by Candace Robb
Magda wagged her head. ‘Thy advice will be considered.’
‘You will slow me down if I am worried about you.’
He was getting angry again, which amused Magda.
‘A bailiff of York worried about Magda, who does not live in his city.’ She shook her head and tsked, then let out a barking laugh. ‘Thou art so like a hawk when thou’rt angry! Thou mightst sprout wings. Magda takes orders from neither bird nor man, Bailiff. But thou seemst to Magda a good, honourable fellow, so she will consider thy advice, as she said she would.’
‘You are a contrary woman.’ Hempe seemed about to explode, but bowed to her and thanked her for her help.
Grateful that he was not staying to argue, Magda saw him off and then returned to the kitchen, where Phillippa was quietly and efficiently completing her sorting and cleaning.
Kate smiled. ‘You bring calm with you, Dame Magda. It is a gift.’ Of course she was relieved that Phillippa was absorbed and not fussing.
‘It is a skill,’ said Magda, ‘learned by observing, listening, trying and discarding. Thou couldst do the same.’ She was relieved to have passed on Alice Tanner’s information. ‘Magda will attend the children.’
Hempe had done his best to leave with his dignity intact, despite the crone’s grinning ear to ear. He wondered at Owen’s willingness to count her as a friend. She behaved as if she held the secret to life and everyone else was welcome to flail about in the darkness.
He took a deep breath and admitted to himself that it was his anger chattering in his head, and that he was aware of all the good she did. Besides, he might now have a description, however incomplete, of Nigel’s murderer.
The shadows of Stonegate reminded him that he’d yet to talk to the goldsmith Edward Munkton about his late apprentice. Recalling that the man had tried to break his contract with Nigel over suspicions of theft, Hempe hoped he would not have any pangs of disloyalty about telling all he knew of the dead man, good or bad, including whether he had a friend who wore showy hats.
In fact, Munkton seemed reticent to speak to Hempe, but he led him through the busy, oven-heated workshop to his screened corner and offered him a cup of watered wine. Though Hempe preferred his undiluted, he accepted with grace, consciously on his best behaviour.
‘Nigel.’ Munkton shook his head. ‘I had such hopes for him. He was a skilled craftsman – a journeyman he was, past apprenticeship. He was clever, a quick learner, but alas, he grew secretive and untrustworthy.’
The crooked jaw that twisted the goldsmith’s face produced a speech so slurred that Hempe’s response was delayed as he reckoned what he’d heard.
‘I’m not gossiping,’ Munkton added, apparently worried about Hempe’s silence.
‘No, you are assisting me,’ said Hempe. ‘Secretive and untrustworthy, you say? I should think such flaws made him ill-suited to be a journeyman in a goldsmith’s shop, working amidst such wealth.’
‘That was my very argument to the guild,’ said Munkton. ‘But they wanted proof, and Nigel had been far too clever to leave any trace of his theft.’
The goldsmith lifted a beringed hand to his mouth, stifling a cough, but he could not mask the rheumy rumble in his chest. Hempe felt a tickle in the back of his own throat, and sensed a fine dust in the air. Something floated delicately atop his watered wine and the lamplight caught sparkling motes on Munkton’s fine clothing. He wondered whether it was gold dust.
‘At least they permitted me to board Nigel elsewhere. I felt better without him biding under my roof,’ Munkton continued. ‘I’d planned to bring another complaint about him at the next guild meeting.’ He tapped his fingers on the table, apparently considering what he’d just said for he added, ‘But I didn’t murder him.’
‘I had not even considered accusing you, Master Edward.’
Munkton bobbed his head in approval. ‘Some might be simple enough to think I’d risk all to commit such a crime.’
‘What was the matter of your latest complaint regarding Nigel?’
Munkton covered another gurgling cough.
‘Unexplained absences,’ he wheezed, then cleared his throat. ‘He was away three full workdays not long ago.’
‘He had no excuse?’
The goldsmith sniffed. ‘Illness. He always claimed illness. But his landlady is no one’s fool and she knew he was away. I confronted him with that and he said he’d gone to a friend’s house but could not on his honour betray her. Honour. Humph. He was just bedding some wife whenever her husband was away, that is what I think, and that is not proper behaviour for a guildsman. He was but nineteen years and already so dissolute.’
‘So young.’ Hempe shook his head, doing his best to gain the goldsmith’s trust. ‘The guild would surely have supported your complaint this time. Do you have any idea who the woman was?’
‘No. Neither did his landlady.’ Munkton coughed again. ‘I pray you, if we are to be a while longer, I would step away for a moment to dispatch a servant to the apothecary. This cough is worsening. I feel a churning in my chest.’ He patted his well-clothed chest with both beringed hands.
‘Of course. I’ll wait quietly.’
When his host was gone, Hempe helped himself to a cup of unwatered wine. It was much more satisfying. The screens that separated Munkton’s little space from the workshop were painted with scenes from the bible, Moses with the tablets of stone floating in the air before him, Christ at the wedding feast changing the water to wine. Law and miracles. It seemed a peculiar pairing. He guessed the screens were cast-offs from the hall above.
‘There. Now what was I about to tell you?’ Munkton settled down once more, taking a sip of his sickly watered wine. ‘Oh yes, the complaints I had from customers and neighbours. He was a surly fellow, and too attentive to the daughters of Stonegate. Robert Dale, whose shop is at the corner, complained that his daughters would not walk out if they saw him in the street, and his wife had called him lewd and dangerous.’
