The Riddle Of St Leonard's: An Owen Archer Mystery 4

by Candace Robb

  He bowed slightly. ‘God go with you.’

  ‘And with you, Captain.’ Anneys gestured behind her. ‘Did you wish to see the children?’

  ‘No. I was up in the chapel, I wondered where the stairs would take me.’ And where they had taken the cellarer, who is now lost to me by your courtesy.

  ‘They tell me you have your countrymen’s gift of song, Captain. The children are fond of singing.’

  Owen found the woman’s forthright manner at odds with her humble station. One might mistake her for the nun in charge of the Barnhous. ‘I have no time for such pleasant pastimes at the moment. Might we speak?’

  ‘Now? I am sorry, but I am helping with the children tonight. One of the sisters is ill.’

  ‘Pestilence?’

  Anneys crossed herself. ‘The first among the sisters, praise God.’

  ‘She looked after the sick children?’

  ‘Yes. I shall do so now.’

  ‘May God be merciful.’

  ‘I do it willingly. I sat with another victim and did not fall ill: Master Taverner.’

  Should he tell her that Julian had not died of plague? Did it matter? Owen had buried victims and he was still healthy. ‘Might I speak with you tomorrow, then?’

  Anneys nodded. ‘The children rest just before vespers. I could meet you in the minster yard. I often walk that way.’

  ‘I shall be there.’ Owen retraced his way up the steps. He was uneasy. Cuthbert might have seen them talking. An innocent pastime. However, if he was the thief he might now know that Owen had followed him. He already knew Owen’s business at the hospital. It was most unfortunate that Anneys had interrupted him.

  He noted that there had been no hesitation in the lay sister’s arrangement to meet him on the morrow, no withdrawal to ask permission. It was plain she had not been a servant for long.

  The sun was setting, the narrow city streets were dark and cool as Owen headed home. The lamp beside the door was lit to guide him. As he entered, Kate hurried across the hall towards him.

  ‘Captain! We worried when you did not come home. I will fetch your food.’

  Lucie and Magda sat at the table in the hall with brandywine and a bowl of fruit before them. Jasper sat on a bench by the window, mending a shoe.

  Owen thought of his meeting with Magda in the early morning and the nag tethered by her house. ‘Have you been to the Ffulford farm?’

  ‘Aye.’ Magda told him of her journey while he helped himself to brandywine.

  ‘You think the child is safe there?’

  ‘Aye. She is a clever one.’

  As Owen ate his supper, Lucie told him of Wulfstan’s attack.

  God’s blood, what next? ‘The man who stole the child’s horse attacked Brother Wulfstan for his medicines? Have you informed the bailiff?’ He could tell by the look on Lucie’s face that she had not. ‘I have my hands full at the hospital. I cannot search the streets for this man.’

  Lucie started, then dropped her gaze. ‘I shall inform the bailiff in the morning,’ she said, her voice tight. ‘It has been a busy day.’

  Dear God, of course it had been. Owen grabbed her hand. ‘Forgive me. I did not mean to give you an order.’

  Lucie nodded, said nothing.

  ‘Another is abed with boils at St Leonard’s,’ he said, changing the subject.

  Magda looked up from her brandywine. ‘A child?’

  ‘No. The sister who cared for the children in the infirmary.’

  ‘Thou hast reminded Magda of a task left undone.’ The Riverwoman pushed her stool back from the table, rose with a grunt. ‘A child awaits.’

  ‘When do you rest?’ Owen asked.

  ‘When the manqualm passes.’

  Kate saw Magda to the door.

  In the morning, Owen stopped to see the bailiff Geoffrey before he went on to the hospital.

  Geoffrey rubbed his forehead hard, shook his head. ‘The old infirmarian? He should not go abroad is what I say. ’Tis the empty streets, eh? And the empty houses. No witnesses to trouble. Gives a knave courage. Bastard.’ He spat in the corner. ‘Twenty years ago we boarded up the houses. But folk leave and come back. Fearing the Lord’s wrath, eh? Bury the dead. Stay for a while, then take fright and run off again. We cannot know who is gone for good.’

  It was more than Owen wished to know. ‘I will be on my way, then.’

  ‘They say your children are with Sir Robert.’

  ‘Aye. We thought it best.’

