by Candace Robb
‘You came in your own good time, Archer.’ His sunken eyes were difficult to read, but the irritation in his deep voice was quite clear.
‘I was filthy, Your Grace, and I did not wish to insult you with my state, so I washed.’ It was a safe lie, for Thoresby had an unusual fondness for bathing. Owen bowed to him and then took his seat beside a small table set with bread, cheese, and ale. ‘Your Grace is kind to think of me.’
To Owen’s surprise, Thoresby broke out in deep-bellied laughter.
‘Kind? I did not think I would live to see the day when you called me kind.’
‘You are in a better humour than I expected.’ Owen wondered why Brother Michaelo had misled him. But it was a passing thought as he reached for the food; it was always a boon to be offered the hospitality of Maeve’s kitchen. He broke off a piece of the crumbly cheese and popped it into his mouth, followed by Maeve’s unparalleled pandemain, the softest, whitest bread under heaven.
‘Do you know about yesterday’s tragedy on the Abbey Staithe, Archer?’ Thoresby asked, serious once more. He poured water and wine from delicate flagons of Italian glass into a matching goblet, then sat back in his throne-like chair to sip it.
Owen had not seen the flagon and goblet set before. As he washed down with the strong ale what he’d managed to eat so far he wondered whether the mayor was still trying to win Thoresby’s trust with valuable gifts.
‘The abbey infirmarian sent for me,’ said Owen. ‘And Jasper had been on the staithe when Drogo went into the Ouse. I’ve not yet spoken to the bargemen.’ He went down the list of what he knew so far.
Thoresby interrupted only when Owen came to Nicholas Ferriby’s unfortunate timing.
‘Do you believe it was pure chance?’
‘More than likely, Your Grace. Why would a guilty man risk stepping close to the man? But the fact is, Drogo was not yet dead at that point. It was hardly a miracle that his wounds bled. It is the way of crowds, forgetting their wits in their excitement.’
‘I don’t want the outcry about that incident to become part of the conflict between Ferriby and St Peter’s School,’ Thoresby said.
‘How would it?’
Thoresby held his goblet with both hands and swirled the contents as he gazed down at it. ‘Such a crime would seal Nicholas Ferriby’s damnation – a scandal for both the clerical Ferribys. William would also suffer.’ He glanced up at Owen. ‘You think I’m losing my wits.’ He sighed. ‘I’m slower, more tired, but my wits are in order, Archer.’ He rose with a grunt and crossed over to the window, his simple clerical robes hanging loosely on his tall, increasingly gaunt frame. ‘They cannot understand why I count Ferriby’s school as nothing more than an annoying flea in the minster liberty, perhaps not even so much. They should have made certain of my support before threatening him with excommunication. It carries no weight without my support, and now they are angry with me.’
‘They might recall your censoring the opening of a song school in the city, Your Grace.’
‘You know that was different, Archer. The song school is a Church affair. A grammar school is useful to all who would enter a trade, learning reasoning, reading, a little writing.’
Owen did see the difference. ‘I am surprised that the dean supports the chancellor’s excessive anger.’ As it was the chancellor’s role in the liberty to oversee the grammar and song schools, it was understandable that a rival school might anger him. But Owen would have thought the dean would have a cooler head. ‘Would the Pope agree with this even if you were to support them? Is holding a rival grammar school such a terrible sin against the Church?’
Thoresby turned from the window, smiling. ‘Of course not. But they’ll use the incident with Drogo against Ferriby. They’ll find a way, mark me, Archer.’
Owen thought it best not to mention the grammar master’s Wycliffite opinions. Thoresby would only resent his giving him a reason to question his support of Nicholas. ‘That someone mortally wounded Drogo is of more concern to the folk of this city,’ said Owen. ‘The lad whose scrip is at the centre of all this must be found.’
‘Indeed,’ said the archbishop, thoughtfully nodding. ‘I am aware that the lad might be in danger.’
Owen had been ready to argue that point, as was his custom with Thoresby. Sometimes he wondered whether Thoresby’s contrariness had always been a game meant to irk him.
Returning to his chair, the archbishop took up his cup, sipped, and then asked, ‘What is your plan?’
