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

by Candace Robb

  When the door opened, Brother Henry looked in much the same state as Jasper. Only he had been wiping his eyes far longer, Jasper guessed.

  Henry stuck his hands beneath his scapula and shook his head. ‘It is the pestilence, Jasper. I cannot in good conscience allow you within.’

  ‘If God has already chosen me, what can you do, Brother Henry?’ Jasper asked.

  The subinfirmarian did not move. ‘You are apprenticed to an apothecary. Surely you do not believe we are to do naught to help ourselves?’

  Jasper stood firm. ‘I must see him, Brother Henry. My mother did not keep me from my sister when she lay sick with it.’

  ‘And how might she have kept you separated? This is not your home. You have no need to be here.’

  Jasper’s eyes prickled once more with tears. ‘I beg you, let me see him.’

  ‘Do not think me unfeeling, lad.’ Brother Henry touched a cloth to his nose. ‘Does Mistress Wilton know you are here?’

  ‘She does.’

  ‘And she did not try to prevent your coming?’

  Jasper shook his head.

  Henry opened the door and stood aside. ‘So be it. The odour will be unpleasant. I lanced a boil in his groin.’

  The infirmary was dimly lit with oil lamps beside the beds of the ill. There were three patients present: Brother Jonas with an ulcerated sore on his foot; Brother Oswald, who was in the last stages of the Death, his breathing rattling deep in his chest; and Brother Wulfstan. Their beds were at far corners. As Jasper crossed the room, Brother Henry motioned to the novice who sat with Wulfstan to step aside. Jasper’s steps faltered as the odour of the pestilence grew stronger.

  Wulfstan lay with his eyes closed, his hands folded on the coverlet in prayer. The skin on his face was like netting folded up; there was no flesh to smooth out the wrinkles. Jasper knelt beside Wulfstan’s bed, bowed his head, and whispered prayers. Soon he felt what seemed a feather on his head. Brother Wulfstan’s hand. The monk was gazing on him.

  ‘I am glad to see you, my son. But Lucie – does she know you are here?’ Wulfstan’s voice was but a whisper.

  Jasper kissed the old monk’s hand. ‘She did not stop me.’

  Wulfstan pulled his hand away. ‘Have a care.’ His eyes fluttered closed.

  As Jasper waited for Wulfstan to make note of him again, he told him of his day, the remedies he had dispensed, how oddly Mistress Baker had behaved. He had no idea whether Wulfstan could hear and understand. It was not really for Wulfstan that he chattered on. It was for fear he would hear the death rattle in the old monk’s breast. Jasper had recounted his activities of the past three days before Wulfstan opened his eyes once more.

  ‘Has someone gone to John?’ Wulfstan asked in a voice ever weaker.

  ‘Who is this John?’ Jasper asked. ‘Was he in the house where you were taken ill?’ He knew Owen had gone there.

  Brother Henry stepped closer. ‘Thus have I queried him also. Again and again he has mentioned John.’ He bent to Wulfstan, lifted his head and helped him drink. Little went down. His tongue was swollen.

  ‘Remember,’ Wulfstan whispered, his eyes on Henry as the monk lowered him and fussed with his pillows.

  ‘What must Brother Henry remember?’ Jasper asked, bending his head close to the old monk’s lips. ‘Tell me all you can, Brother Wulfstan.’

  Wulfstan’s words were unconnected – the medicine bag, the attack, Spen Lane, lancing, growing too weak to shrive the man.

  ‘I must go to Captain Owen and tell him this,’ Jasper told Henry.

  ‘Have a care. And return in the morning, if you will.’

  ‘If he—’ Jasper took a deep breath, rushed the words, ‘I do not want to come back and find he has gone.’

  ‘I promise you I shall send word if he seems to be failing quickly.’

  Twenty-five

  The Guilt of a Father

  The Mawdeleyns lived near the King’s Fishpond. The muddy banks from which the water receded in high summer stank on hot, sunny days. Bess was thus delighted to be greeted with the scent of meadowsweet when the Mawdeleyn’s daughter opened the door to her. The pleasant scent grew stronger as Bess entered the house, crushing the herb beneath her feet.

