The Guilt of Innocents (Owen Archer Book 9)

by Candace Robb

  Rafe was shaking his head, but Owen did not intend to miss the opportunity to have the lad close at hand. ‘We will come for him in the morning,’ he said.

  As they walked towards the horses, Jasper asked, ‘Did you think they were hiding something?’

  ‘Half truths and poor play-acting,’ said Owen. ‘You have a good nose for this, son.’

  Jasper looked pleased. ‘What will we do now?’

  ‘I would like to talk to someone at the Gamyll manor. We might even find Aubrey de Weston there.’

  ‘Hubert hates him.’

  ‘I noticed.’

  Rafe and Gilbert were discussing Ysenda’s charms when Owen and Jasper joined them by the horses.

  ‘It’s a sin for a man to hit such a beautiful face,’ Rafe said.

  ‘But not a plain one?’ Owen asked, releasing the reins of his horse. ‘Come, men. We’ve more to do before sundown.’ His men often irritated him with their empty chatter, but he disliked it even more when Jasper was there to hear it.

  As he sat on his horse waiting for Rafe to get his bearings, Owen glanced back at the house. Someone stood at the door, peering out. He thought about Ysenda’s obvious fear and prayed he was not a fool to leave them alone for the night.

  * * *

  The great stone walls encircling York stopped on either side of the Ouse, a tidal river that ebbed and flowed, and flooded whenever the myriad streams in the moors and dales ran fast with melting snow or heavy rains. All vessels on the part of the river bisecting the city rode the changes, high in the water when the tide was in, trapped in the mudflats at very low tides. To live on such a watercourse or along its banks was to internalise the one certainty in life – that nothing was permanent.

  Magda Digby, midwife, healer, a gifted woman of youthful old age, lived in a house capped with an upside-down Viking vessel as if ever ready to carry her away on a flood. New acquaintances inevitably suggested that, but Magda only smiled, never explaining her choice of roof. Her home sat on a rock near the north shore just outside the city walls and beyond the Abbey Staithe, upriver from the city, downriver from the Forest of Galtres. At high tide the rock became an island, and in floods the dried reeds she’d spread on the floor inside were often swept away. Yet the structure stood, as if it were hovering over the rock, or was an insubstantial mirage. The dragon on the prow, glaring upside down towards land, added to the mystery of the house.

  Her ever-shifting ‘yard’ suited Magda. It was as changeable as the folk she tended. In flood time she hoisted her few pieces of furniture up to the rafters and went journeying, gifting the housebound and the lonely with her presence. She saw no reason to cling to her rock and worry. If her home were swept away, then she would seek another that suited her. It was not perfect. She knew full well there was no such thing as perfection.

  Out on her rock she felt free to go about her life according to her own moral code. She was not a Christian; she followed her own spiritual path. A few considered her dangerous, imagining that she cast spells. Only a few. Those timid about seeking healers within the city or their towns or villages knew where to find her, and trusted that their secrets were safe with Magda. She turned no one away if they appeared to be in need – she did not rely on their requesting aid, but watched their eyes and the flow of their movements, listened closely to their breath as they spoke. She often understood what people needed long before they did.

  November was often a travelling time for Magda, but the stormy season had been quieter than usual, so she was still in residence. By late afternoon the dusk seemed but a continuation of the sunless day. It was that hour when, weary and oddly disoriented, the carpenter hammered his own finger, the tawyer spilled the alum, the cordwainer pricked himself, the apothecary mismeasured, the confessor momentarily nodded off and missed the sinner’s most anxious confession. Magda Digby stepped out of her dim, smoky house to rest her eyes and enjoy the braw wind she’d noted gusting occasionally through the chinks in the wattle and daub and down the smoke hole. The snow of the previous day had warmed and soaked into the earth, but it felt as if more might fall. Once she’d studied the sky and reckoned the time, she moved her gaze to the river, noticing that the water was being forced upriver against the current – the tide was coming in.

  It was carrying something that she did not like to see. Upon the roiling waters a body bobbed towards her, pushed towards shore on the incoming tide. The water moved the limbs gracefully, if unnaturally.