He decided to be glad of the archbishop’s improved attitude. ‘The lad’s almost certainly not in the city, and from what Jasper tells me it’s quite likely he’s tried to return home. He might have learned that his father survived La Rochelle and has gone home. Master John of St Peter’s has received no reply to the message he sent to the lad’s mother, but then Master Nicholas, her parish priest, is not there to read it to her. I propose to head to Weston in the hope that the lad is at home, or if he is not to search the countryside between here and Weston.’
‘And if you find no trace of him?’
‘Perhaps his parents might suggest another likely place. But if not …’ Owen shrugged, not at present having a further plan. ‘At least we’ll have tried all we could think to do.’
‘Yes.’ Thoresby shifted a little. ‘What might the lad have carried? Have you any idea?’ He sought Owen’s good eye and held his gaze.
‘None,’ Owen admitted. ‘Anything that would fit in a lad’s scrip and is of value to someone. That is little to go on.’
‘A fool’s errand, going to Weston?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Take horses from my stables,’ said Thoresby, ‘and what men you see fit to accompany you. I would offer my barge, but I think the River Wharfe has too many rapids for it.’
Owen had hardly expected such a generous offer as the barge. He was a little sorry that it wasn’t appropriate for the journey. ‘Aye. It is not so navigable as the Ouse. Who will you be taking with you to Bishopthorpe?’
‘You need not concern yourself with that in choosing men. I intend to remain in York until this matter is settled. I don’t like the idea of Ferriby being made a scapegoat for the minster’s financial problems. If they need more money for the upkeep of the school they should raise fees or accept more students, not threaten a good man with excommunication.’
‘Is that at the bottom of your support? Not the lad’s fate?’
‘Both their fates are at present intertwined, Archer. Now who will accompany you?’
‘Not Alfred. He’s of more use to me here, in charge. I’ll take Rafe and Gilbert.’
Thoresby nodded. ‘Do you know young Hubert de Weston by sight?’
‘I’d thought of that. No, I don’t, but Jasper knows him, and his presence would be reassuring to the lad.’
‘You might take Nicholas Ferriby,’ Thoresby suggested. ‘There is no need to involve more in your household.’
‘Jasper already feels a part of all this, Your Grace. He’s fond of Hubert, and remembers how he felt when his father died.’
‘You don’t trust Ferriby,’ said Thoresby.
‘If that were true I would not have sent Alisoun to his school. Even so, whether or not I trust him is beside the point, Your Grace.’
‘Do you think Drogo’s bleeding was a sign of Ferriby’s guilt?’ A hint of a smile played on the archbishop’s thin lips.
‘No. But his imprudent decision about the grammar school –’ Thoresby had touched on something Owen had been trying to ignore – ‘I do question his motives now.’ And I worry about what he’s teaching. ‘But there was no bleeding corpse, Your Grace. Drogo was alive.’
‘So be it,’ Thoresby said. ‘I am counting on you to save my friend Emma Ferriby from more grief.’
So that was his interest in this. Lucie’s good friend was the daughter of an old, very dear friend of the archbishop’s. His death the previous year had aged Thoresby even more than had the death of Queen Phillippa, whom he’d wors
hipped. Owen and Lucie had both become involved in the aftermath of Sir Ranulf’s death, and he understood why Thoresby wished to spare the family.
‘Emma considers her brother-in-law a fool for placing his school in the liberty,’ said Owen.
‘He is still her husband’s brother,’ said Thoresby. ‘I want this settled as quietly and as quickly as possible.’ The fire was visible in his eyes now.
Owen emptied his cup of ale.
Thoresby rose. ‘I’ll tell Michaelo that you will be choosing some horses from the stables, and he’ll prepare a letter of introduction for you. It might be helpful to talk to the family’s landlord, Baldwin Gamyll.’
Owen bowed. ‘Your Grace.’
‘Do not disappoint me, Archer.’
‘That is not my intention I assure you, Your Grace. I shall do my best; the rest is in God’s hands.’
Thoresby grunted and waved him out the door.