  Felice, her wimple and apron snowy white against her olive complexion and russet gown, rose from her spinning to greet Bess with a warm smile. She was a comely woman, graceful in her movements, even-featured, with perhaps more colour than men cared for – except her uncle. ‘I have expected this visit ever since your uncle died,’ Felice said when her daughter had withdrawn after carrying in a flagon of wine and two lovely Italian blue glass goblets.

  Having prepared a speech that would draw Felice out, Bess found herself momentarily at a loss for words. And curious about the goblets. Were not the missing ones blue?

  ‘You have come about Julian, of course?’ Felice asked as she poured.

  ‘I have, Mistress Mawdeleyn, yes, I have. Forgive me. I did not think you would be so …’ She searched for the right word.

  ‘Shameless?’

  ‘Oh, dear me, no! I thought you would fear trouble if we spoke openly, is all.’

  ‘Trouble? Now he is dead? The trouble happened ten years ago.’

  Ten years. An enduring affair. ‘Your husband knew?’

  Felice blushed, but did not lower her eyes. ‘A husband knows when his wife has been bedded, Mistress Merchet. Unless he sleeps in another house and never gazes upon his wife.’ She stood up. ‘I will get his things.’

  ‘His things? What is this? Is that why you thought I came? To collect—’ Bess shook her head. ‘What things?’

  ‘His gifts to me.’ Felice lifted one of the Italian goblets. ‘These were part of a set. He gave the rest to St Leonard’s, but he said he wished to surround me with beautiful things.’

  She and Honoria de Staines. Still, Bess had not known her uncle could be so tender. ‘And so they should remain. I did not come to rob you, Mistress Mawdeleyn, neither of your memories or your gifts. Whatever he gave you he meant for you to have. I came because I hoped you might help me. To be frank, Uncle Julian believed he had been poisoned.’

  The generous lips rounded in surprise, the dark eyes seemed darker yet. Felice slipped back down in her chair with hand to throat. ‘Dear God.’

  Bess believed the emotion to be sincere. ‘Forgive me for distressing you. But I hoped he might have confided in you.’

  ‘Confided?’

  ‘He spoke little of the past to me. I know of naught that might support his accusation. Do you know of any enemies he might have made?’

  Felice lifted her cup to her lips daintily, then took a decidedly undainty drink, head tilted back. When she set down the goblet, Bess saw that it was empty. A clean linen cloth appeared from a sleeve to dab at the full lips. ‘Enemies. Blood enemies, for someone to poison him.’ Felice frowned up at the ceiling. ‘He once told me of something for which he had done penance for many years. But he begged me to keep my silence. Indeed, this spring he reminded me of the need to keep his secret.’

  ‘Surely now he’s dead …’

  Felice considered her hands. She held them so a gold and silver ring caught the light. Undoubtedly another of Uncle Julian’s gifts. ‘If he was poisoned,’ Felice said, ‘I would have his murderer found and punished.’ She raised her head, her chin forward, her eyes sad. ‘In Scarborough, before the death of his wife and daughter, Julian was a smuggler.’

  ‘So I have heard. But it was more like he thieved from the smugglers.’

  ‘I am glad you knew that Julian was not always honest. I did not wish to be the one to tell you.’

  ‘But that was long ago. To what end would any of them come to York at this late date and murder him, as well as Laurence de Warrene and Walter de Hotter?’

  ‘I can think of no cause. And I know nothing of Master Hotter. Julian never spoke of him. I do know that Julian and Laurence de Warrene worked with others from time to time. One in particular was someone who had kno
wledge of the families from whom they stole. Adam Carter. And it was his death for which your uncle did penance for many, many years. He believed that his own wife and child died for his sins.’

  ‘A Carter? One of the Carters of Scarborough? Thieving rogues all of them. He was likely stealing from his own. But why?’

  ‘He called himself a Carter, but he was a bastard. His father would not acknowledge him – though he thought to ensure Adam’s future by employing him. Which to a proud man was applying vinegar to the wound.’

  ‘And so he stole from his father?’

  ‘With Julian and Laurence.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He took ever greater risks. Julian and Laurence had families. They were more cautious. One night the tide caught them still struggling along a cliff with a barrel. Julian and Laurence abandoned it. Adam began to follow them, but turned back and tried to save it. He was caught by the tide. Julian and Laurence did not realise what had happened until Adam’s body washed up on the shore.’

  ‘Faith, a terrible thing. But I cannot see how his greed was their fault.’

