impatient. ‘So you choose not to speak.’
‘No. I – I would be your friend, and so I hesitated to tell you. The city dreads the arrival of the new archbishop. His reputation being what it is, they see him as a wolf, not a shepherd of souls. And I’m to be to Neville what you were to Thoresby. I will have few friends here.’
Worse than Owen had guessed, but fair warning. ‘You have my sympathy. And I would say that even were it not Neville.’ Though had it been Richard Ravenser … But there was no point in such thoughts.
‘But you said— One night in the York Tavern you admitted to missing Thoresby.’
‘The man, yes. And the knowledge, the support, the authority I enjoyed. But he could be maddening. Powerful men are, in my experience.’ A grunt of agreement. ‘You are at ease with Neville?’
A bitter laugh. ‘No one is at ease with the man. I’ve yet to hear anyone speak of him with any affection.’
‘This Leufrid?’
‘Alexander Neville and Dom Leufrid are two of a kind. Cold, ruthless.’
‘Men of the Church.’
‘Ambitious men for whom the Church was the way to power.’
Owen liked the way Crispin thought – to a point. But as Prince Edward’s man or the captain of the city, Owen would need to watch every word, every gesture when in Poole’s company. Pity. They might have been friends, in another time.
‘I should tell you, Gisburne spoke of another man on the barge, a Moor, he did not name him, but an emissary from Prince Edward.’
A Moor? Owen wondered … ‘Emissary to—’
‘You, as I understand it. Apparently the prince is keen to add you to his household. Quite an honor. But I thought Geoffrey Chaucer was seeing to that.’
‘His Grace grows impatient?’ Owen shrugged, though his mind was racing. Might it be his old friend? ‘What had Gisburne to say of that?’
‘That you were Icarus, in your arrogance flying too close to the sun.’ Poole chuckled. ‘By the rood, the man envies you.’
‘He must have little experience of His Grace the prince.’
‘That is what I said.’
Yes. They might have been very good friends. But back to the matter at hand.
‘When I told you of the attack on Dame Euphemia,’ said Owen, ‘you called her a damnable woman, said you’d feared – what? What does your mother have to do with the murders? Why would the man who lunged at her shout something about his father’s honor?’
‘You implied her injuries were minor. But if he lunged at her – who intervened? She sees only the faintest shadow in the best light. She could not defend herself.’
‘Alisoun Ffulford.’
‘The Riverwoman’s apprentice?’
Owen told him what she’d done, how serious her injury.
Crispin looked far more stricken than he had when told about his mother. ‘How did Mistress Alisoun come to be there?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did she – has she mentioned me?’
A curious question. ‘She has not awakened.’
‘I mean, before. Anything about – I see from your expression she kept my secret. May God watch over her. If she should die – God knows, I am to blame. I take full responsibility.’
Owen wanted to hear about that.
‘You should also know that the serving man did his best to protect Dame Euphemia,’ said Owen. ‘Injured as well, but he’s able to walk and tell you what he witnessed.’
‘Old Dun? Then I have misjudged him.’
‘What of this Gerta?’
‘When did you connect that with all this?’
‘Not me. Two men were overheard speaking of her. They had come into some money and were spending it on good wine. Too much good wine. Their good fortune was somehow thanks to her. Or her murder.’
Crispin had stopped in front of Christchurch, staring at Owen. ‘Recently?’
‘Several weeks ago.’
Crispin nodded. ‘Come.’
TWELVE
Gerta
In Crispin’s hall, Magda watched as Lucie dripped some liquid into Alisoun’s half-opened mouth. Owen might find it a comforting sight had Alisoun been fussing, or gazing round with her usual wary expression. First Magda, then Lucie glanced up to see who had arrived, then, with nods, went back to their work. Crispin led Owen down a narrow passageway past Dame Euphemia’s bedchamber, where the elderly woman lay in a deep slumber or faint, Owen could not say, and brought him to the garden.
Owen nodded to Dun, who sat watch, pitchfork in one hand.
