by Candace Robb
‘She took the child into York to collect some items from the archbishop’s palace,’ Michaelo said darkly. ‘And took the child to Mass in the minster.’
Alfred pressed one hand over the rash under his arm. As one of the archbishop’s retainers, he lived in the barracks near the palace.
Owen cursed himself for getting caught in this pointless conversation. ‘You have been a long time from York, Brother Michaelo. There are no crowds round the palace or the minster. Folk keep to themselves. Would you inform His Grace that I am here?’
Michaelo studied Owen for a moment. ‘You are looking well enough.’ He glanced at Alfred. ‘But you have discomfort. You do not bring plague to Bishopthorpe?’
Alfred paled.
‘For pity’s sake, the pestilence is already here,’ Owen grumbled. ‘Alfred has but a rash from the heat if you are so fascinated with the health of others. Mistress Wilton has given him a lotion to soothe it.’
Michaelo’s eyes said he did not believe Owen’s explanation. Neither did Alfred, of course. But the archbishop’s secretary merely sniffed and led them into the house.
Thoresby received Owen in his parlour, usually a cool room in summer, with the windows opening on to the garden and beyond it the river. But today the room was stuffy, with the shutters latched and a brazier aglow with rosemary wood. Ambergris, rosemary wood – Thoresby was not counting on prayers to protect him from the pestilence. The archbishop bent over some work. His hair had grown dusty with age in the past year. When he glanced up to nod to Owen, his eyes seemed even more deeply sunken than usual, his lips pinched.
‘Benedicte, Archer.’ His eyes returned to the documents on the table before him.
Owen was accustomed to the archbishop. ‘Benedicte, Your Grace. I hope you find all to your liking at Bishopthorpe.’
‘As ever.’
Thoresby did not make it easy to be pleasant. ‘How fares Queen Phillippa, Your Grace?’
‘Not well. The end is near.’
‘May God bless her and keep her,’ Owen said, crossing himself.
Thoresby sighed, waved Owen to a chair on the other side of the small table at which he sat. ‘You have seen to Maeve?’
Owen settled in the chair, crossed his arms, nodded. ‘I have given Michaelo instructions, Your Grace.’ He glanced at the documents. They appeared to be petitions, letters.
‘Maeve is a good Christian woman,’ Thoresby said. He clapped for a servant, who silently emerged from the shadowy corner. ‘Move these to my work table.’ While the young man scooped up the parchments and carried them across the room, the archbishop said, ‘I pray God the rest of her children do not succumb.’ He motioned to the servant to pour wine, then settled back in his thronelike chair, resting his hands on the rounded armrests. ‘And your family, Archer? Are they well?’
‘Aye, thanks be to God. We have been spared so far.’ Owen noted that the servant’s hands shook as he poured the wine. It was no surprise. Pestilence had come to the manor. All would be wondering who would be the next to fall ill. ‘We have sent the children to Lucie’s father in the country.’
Thoresby picked up his cup, gazed into its depths. ‘A laudable move, though the country has not saved the folk at this manor. Simon, the gardener, has two children ill. Who knows whether they would have been safer in York? But I seldom use the palace in the city. It made sense for Simon to be here. And with all those children …’
Owen glanced out the window at the garden. ‘It matters not how many one has, each child is precious.’
‘Simon bears it well.’
‘So quickly the deaths follow, one on the other.’
‘Is it not the way?’ Thoresby examined his cup in the light. ‘As Master Apothecary, Lucie must be busy.’
‘Aye, that she is. With each visitation of the pestilence folk have become more inventive with their precautions. A wealthy merchant asked yesterday for enough crushed diamonds to strew round his bed and cut Death’s feet to shreds.’
‘Odd. I have ever thought of Death booted.’
‘And I in sandals.’
Thoresby drank deeply.
Owen found the archbishop’s idle babble disturbing. It was unlike him and it delayed the inevitable bad news or tirade. But he might be wise to play along with it. ‘I trust Your Grace is well?’
‘Well enough, Archer.’
