by Candace Robb
‘So it was she who stole the items and brought them to you?’
‘Aye.’
‘Then you took them to Judith Ffulford – all that you did not put aside for yourself. Did you not trust you would get your share?’
‘Share? I deserved half. How did Judith deserve aught? What did she do but try to hide it from us?’
‘She was your sister.’
‘She was but my half-sister, what did I know of her? She would stand there with the items, never moving until I departed, sneering at me. You need me, she liked to say. That child will be just like her.’
‘What would you do at St Mary’s? Spend your life feeding the hatred in your belly?’
‘I took minor orders.’
‘We shall see about that.’
Anneys lay propped up on pillows. Sweat glistened on her face. She stank of plague. Owen drew his scented sack from his belt, pressed it to his nose.
A lay sister gave Anneys a sip of wine. Much of it dribbled down her chin. ‘Her tongue and throat are swollen, Captain. She should not talk long.’
‘What does it matter?’
With a frown of disapproval, the young woman withdrew to a corner of the room. Owen sat down at Anneys’s bedside.
‘You condemn me before I am tried?’
‘I meant that you are dying.’
Anneys touched his hand. ‘Promise me that a new deed of gift is drawn up, that the treasures are returned to St Leonard’s in my name.’
‘I can promise you nothing.’ In truth, he did not know what Ravenser would do with the items. Nor did he care.
‘You give me no comfort on my death-bed?’
‘You? Who took two men’s lives because you lusted for the riches your lover had stolen?’
‘Who told you I took their lives?’
‘Finn.’
Anneys turned her head away. ‘God blessed me with such loyal children.’
‘Judith and Finn both helped you.’
‘Greed inspired them, not love. Finn ruined it all. Hiding the chess set in that man’s garden. But for that, no one would have questioned the deaths at the hospital.’
‘Why murder Julian and Laurence? You had what you wanted.’
‘Send Don Erkenwald to me. I would be shriven.’
‘I thought God had allowed you this vengeance.’
A shadow of uncertainty in the red eyes. ‘It was a sign from God that Judith was here.’ Anneys coughed, pressed her head back into the pillow. ‘Leave me.’ Her breath was ragged.
Owen bowed to her. ‘This death is far gentler than the execution you deserve.’
The lay sister, who had hurried over to give Anneys some wine, begged Owen to go.
He did so, gladly. Even on the battlefield one saw remorse in the faces of the enemy – but he had sensed none in either the woman or her son.
Don Erkenwald stood without, making a show of speaking with Topas. He quickly broke away from his conversation and joined Owen. ‘Did she confess?’
‘She wants you to hear her confession.’
‘But she is excommunicate. She murdered within the hospital.’
‘She does not seem to know that.’
‘I cannot reveal what she says.’
‘She is guilty, I have no doubt. A cold woman.’
‘You are weary of this.’
‘I am sick at heart. This is when I most miss soldiering. A practice yard is what I need. A straw man to attack until my arms give out.’
‘Have His Grace’s retainers no such place?’
‘They do. But Sir Richard awaits me.’
‘And His Grace.’
‘Jesu.’
Thirty-two
Honouring the Dead
Douglas opened the door to Owen. ‘Sir Richard paces his parlour awaiting you.’
‘I have much to tell him. Is it true His Grace also attends your master?’
‘Yes. And he is in a rage.’
‘You have heard the cause?’
‘A barge with stones for the minster’s Lady Chapel arrived at St Mary’s dock, as is customary for work on the cathedral. But permission to unload has been refused until the day after tomorrow. His Grace and Abbot Campian had words. Apparently the abbot said the city had no need of His Grace’s “self-serving gesture”, that the pestilence was withdrawing from York because of Brother Wulfstan’s selfless work among the dying. And that Wulfstan had given his life for the people— You see the thrust of the insult.’
Owen wished he had witnessed it. ‘Tomorrow they bury Wulfstan. I understand the abbot’s wish to halt such activity until afterwards. His Grace did not?’