  ‘Julian did not at first either. But when his wife and daughter were lost at sea, he saw it as a sign from God. That is why he worked among the victims of the pestilence. It was his penance.’

  Bess did not speak for a time. She had known of their deaths, had known of her uncle’s penance, but she had not understood why he blamed himself.

  Felice poured more wine, then sat twisting the ring on her finger round and round. ‘What made it all the worse was that Laurence had kept Adam’s booty in his house. The Carters would have grown suspicious had Adam openly owned things he could not afford on his pittance of a wage. He had planned someday to leave Scarborough, taking the lovely things he had hoarded with him. When he died, Julian and Laurence shared his spoils.’ Felice lifted her goblet. ‘These were Adam Carter’s. When I first heard the story, I urged Julian to give the rest of the man’s treasures to St Leonard’s.’

  Bess found it a disturbing tale. ‘And did my uncle give them to the hospital?’

  Felice’s eyes were sad. ‘I believe he did. He was a good man, Mistress Merchet.’

  ‘I had always thought him so.’ Of late she had not been so certain. ‘Adam Carter’s hoard. Would it have included altar cloths and an ivory chess set?’

  ‘Why? Do they have something to do with Julian’s death?’

  ‘Mayhap.’

  Felice ran her finger down the side of the goblet, seemingly studying it with great intent. After a long pause, she returned to Bess. ‘I remember nothing about an altar cloth. But Julian once offered me a chess set. I know not whether it was ivory. Or if it was part of Adam’s things. I told Julian my family had no leisure to learn such games.’

  ‘I must tell you, it was a relief to learn it was you and not Honoria de Staines my uncle cared for.’

  The full lips twitched, then broadened into a smile. ‘He cared for both of us, but in different ways. He thought of Honoria as his daughter. And she broke his heart.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘He was scandalised by her affairs – she knew a goodly portion of the town council. I believe it is why her husband left her.’

  ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘Her lovers have good reason to be discreet, Mistress Merchet.’

  Bess rose, feeling she had imposed on the woman long enough. ‘Mistress Mawdeleyn, you have been patient with me. I am glad that my uncle has someone like you to mourn him.’

  ‘I do mourn him, Mistress Merchet.’

  When Bess had taken her leave, she walked back through the city with no eye for the folk round her. Her thoughts were with her uncle. So many years he had lived in the city, so many times they had shared an ale and talked of this and that. And never had he told her of Honoria, Felice, or Adam Carter, or offered her an ivory chess set. She wondered what other treasures he had shared with his women.

  Twenty-six

  Tidal Waters

  Staying well back in the shadow of the poor people’s shacks near the bank, Anneys and Alisoun studied the Riverwoman’s rocky island. No smoke rose from her chimney, the door was shut, and, most importantly, Magda Digby’s boat lay becalmed in the mud beside the rock. But it would not be for long. The incoming tide surged up the Ouse and already the tops of the waves broke on the rock on which Magda’s house sat.

  Anneys made a disapproving noise deep in her throat. ‘Not much of a boat. Is it watertight?’

  ‘The Riverwoman rowed it upriver with Captain Archer to bury my family,’ Alisoun said. ‘Wait here while I make certain she is away.’

  Anneys sank down on to a piece of driftwood, wiped her forehead. ‘You will need me.’

  ‘What if she is there? How do I explain you?’

  ‘And if she is there, what will you do?’

  ‘Find another boat.’

  ‘We have no time!’ Anneys’s voice was a weary whine.

  ‘Then we shall wait until the next high tide. You sound as if you need a rest.’

  Anneys slapped Alisoun’s face. ‘Stubborn, insolent child.’

  Alisoun rubbed her cheek. ‘Stay here.’

  She cursed the woman under her breath as she crossed the water. Anneys behaved as if she were sorry she had helped her. But it was Anneys who had offered. It was Alisoun who should be sorry she had accepted Anneys’s help. Would she have stolen the boat before Magda’s eyes? Alisoun would not. She liked Magda Digby. She had no intention of keeping the boat. Her plan was to take it upriver, collect the treasures, and return the boat to Magda. They must come back to see whether Finn still lived, and take him with them if he did.

  Alisoun made a circuit of the strange house of the Riverwoman. The upside-down dragon gave her pause; it seemed coiled to strike. But she was not so silly to believe it could. When she had listened at the door and peered in one of the small windows, she was satisfied that the boat could be taken without incident. Already the rising water rocked it back and forth. Soon it would be afloat.