Owen thought not. The archbishop’s eyes had none of their customary fire. ‘I have come to the manor as often as I could manage,’ Owen said. In addition to being captain of the archbishop’s retainers in York and keeping the peace in the minster liberty, Owen was responsible for the smooth running of Bishopthorpe in Thoresby’s absence. Perhaps he might ease the conversation towards the business of the day.
‘You have done well, Archer. You have proved yourself worthy of the trust I place in you.’ Thoresby at last met Owen’s gaze. He smiled.
Owen was not fond of Thoresby’s smile. It often meant trouble. ‘You did not summon me to Bishopthorpe to praise my work.’
‘No. I have more work for you. I must take you away with me for a short time.’
Owen clenched his jaw.
‘You will accompany me to my manor of Sherburne.’ The manor was south of Leeds, a good day’s journey from York.
‘What is at Sherburne?’
‘The stones to complete the minster’s Lady Chapel. The quarry has been depleted.’
‘So I have heard. But I thought Michaelo and the master mason were inspecting alternative quarries.’
‘None was of sufficient quality.’
‘There is a quarry on the land at Sherburne?’
Thoresby’s eyes narrowed, as if he thought Owen was being obstinate in not understanding. ‘No. I intend to dismantle the house itself. The stones are well cut, of excellent quality.’
Owen stared at Thoresby, wondering how one responded to an archbishop who had lost his mind.
Thoresby chuckled, though he did not smile. ‘You find the scheme impractical.’
Mad was more like it. ‘That is a beginning, Your Grace.’
‘A beginning?’
Enough of this courtesy. ‘I think it folly to pursue such a scheme, Your Grace. I cannot but wonder at your motivation. Do you tire of the house? It is no longer to your liking? What of the next Archbishop of York? He might take exception to your wanton destruction.’ As Owen spoke he watched Thoresby’s cheeks puff out and redden.
‘Wanton destruction?’
‘Such a house took many men and much labour to create. And you would tear it down because you prefer using the stones for your tomb, when you assuredly have alternatives that would not entail such destruction.’ Owen surprised himself with his vehemence.
‘Had I an alternative I would pursue it, Archer. But the quarries near at hand do not offer such quality, and those far away will take too long and cost too much, and workers are difficult to recruit in the midst of pestilence. I would complete the Lady Chapel this year, before Martinmas.’
Owen closed his eye, considered. Even using Sherburne’s stone, the archbishop could not expect the masons to meet that goal. Little more than three months. And whence came that goal? Did Thoresby think his death so close at hand? ‘Why this year?’
‘I have vowed to complete Our Lady’s chapel in return for her intercession on behalf of the people of York. I have prayed to her to spare them from the pestilence.’
Owen looked Thoresby squarely in the eye. ‘Then you are too late, Your Grace. We have buried more than one hundred in the city these past two months.’
Thoresby’s face was pinched, his eyes sad. ‘I did not know it was so many,’ he said, his regret clear in his tone. ‘Still. I may save far more than that.’
Mayhap. But Owen would not leave Lucie at so perilous a time on such a fool’s errand. ‘Forgive me, but I am needed at home, Your Grace. And you need me to protect your interests in the city. The fear makes the crowds unpredictable. Think of the Lammas Fair.’
‘You kno
w full well there will be no Lammas Fair this year. Which is yet another reason to use the stones I already own. I shall have no revenues to spare. You will go with me to Sherburne.’
‘Why? Of what use will I be to you there?’
‘You question my orders?’
‘This is a fool’s errand, Your Grace. And hardly the work of either your captain or your steward.’
Thoresby slammed his palms on the table, and rose, leaning across, his face close to Owen’s. He reeked of ambergris, rosemary, wine, and sweat: unusual for the archbishop, who had a peculiar fondness for bathing. ‘You shall obey me!’
Thunder did not intimidate Owen. ‘I cannot leave my wife and the shop for so long, Your Grace,’ he said quietly. ‘Not in a time of pestilence. Each day the apothecary is filled with customers. I must help Lucie as much as I can.’
‘What of her apprentice?’
‘He works hard, Your Grace. But there is much to do.’
‘You have managed well enough coming here.’
‘That is not the same as being away for a long while, Your Grace, with no opportunity to return and see how they fare.’
‘You are my man,’ Thoresby stated, knowing full well how Owen hated such a claim.
