by Candace Robb
‘Art thou thirsty?’ she asked. ‘Fear dries the throat, eh?’
‘How did you know?’
She smoothed his forehead, her bony hands reassuringly warm, her touch comforting. ‘Thine eyes.’
He reached for her hand and she, in turn, firmly grasped his, her warmth and strength flooding up his arm to his heart. ‘God resides in you,’ he said.
‘Thou hast strange ideas.’ She accompanied the comment with a gentle smile. ‘Rest thine eyes whilst Magda mixes a soothing powder for thy wine.’
‘I was imagining myself climbing the tree to die,’ he admitted to her before he let go of her hand.
‘Hast thou ever thought to take thine own life?’
Thoresby paused, trying to remember. He never answered her questions thoughtlessly. There was something about her that inspired him to search deep within for his answers. He believed that, in doing so, he learned much of value. ‘No. I cannot recall a time when I despaired of finding a way out or grasped at death as an acceptable solution.’
‘Magda thought not.’ She slipped her hand from his and gently felt for his pulse. After a pause, she nodded and let go of him.
Her touch reminded Thoresby of his long ago beloved. He had lain with other women after her, but Marguerite had been able to soothe him with the gentlest touch, or a thoughtful word spoken at the precise moment he needed to hear it. Marguerite. She’d been much in his dreams of late, a sweet presence. He wished he could remember where he’d last hidden her letter. He cursed his failing memory. He had not liked how foolish he felt with Archer, not being certain whether the nun might have stolen the letter.
‘And you, Dame Magda?’ he asked, not wanting her to move on just yet. ‘Have you ever tried to take your life?’
‘A violent death is not a good death. Worst of all, by thy own hand. How might thy spirit ever find rest?’
Thoresby crossed himself. ‘God help all who despair.’
‘But thou knowest Lambert did not take his own life. He was strangled, or so says Bird-eye.’
‘Oh! Yes. I’d forgotten.’ Was that a better death? Then he remembered – it was Michaelo about whom he worried. Caught by his old demon, would his secretary take his own life?
‘Does Michaelo sleep?’ he asked.
‘Aye. Like a babe,’ said Magda.
She withdrew to the table at which she mixed her physicks, set up near the brazier on which a pot of water always steamed. Thoresby closed his eyes and extended his prayer for all those who took their lives, or were in danger of doing so. He had never felt such compassion for those lost souls as he did now. He wondered if there was something he might have done in his lifetime to comfort them, to teach them that God loved and forgave them. When Magda placed a steaming cup in his hands, he was grateful for the warmth.
She settled on her stool, gathering her multicoloured gown about her, and, as she moved the cloth, the flickering light from the brazier made the pattern shift and ripple, as if it had come alive. Sometimes Thoresby imagined the odd movement of her coloured clothing to be a spirit presence that hovered about her, bequeathing her power.
‘Thou must drink it to benefit,’ Magda said, with a gentle smile.
He sipped and found the warm, slightly sweet liquid comforting.
‘I have opened my heart to you about my daughter,’ he said, not wanting her to withdraw into herself. He was not yet comfortable with sleep. ‘Now I would learn something of you. Why do you speak of yourself as “Magda”, not “I”? It is as if you are outside yourself. I don’t understand. I remember your granddaughter, Tola – she did not speak so.’ Magda’s granddaughter had been wet nurse to Lucie and Owen’s son when they had sent the children to the country to escape the pestilence.
‘No, Tola does not speak as Magda does. She has no cause.’
No cause. Thoresby felt a thrill of anticipation as he swallowed a bit more of the warm, sweet concoction. It soothed his throat. ‘I knew there was a tale behind it.’ He fidgeted, seeking a more comfortable position. His back did not like so much lying abed. ‘Would you tell me?’
He sensed her hesitation, though it was brief.
‘Magda Digby once forgot that her gift as a healer was for all folk, not only those she thought worthy folk. She forgot that her opinion must count as naught, that she must step aside from herself. I is not for a healer.’
‘You neglected someone? Refused them healing?’