  Geoffrey shook his head. ‘These be terrible times, Captain. Unsavoury characters abroad. Old men should keep to their homes.’

  Owen did not bother to comment. A bell tolled as he walked down Blake Street. He was surprised he still noticed.

  Seventeen

  Alisoun’s Resolve

  A weary Magda trudged home through warm summer rain in the middle of the morning. She had spent the night at the sick-bed of a child, making progress, with two of her boils lanced, when suddenly the mother forbade more. ‘Hear her screams. You make it worse.’ Worse, yes: if Magda could not lance all five large boils, the lancing of the two had been unnecessary torture for the tiny creature. ’Twas all or naught, but the mother would not hear reason. She could not understand why the path to healing should be through pain.

  Still, Magda did not allow herself to despair. That brought weakness, and this was no time to feel the years upon her. Some food and a rest were all she could afford. That must suffice.

  Magda was not pleased to see the Ffulford nag tied up before her door, and Alisoun sitting on the bench under the eaves.

  ‘What wind carried thee here, child?’

  The brown face peered up through a tangle of hair. ‘You left the nag. I can hide from my kin, but I cannot hide her.’ Alisoun chewed on the corner of her mouth, picked at the ragged edge of her apron with filthy fingers.

  ‘Thou thinkst to stable her here?’

  ‘I would let you ride her.’

  Magda barked with amusement. ‘Thou dost not understand the cost of feeding such a creature away from thy pastures. And where wilt thou be, Horsetrader?’

  ‘I need an escort into the city. A lone child – they will think I am a beggar. Or a thief with the nag.’

  ‘Aye, ’tis true. Thou’rt requesting something?’

  The child dropped her chin to her chest, worked in silence on the unravelling of her apron. Rain pooled on the rock beside her. Soon she would be soaked.

  As would Magda. ‘Come within.’

  Alisoun shook out her handiwork as she rose. ‘Would you see me through the gate?’

  Magda touched the child’s matted hair, tsked. ‘Thou needst tidying.’

  ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘What is thy business in the city?’ Magda held the door wide, noted how the child glanced anxiously at the nag, particularly at a pouch hanging to one side. ‘Thy nag is safe here. Come inside or stay without, ’tis no matter.’

  The door was closing behind Magda when Alisoun grabbed it. Within, she eyed the roots and plants hanging in the rafters to dry, the rows of jars on shelves along the walls, the curtained alcoves. ‘Why do you need to know my business?’

  Magda sat down on a stool at the fire, stoked it, swung the kettle over it. ‘No need.’

  The girl stood by the fire, watching Magda toss herbs into the broth.

  ‘Art thou hungry?’

  ‘A little.’

  Magda nodded at a stool. ‘Sit.’

  Alisoun obeyed, though she perched on the edge of her seat as if about to spring up and run. ‘Can you get me through Bootham Bar?’

  The Riverwoman rose with a grunt, poured herself a small cup of watered wine, sat down again to stir the broth. ‘What dost thou offer in fee?’

  ‘Fee?’

  Magda took a mouthful of wine, tilted her head back, swallowed. ‘The sick need Magda. Thou hast given no good cause for her to neglect them to escort thee into the city.’ She set down her cup, ladled broth into a bowl, handed it to A
lisoun.

  ‘What do you want?’ the girl asked as she sniffed the broth.

  ‘What wouldst thou part with in exchange, that is the question.’

  The child paused with the spoon almost to her lips.

  Magda waited patiently.

  ‘You can have my horse,’ spoken just before the spoon delivered the broth. The child gasped at the heat, but was soon spooning quickly.

  Magda kept her silence until the child’s bowl was empty.

  ‘Will you accept that?’

  ‘Thou thinkst it a gift to present Magda with a creature so costly to feed?’

  ‘I thought it was generous.’

  Magda’s barking laugh startled Alisoun. ‘Generous, aye. Far too generous. Hast aught dear enough, but not so dear?’

  ‘I have nothing else.’

  ‘What of the pack on thy horse? Is there naught inside thou mightst part with?’

  ‘What do you know of it?’

  ‘Magda knows what she sees.’

  The child put down the bowl, crossed to the door. ‘I can sneak in.’

  ‘Take thy horse. Magda has no need of it.’