‘That can change, Your Grace.’
They glared at one another. The silence lengthened. Suddenly Thoresby rose, walked to the window, asked without turning to face Owen, ‘What do you know of the troubles at St Leonard’s?’
Who had won? Owen doubted he was the victor. But he meant to stand his ground on Sherburne, so how could he be the loser? ‘Walter de Hotter stabbed and strangled in his house, odd wounds on two victims of a fire, one of them dead. A golden chalice missing, a valuable missal cover, some goblets. I know only what all in York know.’
‘More thefts than that. Considerably more.’ A moment of silence. ‘My nephew will be called south as soon as the deaths from pestilence cease.’
Owen felt a shower of needle pricks across his blind eye. This did not bode well. ‘Aye, he is an important man in chancery and the Queen’s household. I should think he would have little time to devote to the hospital.’
‘But he will not wish to leave until harmony is restored at St Leonard’s.’
‘They say he has an eager investigator in his cellarer.’
Thoresby turned round, smirking. ‘Don Cuthbert? The man offends all to whom he speaks. He is not the man for the task.’
‘Don Erkenwald is more suitable, and he has been uneasy about Hotter’s death from the beginning.’
‘I prefer that my own man see to it.’ Thoresby held Owen’s gaze as he emphasised ‘my own man’.
‘It has naught to do with me.’
‘You wished to remain in York. I shall grant your request. On the condition that you assist my nephew in seeing harmony restored to St Leonard’s.’
‘It is not your right to arrange for my hire as a spy.’
‘No? Mistress Wilton might feel otherwise.’
Owen paused. Had Lucie spoken to him in private? Recently? ‘What do you mean?’
Thoresby resumed his seat, steepled his hands. The smirk still taunted Owen. ‘As I recall, Mistress Wilton hindered our efforts to discover the truth about my ward’s poisoning. How long ago that seems. And yet, even so, I intervened with the guild so that she might marry you and retain her standing as Nicholas Wilton’s widow.’
Relieved to hear that Lucie had not betrayed him, Owen was yet disturbed. ‘Surely my work the past six years has repaid you tenfold.’
Thoresby chuckled. ‘It is you who has been well paid, Archer.’ He closed his eyes, leaned his forehead on his steepled fingers. ‘Why do you not wish to assist my nephew?’
‘You know that is not the point, Your Grace.’
The head lifted. ‘No?’
False surprise. It was these moments that kept Owen from liking the archbishop. And yet Thoresby was godfather to both his children. ‘Sir Richard was a generous host when I was in Beverley. I have no quarrel with him.’
‘Good. He learned to trust you.’
Perhaps this was not a matter of Thoresby’s volunteering Owen, but of his communicating a request from another. ‘Sir Richard asked for me?’
‘He did.’
Damn the man. ‘I do not know how much time I might devote to such a task. With so many coming to the shop, there is little time during the day to prepare the physicks; we work in the evening and early morning. And there is the garden, and my responsibilities as your steward here. Besides all that, there is another matter on my conscience.’
‘Ah? And what is that?’
He told Thoresby about Tildy and Kate’s loss. ‘We promised we would send word to Tildy at Freythorpe if the sickness touched her family.’
Thoresby poured himself more wine. ‘Freythorpe is on my way to Sherburne. I shall call there, deliver the news, see my godchildren.’
Owen did not know whether to be grateful for Thoresby’s generosity or worried about the archbishop’s motivation. ‘Your Grace. It is a kind gesture. There are few willing to go abroad with such messages.’
Thoresby smiled. ‘You see? There is nothing to keep you from the hospital.’
Owen tasted bile. ‘Do you enjoy moving us all round like pawns?’
‘I confess it is one of the pleasures of age. There are far too few, Archer. You would not know that, but someday …’
‘You never meant to take me to Sherburne.’
Thoresby raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
Later, after they had shared a meal, Thoresby mentioned Honoria de Staines. ‘I warned Richard that St Leonard’s was not the place for such a woman.’
‘Why do you speak of her?’
‘Two of the missing goblets were hidden in her bedchamber. She claims they were gifts but will say no more. See what you might glean from her.’