  An uninvited visitor, and the beginning of much trouble, Magda thought. She fetched her shepherd’s crook and placed herself where she might attempt a capture. She could see now that the body was that of a man. It gave her pause, for she was short, and though strong enough for a woman of her size, she might be overwhelmed by the man’s greater weight. But a few moments more or less meant the difference between life and death in the cold currents. Taking a deep breath she braced herself, stretched out the crook, and managed to hook him by an armpit. She used the cooperative motion of the water to her advantage, slowly guiding him towards her, and then patiently waited until another strong surge lifted him enough that she was able to manoeuvre the body onto her rock.

  Sitting back to rest a moment, she checked the water for signs of other bodies, or debris from a capsized boat. But she saw nothing else amiss.

  Crouching down to him, she noted he wore well-made clothes, nothing fancy. She did not recognise him. More important at present was his condition. His eyes were closed. She put one hand to his neck, feeling for a pulse, while gently opening one of his eyes with the other. She felt a faint heartbeat, which tempted her to hurry. But before turning him over to push the water from his lungs, she took a good look at him so that she did not unwittingly ignore anything that needed her attention. His left sleeve was slashed on the forearm and stained with blood. Leaning closer, she saw that it was a clean, fresh cut. Now she turned him over and found the smaller, but far more sinister slash in the upper back of his tunic, between the shoulder blades. Blood stains radiated outward like the rays of the sun, but this was a dark, dark thing. She massaged the water out of his lungs, unable to prevent the blood from oozing. She did not like his losing more blood, but it was more important that she help him breathe deeply and cleanly than stanch his blood. She searched her memory for a match to his face, gradually realising that she’d known him as a lad, which was why his face was both familiar and unfamiliar. Nigel.

  As water dribbled from his mouth Magda felt a shiver travel through him, but it was weak, and she reckoned such a feeble spark would not carry him through the night. The temptation to hurry faded in her. There was nothing for her to do but make his last hours as comfortable as she might.

  His eyelids fluttered. ‘I am thirsty,’ he said, weakly lifting his arm as if to catch her attention. ‘So thirsty.’

  Such a weak voice, Magda thought. ‘Thou has been in the Ouse,’ she said, speaking to hold him present. ‘Thou hast had thy fill of water. But Magda will bring thee something good to sip.’

  With visible effort, his jaw clenching, he opened his eyes a little, but fell back at once, and seemed to sink deeper within.

  Sitting back on her heels, Magda considered his condition. Such a wound would have bled greatly, even more so if the heart was pierced. No wonder there was so little life left in him. The river had washed away much of his blood. There would always be some of this unfortunate man in the Ouse.

  He was the bailiffs’ business now. She spied two boys on the north bank watching her.

  ‘Is it a floater?’ one boy cried.

  ‘Aye. Fetch Magda a bailiff, lads. And a priest.’

  Nudging one another with excitement, the pair nodded and ran off, apparently comfortable that the victim was none of their kin.

  Innocence gave them a pragmatism they’d lose all too soon. Magda sighed and wondered whether she should find another to send for Owen Archer. But she need not. He would know soon enough. She sensed that Nigel’s injuries were connected to the d
eath of the pilot Drogo. She felt it in her bones.

  She crouched beside the man and lifted his head, dripping some wine into his mouth. He took little, and she saw that he was too near death to benefit from more prodding and discomfort. Gently rolling him in some warm hides, getting him close to the house and beneath the eaves, she went back inside to her work.

  In Weston they had learned the way to Sir Baldwin’s manor, and now, in the waning light, Owen and his party rode there. The snow had stopped, but the wind was the sort that rattles the bare tree limbs and carries a memory of wolf calls. Owen prayed that they were welcomed at the manor for the night, even an outbuilding would do. If they must make camp outside the fire would take much tending on a night such as this.

  Dogs sounded their approach, rushing out from the stables. A leather-clad man with the straight, strong bearing of a fighting man followed the dogs out into the yard. He calmly watched the four come to a halt.

  ‘What trouble brings armed men into my yard?’ he asked with authority but no malice.

  Owen dismounted, assisted by a groom who had hurried out from the stables.