‘To be fair, His Grace arrived already in mourning. Queen Phillippa is dead, God grant her peace.’ Douglas bowed his head, as did Owen. ‘His Grace has vowed to complete the chapel in her memory, and by Martinmas.’
‘That was ever a foolish goal.’ Owen took a deep breath. ‘This is my purgatory, Douglas. Announce me.’
Ravenser spun round when Owen was shown in. The master’s dress was not so gay as was his custom, his eyes were bright with tension. ‘So? Is it true? You have the pair who tried to destroy this hospital?’
Owen bowed to him, then Thoresby, who stood with his back to the window that looked out on the garden. ‘I have much to tell, Sir Richard.’
‘You are thirsty?’
‘I am in sore need of brandywine.’
Ravenser nodded to Douglas, who slipped from the room. The master motioned to Owen to sit. Owen glanced at Thoresby, who was still standing.
‘Sit, Archer. Forget that I am here.’
Not something Owen thought possible, but he settled into a cushioned chair; the wagon seat had been far less comfortable than a saddle.
Ravenser settled across from him. ‘I understand Judith Ffulford was the daughter of the woman Anneys. Was it the death of the woman’s son at the orphanage that turned them against St Leonard’s?’
‘Their purpose had naught to do with the hospital, Sir Richard.’ Slowly, in detail, Owen repeated what he had learned about Anneys and Finn.
Ravenser shook his head and drummed his fingers throughout the report, but saved his comments till the end. Such as they were. ‘Faith, she seemed a respectable widow. And he is a clerk, you say? He might have found honest work.’
‘Some folk find thieving easier, Sir Richard.’ Would he not comment on the grim single-mindedness of Anneys, a woman so poisoned with hatred, and the children who accepted it?
‘How did it further their cause to spread scandalous reports of the hospital’s finances?’
Indeed, he was like his uncle, concerned only about his career. ‘That had naught to do with them. I believe it was Honoria de Staines gossiping with her … admirers.’
A sniff from Thoresby’s direction reminded Owen of his presence.
Ravenser glanced at his uncle and reddened. ‘Continue, Captain.’
So the Master of St Leonard’s was embarrassed to discuss this in front of his uncle. Then why had he not seen Owen in private? Puzzling, but distracting. Owen wished to make his report and be done with the wretched business. He told Ravenser of Honoria’s problem with the late mayor, and Cuthbert’s sympathy.
‘So she has kept her vows?’
‘I cannot say that, Sir Richard. She apparently kept company with much of the council at one time or another.’
Ravenser had sunk down into his chair and pressed his temples. ‘Don Cuthbert said she wished to change, to devote herself to God. How could I have believed that?’
Thoresby took a comfortable chair beside Owen, steepled his hands, and proceeded to stare at his nephew.
Ravenser bowed to him. ‘You warned me. I might have been ruined by that harlot. I shall send her back to her father’s house.’
‘And what of Don Cuthbert?’ Thoresby asked.
Ravenser looked startled. ‘What of Cuthbert?’
‘Surely he is no longer to be left in command in your absence?’
‘He is
a good man.’
‘Are you blind? Do you not see how all this is the result of the canon’s poor judgement? Neither Mistress Staines nor the woman Anneys should have been accepted into this hospital.’
For a long moment, Ravenser stared at his uncle. Then he said simply, ‘We shall discuss this later. Cuthbert is not the captain’s concern.’
Thoresby grunted, but settled back in his chair.
Owen thought it a remarkable victory for Ravenser.
‘What of the woman’s health, Captain?’ Ravenser resumed. ‘Is she likely to die of the pestilence?’
‘Aye. There is little hope for her.’
‘Good. But what of this Finn? The city gallows? The minster gallows?’
‘I must speak to you about that.’ Owen relayed Wulfstan’s request.
Ravenser shook his head. ‘Impossible. The man is excommunicate, as is the woman: such is the fate of any who enter any property of the hospital to do violence, or to loot or burgle.’ He almost smiled.
But Owen could not allow Ravenser his comfortable response, even to help him save face with his uncle. ‘I think not, Sir Richard. It seems he entered the hospital grounds only to deliver Brother Wulfstan’s bag to Anneys.’