‘Much to Magda’s shame.’ The pain in her voice moved him.
‘I have conjured bad memories. Forgive me, my friend.’
She patted his arm.
‘I would say you have long since made reparation for your very human error,’ he said. ‘You are remarkable for holding to such an ideal.’ He coughed and silently cursed his weak body, for he was enjoying the conversation.
‘Magda is not remarkable,’ she said, as she tapped the cup to remind him to drink. ‘She is merely a vessel for healing, and she had not surrendered her pride as completely as she should have.’
Thoresby drank again and felt his limbs relaxing. ‘Our duty is difficult to know, Dame Magda. I doubt that many of us ever fully understand our purpose, and, if we do, few of us have the courage to embrace it without occasional rebellions. Even Christ questioned God’s purpose in the suffering he was about to endure.’ His last sentence came out in such a tortured whisper he feared she would not be able to hear it.
She touched his forehead. ‘Magda is glad to hear that this man thou callest a redeemer was not cursed with perfection.’
In the firelight, Thoresby could see her teasing smile. In anyone else, such irreverence would make him uneasy. Perhaps it was that he sensed no malevolence in her?
Magda had just stoked the fire in the brazier and returned to her chair beside Thoresby’s great bed when she felt a draught on her neck. Turning, she could just make out a tall, slender figure enter the room. By the grace of his movements, Magda recognised Brother Michaelo, the black swan. She was accustomed to his nocturnal vigils at his master’s bedside and seldom let him know that she was awake – she rarely slept during the night when sitting with the dying. The patient’s condition could turn suddenly, and she should be awake for that. But, tonight, she had thought him sleeping peacefully in the corner. As the monk drifted down onto a chair near her, she almost gasped aloud at the wave of sorrow and pain that arrived with him, and the cold damp emanating from him. She guessed he’d been lying on the damp stone floor of the chapel, as those devoted to the Christian god often did.
‘Magda is also wakeful,’ she said, in a quiet voice, not wanting to startle him and wake Thoresby.
‘I just wanted to rest in his presence,’ said Michaelo, a great weariness in his voice.
‘It is peaceful here,’ said Magda. ‘Thou hast taken much care in making thy master comfortable in his last days. He is blessed to have thy devotion.’
‘He lifted me out of a terrible darkness. He has been my redemption.’ His voice broke and he covered his face with his hands.
Magda said no more, leaving him to his sorrow, sensing his need for solitude.
Seven
MISSED OPPORTUNITIES
After Midnight and Into Thursday Morning
SHARING ALE WITH Maeve had done nothing to quiet his mind. After leaving the kitchen, Owen had been drawn back into the palace, but the crowd of pallets occupied by snoring servants that lined the corridor outside Thoresby’s chamber reminded him that he would find few awake at this hour. Most had eaten and drunk their fill and would be worthless, even if he could wake them. Still, he had an angry urge to race through the palace waking all and dragging them to the hall to be questioned en masse. How dare they sleep when he could not for fear that more would die? How could they sleep? Did they think they were immortal?
Sybilla and Clarice – is that who Alisoun had seen in the porch? He stepped out into the kitchen yard and discovered Geoffrey sitting on a stool, his ink-stained fingers curled around a bowl from which steam cur
led into the chilly night. He nodded at Owen.
‘Maeve told me you’d just left her.’ He held out the bowl. ‘We can share this, if you like. A tisane of fennel and I’m not sure what else. Maeve assured me it would cool my belly without killing me.’
Owen settled beside him and took the bowl in his hands, letting the steam clear his head, then sipped it before handing it back. ‘You were at the evening meal in the hall?’
‘I was.’
‘Were the ladies Eleanor and Sybilla there?’
Geoffrey nodded slowly, then grunted. ‘Sybilla left early. Very early.’
‘She was in Princess Joan’s chamber afterwards, when I arrived.’
Geoffrey nodded. ‘Not long before you appeared, she returned, rosy-cheeked from a walk outdoors, I presumed.’
‘And Eleanor?’