  ‘I am Owen Archer, captain of Archbishop Thoresby’s guard, and this is my son Jasper, and my men Gilbert and Rafe.’ From beneath his travelling cloak Owen drew the letter of introduction that Michaelo had provided. ‘Am I speaking to Sir Baldwin Gamyll?’ One of the dogs circled tightly around him, sniffing out his character.

  ‘I am Sir Baldwin.’ The man’s hat covered most of his hair, but his stylishly forked beard was mostly grey, and he bore the usual wrinkles of a grey-haired man as well as a still red scar that puckered the flesh between his right eye and ear.

  Owen handed him the letter.

  Jasper, upon dismounting, was surrounded by the circling dogs. He squatted down, holding out his hand. They came closer, curious, and soon allowed him to rub their ears.

  ‘God be thanked for your safe return, Sir Baldwin,’ said Owen. ‘Many with such a wound would not have returned home.’

  Baldwin met Owen’s eye. ‘Or I might have lost the eye, as you did. Come, there is a good fire in my hall and we can talk in comfort. The archbishop does not send his captain so far on a mere whim. I am honoured to serve you.’

  Jasper rose with an air of regret about leaving his new friends.

  It was a sturdy house and large, with a stone undercroft and a substantial storey of wattle and daub above. A covered stair led to the hall door. The dogs ran ahead of them up the steps to a woman who crouched to greet each dog, then stood and invited the party into the hall. Owen guessed her to be much younger than Sir Baldwin, but not his daughter, not with the looks they gave one another.

  ‘Lady Gamyll,’ Owen said with a bow of his head as he passed her, and she smiled as she nodded back.

  Sir Baldwin introduced them.

  Within the hall, wall sconces and a blazing fire gave off a welcoming glow. Owen and his companions would be blessed indeed if Sir Baldwin and his lady permitted them to spend the night in a corner of this hall.

  Lady Gamyll called for wine and some food, and instructed a servant to help the guests remove their boots. Sir Baldwin had moved over to the fire, where he stood reading the letter. When Owen joined him, Baldwin handed back the letter and gestured to Owen to have a seat.

  ‘Have you gone to the lad’s home?’ he asked, settling down across from Owen.

  ‘We have come from there.’

  Baldwin gave a little laugh. ‘You won’t have received a welcome from Aubrey.’ He lifted his arms as a large, dark cat leaped up onto his lap. ‘Agrippa has missed me,’ he said, fondly petting him. ‘But back to Aubrey, he hates any man to come within yards of Ysenda.’

  ‘He was not there,’ said Owen.

  ‘Not there,’ Baldwin said, and sighed. The cat turned round three times and then settled. Baldwin stroked him again then scratched him beneath the chin. ‘I wonder what he’s about on a day like this?’

  ‘Dame Ysenda has a bruised and swollen face and seems uncertain whether or not Aubrey will return. But I think she fears his return more than his desertion.’

  Baldwin cursed. ‘For months he talks of nothing but his love for his wife, and when he returns he beats her. The man is a wastrel – he is wasting the time he has with her, such a beautiful woman, so –’ He stopped himself, seeming to realise he’d said more than was called for, but then added, ‘That too-fortunate wastrel,’ as if he could not help himself.

  His outburst intrigued Owen, and noticing the pale red that lingered beneath the predominant grey hair he wondered about Baldwin’s relationship with Ysenda de Weston.

  Lady Gamyll had withdrawn to the kitchen, Owen presumed. He was glad she’d been spared her husband’s awkward moment.

  Baldwin rubbed the cat’s ears. ‘The pity of it is, Aubrey is a good man, loyal, a skilled woodsman, and a man of faith.’ His voice was now merely conversational. ‘But the moment he is within sight of her, he is changed. I believe he both loves and despises her and it has eaten at his heart. They are poison to each other.’

  ‘Poor Hubert,’ said Jasper, joining them.

  Baldwin smiled at Jasper. ‘Do not hurry into manhood. Enjoy this time of innocence. You are still free of love’s confusion. Be at peace.’

  Owen wondered whether Baldwin had ever so fallen under a woman’s spell. He suspected so.