‘He murdered Hotter in the man’s house, which was deeded to us when he became a corrodian.’
‘Ah. Then you are right, it is impossible.’
‘Perhaps not,’ Thoresby said. ‘It depends on the wording of the deed. The property may have remained in the corrodian’s possession until his death.’
Ravenser did not acknowledge his uncle’s interruption. ‘I do not like this scheme, Captain. Walter de Hotter’s family will not like it.’ He took a deep breath, rose and walked to the window.
Owen gladly allowed him time to consider. The brandywine was easing his aches, and the drama playing out between Ravenser and Thoresby was lightening his mood.
At last Ravenser turned. ‘Given Brother Wulfstan’s years of selfless work for this city, I cannot disregard his wish. But it is not enough that Finn can read; I do not trust that test. I shall look into it, see whether anyone will come forward and support his claim. If so, and if the wording of the deed proves to be in his favour’ – he nodded once in his uncle’s direction – ‘Brother Wulfstan’s wish will be granted. But if the man ever sets foot outside St Mary’s, his life is forfeit.’ He paused. ‘And if there is no proof of his taking orders, or if the deed proves against him, he will hang for breaking the King’s peace. Douglas will write up my decision.’
Owen thought Ravenser more than fair, and said so.
‘You have done well by me, Captain Archer. I am grateful.’
But Thoresby plainly could not believe what he had heard. ‘You would grant the man a comfortable life at St Mary’s in exchange for his prayers? You are no nephew of mine. Of what possible value are the prayers of a thief and a murderer? It is as much an abomination as your allowing harlots to live under your protection as lay sisters. If this man is not excommunicate it is only because of a poorly composed deed.’
Ravenser did not flinch. ‘I have restored peace here in St Leonard’s.’
‘Owen Archer has restored the peace.’
‘Very well. And I am grateful to you for his help. Nor will I go forth with Brother Wulfstan’s wish if I find no proof that Finn is due benefit of clergy.’
‘Benefit of clergy. Every snivelling coward in the land memorises the lines we use as proof.’
‘I have said I shall not accept that.’
Thoresby waved him silent. ‘What of the child’s part in this?’
‘She is a child, uncle. She is to return to her kin, though not the family she lately left.’
‘What a kind man you are. At least Anneys will presumably have the good grace to die before you reward her for her considerable sins.’ Thoresby rose from his chair. ‘Come, Archer. Let us retire to your house and leave Sir Richard to one of his headaches.’
Ravenser held out a hand to Owen. ‘I am grateful, Captain. I shall make it worth your trouble.’ He turned to his uncle, who was already at the door. ‘You will return to dine with me?’
‘Tomorrow. I dine with Archer and Mistress Wilton today.’
Dine with them? It was news to Owen. As he followed the archbishop he wondered how to tactfully ask Who invited you? What do you want? Much puzzled him. It was out of character for Thoresby to allow Owen to witness a family squabble. But most he worried about Thoresby dining at his house. Kate would be frantic. And the household was in mourning. What sort of cheer might they offer His Grace?
He was slightly relieved when Thoresby turned to him at the East Gate and said, ‘Good work, Archer. Godspeed. I have some business to attend to in the city, but I shall follow you shortly.’
Lucie slumped on to the stool in the shop. ‘He could not choose a time when he would be more unwelcome.’
‘I had the same thought. But how does one refuse hospitality to the great John Thoresby?’
‘One does not.’
Jasper, still pale, turned from his customer. ‘Go to Kate, Mistress Lucie. We are not so busy today I cannot manage the shop.’
Lucie pressed his hand, slipped away with Owen. But she did not immediately go to Kate. She pulled Owen down on to a bench along the path to the roses. ‘Come. Tell me all you learned. I would know the outcome of all these troubles. Thoresby’s feast can wait.’
Owen had little desire to repeat what he had just reported to Ravenser, but Lucie had listened so patiently to his worries. And it might distract her. He did not like the shadows beneath her eyes and the tremor in her hands. So he told her all he had learned from Finn and Anneys, and amused her with the conflict between Thoresby and Ravenser.