The archbishop rarely took Owen’s faith as sincere. It was one of many aspects of their relationship that puzzled Owen, that Thoresby trusted him, counted on him, but considered him a man of little faith.
As he stepped out into what had become a sunny but chilly day, Owen decided not to leave the minster liberty at once, but to stop at the lodgings of Nicholas Ferriby. He assumed the man was not still hiding in the abbey.
Unfortunately, Nicholas already had a guest, his brother Canon William.
Nicholas gestured to Owen to take a seat by the brazier. His brother had taken the one seat with a back, which Owen guessed to be the schoolmaster’s chair during the school day. The room was tidy except for a cupboard from which books, papers, rolls poked out every which way, giving the impression that the knowledge was reaching out into the room to grab the nearest mind.
Nicholas settled down near him. The sweat on his brow and upper lip belied his assurance that he and William had been idly chatting and welcomed another participant. Something uncomfortable had transpired between them, Owen thought.
‘This is a pleasant room,’ said Owen. ‘My children’s nurse, Alisoun Ffulford, is one of your scholars and speaks highly of your skill in teaching.’
The schoolmaster forced a smile. ‘Alisoun. Yes. She has a quick mind, Captain. I am gratified to hear she speaks well of my little school. I am delighted to have several young women attending.’
After a pause, in which Owen tried but failed to come up with a comment that could not be construed as referring to his troubles with the dean and chancellor, Nicholas filled in the silence.
‘Did Archbishop Thoresby assign you to guard me, Captain?’ he asked. ‘The crowd was vicious last night. Vicious.’ He pressed his hands together and shook his shoulders as if shivering. It was an incongruously comical gesture as it was plain in his eyes and voice that he was upset.
‘I heard, yes, but they were clearly wrongheaded – the man was still alive. Did you know Drogo?’
The schoolmaster shook his head, wide-eyed and quick to add, ‘Why would I?’
‘I thought perhaps you might have the occasion to travel by boat between Weston and York and might have had occasion to hire him as pilot.’ Owen did not actually believe this, but he thought he might see something in the man’s response.
‘A costly means of travel,’ William noted, ‘and slow, considering the weirs and rapids on the River Wharfe. It would waste time.’ Weston sat on the Wharfe’s north bank west of Leeds.
Owen was disappointed to learn nothing from Nicholas’s reaction. ‘So you’d never met Drogo, but you stepped up to say prayers over him last night?’ Owen allowed his tone and frown to add that he found that puzzling.
‘I am a priest, Captain.’ Nicholas’s voice cracked slightly, and he blushed and glanced away. ‘I would do so for any poor soul.’
‘For that I can vouch,’ said William. The canon was a quiet, expressionless man, quite a contrast to his brother.
Owen pretended to be satisfied. ‘My business is with Hubert de Weston, whose lost scrip seemed to be at the core of this trouble. The lad’s been missing a week. As you are pastor of Weston I wondered whether you might have had news of him.’
Nicholas shrank back a little, and had begun to shake his head when William spoke up.
‘My brother saw his father at Mass on Sunday, didn’t you, Nicholas?’
A pale nod met this betrayal. Owen wondered why Nicholas had not wished him to know the father was safely at home. ‘I did see Aubrey de Weston, yes. But not young Hubert.’ He avoided looking at William.
Owen wondered whether Nicholas hadn’t wanted to reveal that he’d been in Weston the previous Sunday, or whether he was merely picking up echoes of the brothers’ conflict.
‘It would have been a kindness to tell Master John of St Peter’s that Hubert’s father was safe at home.’
‘Tell Master John?’ Nicholas sputtered. ‘I am hardly one to say anything to Master John at present, though he is not as vicious as the dean and chancellor.’ He glared at his brother, who dropped his blank gaze to the floor.
A mere courtesy might go a long way to soothing tempers, thought Owen, but he went straight to his purpose. ‘I’ve come to ask the way to the lad’s home.’
‘You’re off to Weston?’ asked William.
‘I am.’
‘But why, Captain?’ Nicholas asked.
‘In the hope of finding the lad and talking to him about Drogo,’ said Owen. ‘So. Can you tell me how to find him? And the Gamyll manor?’