  Alisoun slipped out the door. Magda dipped brown bread in her broth, sucked on it, chewed. In a little while the door opened.

  ‘Would this be enough?’ The girl stood in the doorway, holding out a folded cloth.

  ‘Thou hast feet.’

  Alisoun brought it to her. Magda put down her bowl, took some of the cloth in her hands. Even her calloused fingertips could feel the delicate embroidery, the gold thread. A ridiculously fine item to take in trade for a short walk to the gate, but the child must learn the price of what she asked.

  ‘Aye. This will do.’

  The gatehouse of Freythorpe Hadden was a wattle and daub structure meant to impress rather than withstand attack. It stood on a stone bridge arching over a stream. A young man stood before it, barring the way with a pike. ‘Get thee gone, sir. We want no visitors.’ As he caught sight of the livery, his expression grew uncertain.

  Thoresby’s man Gilbert rode forward. ‘Tell your master that John Thoresby, Archbishop of York, has come with news from the city.’

  The young man turned to Thoresby. ‘Your Grace the Archbishop?’

  Thoresby inclined his head in a slight nod.

  The young man dropped his gaze, bowed while crossing himself.

  ‘Benedicte, my son.’

  ‘Forgive me, Your Grace. I have orders to turn away all strangers. But I am certain that Sir Robert did not mean you.’ The young man lowered his pike, stepped aside. The company rode through the gatehouse. The lad mounted his own horse and rode past them to announce their approach.

  Thoresby was pleased by the caution shown thus far.

  Freythorpe Hadden was a substantial stone and timber house of two rambling storeys with a tower at one end. In the arched doorway stood Dame Phillippa, Sir Robert D’Arby’s sister and housekeeper. Elderly though she was, she stood straight and proud, her widow’s wimple stubbornly white. As Thoresby dismounted and approached, Dame Phillippa turned her head slightly, spoke to someone behind her. When she turned back, her eyes were anxious.

  ‘Your Grace,’ she said, making her obeisance. ‘It is an honour to welcome you to Freythorpe.’

  ‘Benedicte, Dame Phillippa. I bring gifts for my godchildren and news that all are well in their household.’

  ‘God is merciful,’ Phillippa said, crossing herself. Her eyes brightened. ‘I feared ill tidings.’

  ‘Not all my news will be welcome. For Mistress Wilton’s maid servant I bring news of the death of her youngest brother.’

  Phillippa put one hand to her mouth, one to her stomach, closed her eyes and stood silently for the space of a prayer, then turned, led Thoresby and his company into the hall, where a servant was setting out wine and food. ‘Please, Your Grace, take some refreshment while I gather the household.’ She left a medicinal scent in her wake.

  Thoresby settled himself, gave his full attention to the wine. It had been a dusty ride, with the sun beating down. The hall was cool, the wine soothing. In a short while, a young woman entered with the red-headed Hugh in her arms. Clutching the woman’s skirt was a lad Gwenllian’s age.

  ‘Tola,’ Brother Michaelo said. ‘Granddaughter of Magda Digby, the midwife. And her son, Nym.’

  Tildy, ashen-faced and hesitant, followed slowly behind carrying another baby.

  ‘Mistress Tildy,’ Thoresby said with a courteous incline of his head.

  She was so pale, the wine-red birthmark on her left cheek seemed angry in contrast. ‘Your Grace, they say you have news for me.’

  A servant took the baby from Tildy.

  As gently as he could, Thoresby told her. When her hands flew to her face, he excused her from the company. ‘Grief is best first felt in private.’

  Tola looked uncertain whether to follow after her stricken friend or stay.

  ‘Stay,’ Thoresby ordered. ‘I would see my godson.’ He glanced behind her. ‘And Gwenllian.’

  Sir Robert D’Arby bustled into the room with Gwenllian. The two were dusty and flushed with exertion. ‘Forgive my delay, Your Grace. Welcome to Freythorpe Hadden.’

  ‘You must forgive me for not warning you of my visit. You are all well?’

  Sir Robert’s grey eyebrows came together, he bowed his head. ‘The pestilence has not touched this household, though it has taken my steward and the village priest, who also served as my chaplain.’

  Thoresby motioned to the elderly knight to join him at the table. Gwenllian joined Tola and the other children.