‘Considering her reputation, the goblets were likely gifts from a lover.’
‘Then why does she not name him?’
Owen wondered the same thing. But he was not in a mood to agree with Thoresby. ‘Is it so difficult to imagine such a woman being loyal?’
Thoresby dismissed Owen’s suggestion with a sniff. ‘And while you are asking questions, find out why Don Cuthbert is her champion.’
Owen drained his cup. ‘A fool’s errand.’
‘Sherburne or St Leonard’s. Your choice, Archer.’
‘I shall surely deserve Heaven when my time comes.’ Owen pushed himself away from the table, rose.
‘Let us pray that your time is not so near you have no more opportunity for sin.’
Owen crossed himself. ‘Honoria de Staines is not the only subject of rumour. What of Sir Richard? Is he beyond suspicion?’
Thoresby suddenly took an interest in the bowl of fruit before him, spent a moment choosing a peach, sniffing it. ‘No one is beyond suspicion, Archer. But his asking for you is the action of a fool if he has aught to hide.’
Was that meant as praise? Owen studied the archbishop, bending to the task of quartering the peach with his dagger.
‘Is your nephew likely to play the fool?’
‘From time to time.’ Thoresby raised his eyes to Owen. ‘See you watch your back. I would not lose you on a fool’s errand.’ He smiled.
At table, Lucie silently stared down at her food as Owen recounted his interview with the archbishop. Thoresby was right, she was far more fearful of insulting him than Owen was. He was a powerful man, and though an archbishop, he was human enough to have a temper that he did not always bother to check. What might he do to them? And yet he could be so kind. But best of all was the love Owen had expressed through this refusal.
‘You do not look at me. You are angry?’
Lucie glanced up, surprised by the question. Jasper also watched her, though less obviously than Owen whose hawk-eye was fixed on her. ‘Sweet Jesu, how could you think me angry, my love?’ She rose, held out her hand to him. ‘Come. Let us walk in the garden.’
&
nbsp; The shrubs and trees rustled softly in the evening breeze. As they strolled past the rosemary hedge, Owen said, ‘The archbishop had a fire of rosemary wood in his parlour on such a day.’
Lucie pressed Owen’s hand. ‘As you said this morning, we are all a bit childish at present. These are fearful times.’
‘Not so bad as the previous two.’
‘A death is a death, Owen.’
‘Aye. But he is more than childish, Lucie. To destroy a house for the stones.’
‘It is not such an odd idea to me, my love. And for what better purpose?’
‘I am wrong?’
Lucie stopped, turned to him, took both his hands. ‘Perhaps to criticise his scheme so fiercely, my love. But not to insist on my need of you.’
‘And what of involving myself in the troubles at St Leonard’s?’
‘Who better than you, my love?’
Owen was silent.
‘Well? Who better?’
‘Why do you think he is willing to stop at Freythorpe?’
Always suspicious. Lucie lifted Owen’s hands, turned them palms upwards, kissed them in turn, looked him in the eye. ‘Do not question it, just be thankful he will do it. He is proud of Hugh and Gwenllian. If aught is amiss, we shall hear quickly.’ She could tell from his eye that he did not share her confidence. She was suddenly fearful.
Alisoun arrived at the farm long after sunset. She was relieved to find the nag in the enclosed field, sleeping under the stars. Alisoun gave her a spoonful of her aunt’s facial concoction, having brought a goodly portion with her, and she promised to give the horse a brushing in the morning and to apply more salve to her wound. The nag whinnied softly as Alisoun slipped away: a pleasant, companionable sound in her solitude. Not like the crickets whose night song made the farm seem lonelier. The crickets’ chorus was a sound the girl associated with heading out in the dark to relieve herself, or lying awake in the cottage unable to sleep.
As she entered the yard, Alisoun paused. She sensed company, not by sound or sight, but by a prickling at the back of her neck that her father had taught her to respect. Someone had come to rob them. Or take over the farm. It was just what Alisoun had feared. And her uncle was to blame with his silly idea of bringing her to his house. She stood as still as possible, studying the barn and house, seeking a glimmer of light that would tell her where she might find the intruder. But all was dark. Was she imagining it? Who but she could find their way round these buildings at night?