‘We left the hall together. I was in her company all evening until you arrived in the princess’s chamber. Later, I saw Sybilla in the hall with one of the men who’d ridden to Nun Appleton, and Eleanor was out here in the yard for a while – she enjoys some evening air before she sleeps.’
‘God’s blood,’ Owen groaned in frustration, raking his hands through his hair and then tugging on it as if he could wake his brain. ‘Which one?’
‘I’d heard that the nun you’d caught trespassing in His Grace’s chamber had taken ill while we were in the hall for the evening meal. You don’t think Sybilla responsible?’ He looked incredulous.
Owen told him what Alisoun had seen. ‘Though I’ve also had a disturbing report about Lady Eleanor. One of my guards claims to have seen her leaving the stable with Lambert the night he died.’
Geoffrey crossed himself. ‘Eleanor? Have you spoken to her of this?’
‘No.’
‘I saw you with her in the hall earlier in the evening. Sir Lewis growled to see her look on you with such affection – and you her.’ Geoffrey tilted his head, trying to get a good look at Owen’s expression.
‘I remind her of the time she was free and all happiness seemed possible. Can she be so desperate as to commit murder? Why? How would these deaths benefit her?’
‘The bitter wife, a common theme in courtly discourse. They are usually too despairing to act.’
‘Perhaps Sir Lewis might know more of her situation. Something that might align her with the Nevilles?’
‘I’ll speak with him.’ Geoffrey put a hand on Owen’s forearm and paused, waiting for Owen to look at him. His eyes were serious, his expression concerned. ‘What if she is part of this crime, Owen? Will you forget the past and confront her?’
Owen shuddered to think of it. ‘Reluctantly, Geoffrey. But I will do it if I must.’ He reached for the bowl and took another drink, though he knew his gut was beyond such gentle ministrations. ‘Speak to Sir Lewis and watch them both, would you?’
‘I will. How is the nun?’
‘Master Walter has her sleeping, and I’ve agitated him enough that he’ll watch her closely.’ He handed the bowl back to Geoffrey and rose. ‘I’ll try to sleep now.’
Geoffrey stood as well. ‘I doubt either of us will sleep well.’
‘With two murders and now the nun, how are all those within sleeping so soundly?’
‘They put all their trust in you.’ Geoffrey chuckled at Owen’s expression. ‘I am teasing you. They are all drugged with drink. It is not a natural sleep.’
‘But they do expect my men to keep them safe,’ said Owen. ‘Yet I wonder which of my men are to be trusted. And the now-ailing nun—’
‘She was trespassing, Owen. Remember that.’
‘I’ll have Alisoun sit with her. Michaelo can attend His Grace when Magda is resting. With you watching the ladies, I’ll have a little peace of mind.’
Geoffrey reached up and grasped Owen’s shoulder, looking long and seriously at him, glancing away only as the night’s peace was shattered by a company of drunken singers staggering into the yard from the gardens. ‘To have your trust means much to me, my friend. I’ll do my best to deserve it. And, for the moment, I’ll save you from an encounter with that nasty drunk, John Holand. I saw him and his companions earlier. Hie thee to the stables!’
With a nod of thanks, Owen hurried away from the approaching voices. It was a little heartening to know that carousers were threatening the privacy of any who hoped to slip about unnoticed in the night.
In the stables he lay down, but he could not rest. His heart beat in a crazily uneven staccato, his head buzzed with too many worries battling for prominence, and his skin crawled with anticipation of trouble that could come from anywhere. After what seemed hours of tossing about desperately praying for a comfortable drowsiness to pull him under, he gave up and rose. So be it. He stepped out into the chilly night. Clouds segmented the sky, alternately revealing small fields of stars, hiding others, slowly changing the patterns until Owen felt unsure of the steadiness of the ground beneath him.
Energy built up in him and he began to walk, needing the movement. He found himself just outside the chapel, and stepped within to pray for guidance.
Kneeling before the Lord, he felt humble, lost, insignificant.
Magda had once suggested that his blinding had been the wound that allowed the healer in him to come forth. Now he found himself smirking at the absurdity. He’d been blinded as a sign that he was blind to some kernel of wisdom that would allow him to be whole.