  Sir Robert sat down opposite the archbishop, nodded to the servant to pour his wine. ‘What brings you south, Your Grace?’ He quenched his thirst as Thoresby described his mission.

  Dame Phillippa slipped quietly into a seat at the table. ‘Is it necessary to dismantle that lovely house?’

  ‘The Lady Chapel will be lovelier still.’

  Sir Robert was shaking his head.

  Thoresby nodded to him. ‘You have something to say?’

  White-haired and stooped, Sir Robert was yet forward with his opinions. He tilted his head and lifted one shoulder as if to say Remember ’twas you who asked. ‘Whence will come the workers, Your Grace? Until the pestilence has passed over the north, they hide behind their shutters.’

  ‘You believe they would ignore their archbishop’s summons?’

  ‘I believe they fear pestilence far more than the ire of any mortal man.’

  ‘I might offer indulgences for the work.’

  ‘That would help, but only for those resigned to death.’

  Thoresby sat back and studied his wine. The old man might be right in that.

  Phillippa shifted uneasily on the bench, her eyes worried. ‘Your Grace, my brother boldly speaks of matters about which he has no knowledge.’

  ‘Nevertheless, he may speak truth,’ Thoresby said. ‘But you need not worry that I shall blame Sir Robert if his prophecy proves true. And now I must ask after my godchildren. Do they mind you? Are they as well as they appear?’

  Dame Phillippa gave a favourable report, to which Gilbert listened with great interest, as he was to relay it to Owen and Lucie.

  As Owen passed under the statue of St Leonard, he noticed a child speaking with Dame Beatrice, the sister in charge of the orphans. A horse stood nearby, steadied by a servant. The child wore a gown fashioned from the pieces of cloth that Magda used to test dyes. Alisoun Ffulford and her horse. Sweet Heaven, what was she doing at the hospital? And dressed by Magda?

  He decided it was best not to interfere.

  Eighteen

  A Riddle

  With Simon, the York Tavern’s groom, as an armed escort, Bess Merchet set forth from Bootham Bar, north through the Forest of Galtres, to Easingwold. She had delayed the journey, waiting for a day that dawned clear with a brisk north wind. Some said the south wind brought pestilence, so she had deemed it wise to stay within the city walls, which she believed
afforded a goodly protection, as much as possible. Tom, always contrary, had pointed out to her that if the walls afforded protection then the southerly wind theory could not be true, else how were folk dying who never ventured from the city. As if Bess believed that God had chosen only one avenue by which His wrath might reach the people, or claimed that it was a proven cause! But she would be a fool to ignore any theory that struck her as possibly true.

  Once in the village of Easingwold it was easy to find Peter de Hotter’s shop. He sat outside, with his awning and counter down, rolls of cloth displayed. But rather than seeing to customers, of which he had none at the moment, he was mending a stool.

  ‘God go with you, Master Hotter.’

  The man glanced up, squinting into the sunlight. ‘Do I know—’ His face suddenly brightened. ‘Mistress Merchet. What coaxed you out of the city? The fine day? A thought to escape the sickness out here in the countryside?’

  ‘You bring me here.’ She bent close to add softly, ‘I would speak with you about your father’s death.’

  Peter dropped his tool on to the stool, placed both on the counter and rose. He was a square, fleshy man, about Bess’s height. His eyes, so close to hers, were dark, wary points beneath pale brows. ‘What is your interest in my father’s death?’

  Bess glanced round. ‘Do you have an apprentice who might watch the shop for a time so that we might talk elsewhere? Where none might hear?’

  The merchant moved not a muscle. ‘What is your interest?’

  ‘Well, now. I should think you would not mind remembering your dear father.’

  ‘I do not mind. What I want to know is why you are so keen to speak of him with me that you leave your place of business and come through Galtres to do so. ’Tis not everyone’s choice for a summer’s day, and in these times.’

  His surliness bespoke poor business. Peter had been much pleasanter in the city. Bess revised her approach. ‘My uncle, also a corrodian of St Leonard’s, died recently.’

  Peter did not relax. ‘So the count is at six corrodians now.’

  ‘Aye.’

  He shook his head, walked over to the counter, picked up the abandoned stool, resumed his seat. ‘My father surprised a burglar is all. It has naught to do with the others.’