‘Think how much greater a burden it is to be Thoresby’s nephew than it is to be his steward and spy.’ Lucie rose, pressed her fists into her lower back. She still looked weary, but she smiled. ‘You might take comfort in that.’
‘Small comfort. But, aye, it was good to see him abuse someone else today.’
Lucie’s smile faded. ‘“How might one unwittingly commit a sin? If none suffer but the guilty, has a wrong been done?” I understand the first part now. They could not know Adam Carter would turn back. Nor did they know he had two children. How did Laurence de Warrene and Julian Taverner become involved with such a man?’
Owen put an arm round Lucie’s shoulder. ‘They were younger and hungrier than when we knew them.’ They slowly walked towards the house. ‘Strange that it was Laurence who posed the riddle, but Julian who seems to have felt the strongest guilt.’
‘It seems so to us, but we have only Julian’s account. Laurence may have felt his wife’s poor health was a terrible penance; Matilda took a long time dying.’ Lucie’s voice was sad. She and Matilda had enjoyed trading seeds and clippings from their gardens.
Owen thought to cheer her. ‘They are tending Matilda’s garden at the hospital. She would be proud of it.’
‘I am glad of that.’ Lucie was quiet a moment. ‘You know, in the end, the second part of the riddle was wrong. Not only the guilty suffered. And think what that woman almost did to the hospital that raised the daughter she abandoned.’
‘And what of the penance? Were they responsible for Adam Carter’s death? Or the fate of his leman and children?’
‘That, my love, is a question for our dinner guest.’
‘I think I shall leave it for another day.’
Epilogue
From dawn onwards, all employees of the York Tavern felt the brunt of Bess’s frustration. If perfect cleanliness was possible, they would achieve it this day. Scrubbing, dusting, sweeping, polishing, and Bess herself doing the work of three. She could not believe the ingratitude shown her the previous evening by Owen and Lucie. Shoving her out of the house as if she were any old busybody. For pity’s sake, it was her uncle’s death and his claims about Laurence’s death that had made folk see that something was amiss. And all the days she had sacrificed to assist Owen. Sm
all thanks she received for it.
By midday, she was exhausted. ‘I shall have a rest now, Tom. See that they don’t slacken their pace.’
Up in her bedchamber, she flung open the shutters to get a breeze. It had all begun here, when she had smelled the fire. The sky was blue today, and but for the tolling of St Mary’s bell, it was passing quiet. That was another frustration; after all her effort, Brother Wulfstan had passed away. What was God about these days?
And what was that? She leaned farther out of the window. Merciful Mother, it was His Grace the Archbishop of York coming out of Stonegate into the square with a dark-haired child clutching his left hand, a babe in his right arm. Brother Michaelo walked behind him carrying a large basket. She squinted. The babe had flame-red hair. Bess turned and hurried down the stairs.
‘Tom! You will never guess what the archbishop has returned to us. Stop that noise and listen to me.’
Tom paused with a wooden mallet in mid-air; he was trying to hammer a pewter plate flat once more. ‘What is it, wife?’
‘Gwenllian and Hugh. His Grace has brought them back from the country.’
‘There is a tale to tell in that, I would guess.’
‘I should attend them. See whether they have enough food.’
‘You would do better to wait until summoned.’
But she was already mounting the stairs. A splash to her face, neck and hands, off with the apron and on with one of her beribboned caps and she would be presentable, even to an archbishop.
She arrived in time to witness tearful greetings. Lucie’s were not entirely tears of joy as she clutched Hugh to her.
‘Sir Robert is ill,’ Thoresby was telling her, ‘and thus your aunt and I thought it best the children be brought away from him.’
‘Pestilence?’ Lucie asked in a whisper.
‘No. A chill brought on by a tumble into the pond. It seems he was jousting with Gwenllian.’
The dark-haired two year old sat in her father’s lap, solemnly listening. Owen stroked her hair, curly and wiry as his own. ‘That does not mean you are to blame, Gwenllian.’
She said nothing, but grabbed Owen’s hand and held on tight.