  Five

  THE CHARM

  With the tide in, the Riverwoman’s rock was an island, and George Hempe wondered whether they’d need a coracle to cross to it. He was never comfortable going there, which he’d admitted to himself by bringing Owen’s man Alfred with him. Magda Digby was the Riverwoman to Hempe, not a mortal with an ordinary name. He did not think she was entirely of this world, but had one foot in another place that fey folk inhabited. He was grateful when he found her standing on the north bank of the river with Father Goban from St Mary’s Abbey and the coroner. Beyond them, two servants held lanterns over two others at the water’s edge who were lifting a limp body out of a coracle. The man was wrapped in hides; he made no sound as they lowered him onto a pallet at the feet of the three standing there. Even in the darkening evening the Riverwoman’s multicoloured clothing confused the eye, creating an impression that her garments floated around her as she stood still. Hempe joined the group as she was explaining to the coroner why she had sent for him when the man was still alive.

  ‘Magda did not expect him to linger so long,’ she said. ‘He was already so cold from the river and had lost much blood.’ They all gazed down at him.

  ‘Nigel,’ Hempe said. ‘He’s an apprentice to Edward Munkton, the goldsmith.’

  ‘We’ve already established that,’ said the coroner. He and Hempe had recently fallen out over a judgment in the bailiffs’ court that the coroner considered excessively harsh. ‘He’s been stabbed in the back, near the heart.’

  ‘Or in,’ said the Riverwoman.

  One of the servants brought a lantern near so that Hempe now clearly saw how Nigel lay with eyes closed, breathing shallowly.

  The Riverwoman met Hempe’s eyes. ‘He loses strength with every breath.’

  Father Goban of St Mary’s Abbey quietly greeted Hempe and Alfred. ‘I’m to take him to the statue of the Virgin where we will offer prayers for him. Then I’ll take him to the infirmary, while my brothers keep vigil for him in the chapel, praying for his recovery, or for his soul’s swift journey to heaven.’

  ‘I doubt a swift journey,’ said the coroner. ‘There is nothing saintly about Nigel.’

  ‘So you know him?’ Hempe said. ‘Does he have family in the city?’

  The coroner shook his head. ‘I don’t believe so. I worked with him on a pin for my wife last year. He spoke as if he were quite alone here.’

  Father Goban called to the servants to proceed with Nigel to the abbey. ‘God go with you, Dame Magda,’ he said, following the men into the darkness.

  ‘Wilt thou attend the priest?’ Magda asked Hempe. ‘Violence begets viol
ence, and he walks through the darkness with a man someone meant to kill.’

  ‘I’ll attend Father Goban,’ said the coroner.

  ‘Before you depart,’ said Hempe, ‘you said the man is no saint – what are his sins?’

  ‘His master once asked the guild to allow him to let the young man go, saying he suspected him of hoarding gold filings,’ said the coroner. ‘But they were never able to find evidence, so he remains an apprentice, though he boards outside Munkton’s house. He’s generally distrusted. I counted myself fortunate to have experienced no trouble when I worked with him.’ With a courteous bow to the Riverwoman, the coroner departed.

  Hempe was disturbed to have not known about Nigel’s problems.

  ‘Can the poor man survive the journey?’ Alfred asked the Riverwoman.

  ‘The priest said any man would pray to die in a chapel’s grace. Magda thinks few men care a whit where they die, only that they do.’

  ‘I’m sure many believe they’ll reach heaven more quickly by dying in a sacred place,’ said Alfred.

  ‘Aye, and others believe that death in battle is a good, honourable death,’ said the Riverwoman, ‘but that does not mean all do. Where is thy captain?’

  ‘He and Jasper are in the country,’ said Alfred. ‘They’re searching for the murderer of the last man pulled from the Ouse.’

  ‘Ah.’ The Riverwoman nodded. Just that.

  Hempe decided he was not a man if he could not talk to the Riverwoman. ‘Did he speak at all?’

  ‘He did. He asked for prayers. He’ll have them now.’

  ‘He said nothing else?’

  The Riverwoman shook her head. ‘He had ale on his breath.’

  ‘So he might have been at a tavern this afternoon.’ Hempe nodded. ‘That is helpful. I am grateful.’ He was beginning to feel more comfortable. ‘Did you know Nigel?’