  Jasper raced to St Leonard’s, but Owen and Erkenwald had already left with stretcher-bearers. His heart was beating hard as he raced down Petergate to St Saviourgate. It was just outside the house on Spen Lane that he found them. Panting, he told them what he had gleaned from Wulfstan about the sick man.

  Don Erkenwald turned to Owen. ‘Perhaps you will have need of me as a canon as well as a digger.’

  ‘Aye. And a fighter, mayhap. The day is young.’ Owen pressed Jasper’s shoulder. ‘Go home to Lucie. Tell her all you have learned.’

  ‘I could help you.’

  ‘At the moment, she needs you more, Jasper.’

  Jasper thought of her alone in the shop, worried about Wulfstan, about Owen, about himself. ‘All right.’

  Erkenwald adjusted the girdle that rode beneath his barrel stomach, squared his shoulders. ‘Best that I enter first. If he is there, he will perhaps be grateful to see a man of God. At least he might pause before attacking.’

  Owen slipped his dagger out of its sheath. ‘We shall wait just without the door.’ Two lay brothers accompanied them with a stretcher.

  Erkenwald also unsheathed his weapon, then, with his left hand on the latch, he turned. ‘It is many years since I tested my courage in such a way, Captain. God grant that I do not fail you.’

  A slight smile on the man’s lips reassured Owen. ‘You will not.’

  The canon opened the door quietly, slipped within, leaving it ajar.

  It was the waiting that was difficult. Owen strained to hear, but a noisy cart rattled down the lane, then a woman shouted for her child. At last, Erkenwald’s almost bald head poked out. ‘A man lies asleep up in the solar. The house is vile with pestilential vapours. Yet his blankets are clean, he has food, wine and water. Someone has cared for him.’

  Wulfstan had been too ill to do so much for the man. ‘Are you certain he is alone?’

  ‘He is alone in the house,’ Erkenwald said. ‘I did not search the kitchen behind t
he house. Do you want to do that while I pray over the man?’

  ‘You will wake him?’

  ‘If he can be waked. How else is he to confess his sins?’

  ‘You might need my help.’

  ‘As I said before, I think it best he is certain of my peaceful intentions before he sees your scarred face.’

  Owen looked at the canon’s partial earlobe and the scar that puckered his chin. ‘You think your robes hide your scars?’

  Erkenwald touched his earlobe. ‘A patch is easier to see.’

  There was no denying that. ‘Go up. Steps or a ladder?’

  ‘Ladder. I shall carry him down.’ Erkenwald pushed the door wide, retreated to the ladder.

  Owen motioned for the lay brothers to follow him within. ‘Wait below. I shall search the kitchen.’

  As he stepped into the dusty main room, Owen smelled the stench of pestilence. Out of habit, he pulled his scented pouch from his belt. But that gave him no free hand. He put it away with a prayer for his safety, listened to Erkenwald climb. The floorboards creaked and groaned as the canon stepped off the ladder and moved across the solar. Then silence.

  Owen made a circuit of the room, memorising the placement of windows and doors, the few pieces of furniture. Then he stepped out of the back door. The kitchen was a conical building with two unglazed windows and a flimsy door in need of repair. It was shielded from the house by a pear tree heavy with green fruit. Crouching down, Owen crept across the packed mud and gradually rose beside one of the windows, peered in. Little light, but he neither sensed nor saw any movement. He dropped down, crossed to the other window. Again, nothing. He eyed the door. It was so crooked on its hinge it would be difficult to open. He studied a long gouge in the ground at one edge of the doorway – where the door would swing out. Until recently the door had stood ajar.

  He decided to slip in through one of the windows, a quieter entrance. Bread baskets brushed his head from the rafters as he eased through, something small skittered across the floor. The room had a layer of dust as thick as the one in the house and a sickly sweet stench of rotten meat. Not a room in which he wished to linger. He did see one useful item. A rope coiled in a corner. He lifted it, shook out a mouse, and slipped the coil up his arm to his shoulder. Near a trestle table, just visible in the light from one of the windows, was a dark, damp area in the rushes where something had spilled of late. But the hearth was cold, no smoke lingered in the air. Satisfied, Owen climbed back out.