‘Why the Gamylls?’ Nicholas asked.
‘As a courtesy. I’ll be on their land.’
‘But of course,’ said Nicholas, and pulling a wax tablet from a stack nearby he drew a map.
As Owen left the minster liberty he found himself anxious to arrive in Weston before something more happened. He was quite certain that Nicholas had not wished to be completely open with him, but why he felt that he was not sure. He would have Alfred keep an eye on him.
Three
JOURNEYS
Several days earlier, Hubert de Weston had approached his home with caution. Despite being hungry, thirsty and sore of foot, he’d hesitated to make himself known to his mother, for the closer he’d come, the more he’d doubted she’d be glad to see him. She had insisted that he return to school, believing that with an education he would be ensured a good life. So she would not be happy that he’d run away. But he would be so relieved to see her – that was his goal, and to make sure that she was all right. Then he could return to school with a clear conscience, though he dreaded the journey back. He’d also dreaded discovering that his mother was not well, or – he’d feared even imagining ‘the something worse’ because if evil thoughts were sins then thoughts had power, just as charms did. He’d crossed himself and prayed that his mother was well, that the cross he’d lost did not have the power of a charm.
On his approach a rhythmic sound had caught his attention – it was like something sliding and thumping, sliding and thumping, and he’d recognised it as the sound of chain mail being rocked, spun in the rocker barrel with wood chips and oil. But Aubrey had taken all his chain mail with him. Hubert had had a sinking feeling in his belly as he’d considered the possibility that his father was alive and here. This was not the something worse that he’d feared, but it was bad enough.
He’d pressed his palms against the house and prayed that he would find his mother rocking something other than chain mail, that her cheeks would be rosy with the cold air and her eyes bright, and that she would turn towards him and light up with joy at his coming. Then he’d peered around the corner and seen Aubrey about ten paces from the house, his face screwed up in anger, his lips moving in a silent rant as he’d turned the rocking barrel on its stand. Hubert had imagined he was cursing about doing his own work; he was never satisfied with his family, never.
‘Aubrey?’ His mother’s voice had come from the house – she must be at the door.
Hubert not only had not stepped forward to see around the corner, he’d retreated a l
ittle, unsure he wanted either of his parents to see him yet.
‘Husband,’ she’d called out in a stronger voice tinged with irritation.
Aubrey had not stopped turning the handle at once, but he’d slowed and looked up at Ysenda, who had now stepped out far enough into the yard that Hubert could see her. She wore a coil of rope dangling on one arm, like a huge, clumsy bracelet.
‘May I go to collect firewood?’ She’d been trying to keep her tone humble, but Hubert could hear the angry edge.
‘No, damn you, woman. I’ll fetch it.’ Aubrey had stopped turning and kicked the rocker. ‘You can finish cleaning the mail. And do it right. It might lie in the chest for years now, till Hubert is summoned by Osmund Gamyll to fight by his side, as I was by Sir Baldwin.’ They were Sir Baldwin’s tenants, and owed him service when the king summoned him.
Hubert had almost laughed out loud, trying to imagine Sir Baldwin’s son going to battle. In truth he feared and despised Osmund Gamyll and dreaded a time the man would be his lord.
‘I know where the storms have torn at the trees, Aubrey,’ said Ysenda. ‘There is no need for you to quit your work when I can find the wood faster than you could.’
‘I said I’ll gather the wood.’ Aubrey had snatched at the rope.
Ysenda had hurriedly slipped it off her arm before he tugged too hard and had handed it to him.
Hubert hated how his father treated his mother like a prisoner. She had a temper, especially when she’d been drinking, but she was the mistress of the house and needed to go about her duties. Aubrey did not like her going to Sir Baldwin’s wood for fuel, he did not like her going to market, he did not even like her to go to Mass without him. So she sneaked out more often than not, which was the cause of most of their arguments, though Hubert was certain that had she not gone out they would have argued about there being no food, no drink, no fuel for the fire. Aubrey was a fool to fuss about her going to the wood after he’d been away so long. He must realise she’d been fetching for herself all that time, at least when Hubert was in school.