As Crispin approached, the old servant rose abruptly. ‘Master.’
‘Sit, I pray you.’ Crispin expressed his appreciation for Dun’s years of service to his parents, and his gratitude for the man’s courage this day. Dun bobbed his head.
Intent on his own mission, Owen crouched down and pulled back the cover from the dead man’s face. ‘So, Poole, do you know this man?’ How Crispin played this part would reveal much. Owen had no doubt the man was known to him.
‘Difficult to say …’
‘Is it?’
‘The young woman has a remarkable aim,’ said Crispin, as if he had not heard the question.
‘That she does,’ Owen agreed. He waited. Would Crispin lie?
Easing himself down in a crouch by the body, Crispin turned the man’s head so that he might study the face. ‘Avenging his father. Of course he would. But how did he know who falsely accused him?’
‘So you know him?’
‘We have met. And I knew his father. A farmer fallen to poaching in Galtres, but a good man. My mother – accursed woman—’ Abruptly rising, Crispin nodded to Owen. ‘We will talk. But first, despite all, I will sit a moment with my mother, then join you in the hall to explain.’
Crispin’s was a tidy house, spacious, though an odd choice for a blind woman and a one-armed man, narrow passageways and the indoor steps to the solar narrow and steep. Owen supposed Crispin might make use of the stump of his arm for balance as he took the steps, but it would be awkward. He could not imagine Dame Euphemia climbing to the solar; perhaps that was the very reason Crispin had chosen the house, a chance for solitude when he retired to his chamber. He was clearly not over-fond of his mother.
The hall was spacious, making the bed in which Alisoun lay seem tiny, albeit with a thick mattress and an abundance of pillows. She lay with her brown hair fanned out round her, supported by enough cushions that she was almost sitting. Long lashes were dark against her white cheeks. But as Owen drew near he noticed her breathing was quiet and steady. A good sign.
‘A brave young woman,’ said Magda.
‘And fortunate in her healers,’ said Owen, nodding to Magda, kissing Lucie’s forehead.
‘Did you find the man?’ Lucie asked.
‘No, but I’ve much
to tell you. And if he is honest, Crispin Poole is about to tell me about a young woman’s death that might somehow be the core of these troubles.’
‘Eva mentioned something about that,’ Lucie said, telling him what she’d gleaned.
‘A false accusation to protect her son?’ said Owen. ‘I begin to understand.’
‘I hope you talk here, in the hall,’ said Lucie.
‘I will make certain of that. And I pray you, listen.’
He knelt beside the bed. Was it his imagination, or did Alisoun’s eyelids flutter? ‘I am, as ever, impressed by your skill with the bow,’ he whispered to her. ‘I am not certain I would have caught him so, with him in motion.’
‘Not aiming to kill him.’ Breathy, weak, slow, but Alisoun spoke.
The room grew very quiet.
Owen kissed Alisoun’s hand. A tear rolled down her cheek. His heart heavy, he looked to Magda.
She tapped her head with a bony finger. ‘Hard as her will.’ The hint of a smile did not reach her eyes.
Owen pressed Alisoun’s hand. ‘Use that will to return to us,’ he whispered. Looking back to Magda, ‘Might I ask you some questions?’
Lucie took her place.
Stepping aside, near the brazier where it was warm in the draughty hall, Magda began by describing Alisoun’s and Euphemia’s injuries. Owen interrupted her to ask whether the hound had clawed Euphemia.
‘No open wounds, but marks of claws raking her shoulders. Not one of Bartolf’s, Bird-eye. All claws intact.’
She finished with Dun’s injuries. All this he might have learned from Lucie, but his next question, about how Magda had known of Hoban’s murder, was his reason for taking her aside.
‘Magda recognizes the signs, not how or why this or that is revealed to her. She has no answers for thee, Bird-eye. This is thy conspiracy of wolves. Thou hast the charge, Magda merely warned thee. Thy task. Open thine eye.’ She tapped the place between his eyes, then pressed there.
Sensing her finger sinking into his skull, Owen jerked away in confusion.