And then he’d been swept up in the service of John Thoresby, against whom he’d proceeded to struggle and fight for ten years, righteously judging the archbishop as a man whose ambition blinded him to compassion, love, the healing of the people in his care.
Jehannes knelt down beside Owen. ‘You are also wakeful?’
Owen nodded. ‘And God seems distracted.’
He could see Jehannes’s smile in the soft light from the sanctuary lamp.
‘He cannot be distracted,’ said Jehannes. ‘You have not the ears to hear at the moment.’
They knelt side by side, silently pursuing their own thoughts, for a long while. When Jehannes finally rose, Owen followed.
‘Sir John Holand woke me,’ said the archdeacon.
‘I heard him as well.’
‘He wanted to know what you intend to do to protect his mother and her ladies, as well as the nuns. He grows more hostile towards us with every mishap. He was furious when he saw poor Clarice being carried in last evening, convinced that she’d been raped and murdered. He has an unsubtle wit.’
‘I count myself fortunate that, for the most part, he’s kept his distance from me.’
‘Perhaps it’s his fortune – or he’s smarter than he behaves. I imagine you would take some satisfaction in thrashing him.’
Owen could not help but chuckle. ‘Oh, that I would.’ He stretched. ‘God watch over you on your journey to York.’
‘I pray that He inspires me, that I do not fail you. Are you certain you want me to return in the afternoon, even if I’ve learned nothing?’
‘Yes. I need you here – there are so few I can trust.’
Jehannes nodded and wished him a good night.
But Owen had no intention of returning to his pallet. He could wait no longer to inquire about Clarice’s condition. Stepping out into the predawn dark, he hesitated. Dame Katherine might yet sleep. But it was no time for courtesy. He resumed his walk across the yard and entered the pallet-lined palace, heading up to the small chamber in the solar where the nuns were lodged. He was relieved to see one of his men standing without, wide awake and ready to challenge him until he recognised Owen.
‘You’re up betimes, Captain.’
‘I haven’t slept.’
‘The physician and the midwife have been wakeful as well. They’ve both come to see the sisters.’
The plump Dame Katherine opened the door looking hollow-eyed and rumpled, her face carrying the pattern of a wrinkled surface on which she’d rested, the lamp in her hand dangerously tipping.
‘What is it, Captain?’ She clu
tched at the neck of her gown as if protecting her throat.
Owen steadied the lamp. She seemed startled by his touch, but she held the lamp steady now.
‘I am concerned about Dame Clarice,’ he said. ‘How is she?’
Katherine shrugged. ‘Asleep. As she was when Master Walter came a little while ago, and Dame Magda before him. Why is everyone so worried?’ The nun shifted to rub the top of a bare foot against the back of her standing leg.
Owen took the opportunity to push past her and into the small chamber.
‘Captain, you should not be in here!’
He ignored her. ‘It did not concern you that she was carried in from the fields in a faint?’ Owen took the lamp from her and set it down on a small table, kneeling to listen to Dame Clarice’s breathing, relieved to find it steady, easy.
‘At Nun Appleton we are accustomed to her fits of temper, Captain,’ Katherine said in a loud whisper. ‘I tried to tell the physician so last night. And that pagan healer.’ She let go of the neck of her gown to cross herself. ‘I would not allow her to touch Dame Clarice.’
Then Katherine was a fool, but so was her abbess to send on such a mission a woman who suffered frequent fits.
‘Despite what you say, you do seem worried,’ he noted. And she was plainly very tired – but then, he was her third visitor. ‘Were you the one who put her to bed?’
‘To be sure, I was! And you should not—’
‘I have reason to believe she might have taken a letter from the archbishop’s chamber. Did you find anything like that?’
Katherine seemed to debate with herself, opening her mouth as if to answer, then looking away. At last she drew out a small parchment from her sleeve, but she hesitated when Owen held out his hand.
‘His Grace is anxious to have it back in his possession,’ said Owen. ‘Have you read it?’