Robert Dale’s wife was one of the most beautiful women in York, and also perhaps the most sumptuously dressed and bejewelled. ‘Perhaps his murder should be no surprise, eh?’ Hempe suggested.
‘I pray he had done no one such harm as to provoke such an attack.’ Munkton looked sincere as he crossed himself.
‘But someone did murder him,’ said Hempe. ‘You have heard of the murder of the pilot Drogo, also fished out of the Ouse?’
Munkton nodded. ‘Do you think their deaths are connected?’
‘That is the question, to be sure. I believe they might have been. Have you ever used Drogo as a pilot?’
‘No, I go through other merchants to ship for me. But I thought he was an abbey bargeman.’
‘That was his official post. Do you use the Abbey Staithe?’
Munkton shook his head. ‘But another of my apprentices saw Nigel with a man in the abbey livery. He wore a green hat as I’ve heard this Drogo wore. It was perhaps a fortnight ago, maybe not so long as that, and shortly afterwards was when Nigel disappeared for several days. Might that be important?’
Why didn’t you come to me with this information earlier, damn you? Hempe silently cursed as he worked to keep his voice and visage calm. ‘Indeed it might be important.’ He sipped his wine. ‘I am grateful for your openness with me.’
‘We will all sleep more soundly when we know the murderer is rendered impotent, Master Bailiff.’
‘Speaking of hats, did you ever see Nigel with a blond man who wore a feathered and furred hat?’
Munkton frowned as he thought. ‘No. But my wife’s sister’s husband wore such a thing. Ugly, it was. And didn’t one of the mayor’s men own such a hat?’ The goldsmith was apparently beginning to enjoy this.
‘I’d hoped it was a more unusual combination.’
‘I wouldn’t call it common, God be thanked.’
‘Have you any notion what Nigel’s business might have been with Drogo?’
‘Perhaps this Drogo was buying the shavings Nigel sto
le from me,’ Munkton said, then shook his head. ‘Shall I fetch young Rob, whose witness I’m repeating, to talk to you?’
Hempe asked him to do so.
The lad resisted all Hempe’s efforts to put him at ease, and he added little to his master’s report, except that the exchange seemed friendly, and the man in the abbey livery seemed grateful to Nigel.
‘Did you hear anything that they said?’ Hempe prompted.
The lad shook his head.
Hempe left Munkton with a promise to inform him of any significant news, though he had no intention of keeping the promise. He was discouraged. Irritated. He considered the pleasure of having another cup of wine, perhaps at the York Tavern, but he remembered the Riverwoman’s account of Nicholas Ferriby’s behaviour in the apothecary the previous day and decided to continue on into the minster liberty. Then he would be even more deserving of a cup of wine.
Once again Owen and Jasper stayed in a quiet corner of the tavern where they were warming themselves. Rafe and Gilbert were enjoying themselves flirting with both the taverner’s wife and daughter. Owen had asked Jasper to recount to him what he’d heard and observed at both Hubert’s and Sir Baldwin’s houses. He was impressed with the boy’s memory and how much he had observed. In some details they disagreed, but they were for the most part insignificant. The most significant difference was that Jasper had had a strong sense when they were leaving Hubert’s home that morning that the boy regretted having chosen to stay with his mother. Owen had not noticed it, which bothered him if it were so, as much as Aubrey’s disappearance was bothering him. Baldwin had described Aubrey as yearning for Ysenda all the while they’d been gone. He wished he knew what could have happened to make that same man beat the wife he’d so sorely missed, and leave again within such a short time, whether it could have anything to do with Drogo’s taking Hubert’s scrip.
‘Jealousy?’ he wondered aloud. That is what kept coming to mind.
‘Who’s jealous?’ Jasper asked.
‘Aubrey. Perhaps he found evidence that Ysenda had been with another man. She might have thought she was with child, the child of a lover, and that’s why she took the cross. If it was clear that Aubrey could not be the father – but she did not seem pregnant.’
‘So what would he find?’
Owen had forgotten for a moment that he was talking to Jasper, and studied his face to see whether this talk of pregnancy and lovers embarrassed him. It did not seem so. ‘I wish I knew what he found. Tell me what you saw that made you believe Hubert had changed his mind about returning with us.’
‘He’d stopped looking at his mother as if he was ready to protect her. There was something in his eyes when he looked at us too, as if – oh, I don’t know, it’s little things.’ Jasper ducked his head over his tankard, fair hair falling over his face so that it almost touched the rim, then he suddenly lifted his head, raked his hair back and took a drink.
‘How did he look at us, Jasper? I’m trying to understand what you saw, what I missed. I believe you. You have helped me far more than I’d known you could.’
Jasper’s face was again hidden by his hair. He sighed and rocked the tankard on the boards. ‘Do you mind when I call you “Da”?’
‘Mind? God help me, it’s all I can do not to hug you right there. I’m proud of you, son, I am, but, even if I weren’t as proud of you as I am right now, I’d still be proud to have you call me “Da”.’ He shut up, hearing himself going on like a blithering fool.
Jasper nodded and sat rocking the tankard for a good long while, head bowed, face hidden.
Owen glanced over at Gilbert and Rafe and considered telling them that they’d already had enough ale, they had a long ride ahead of them, but he was loath to break into the moment. He sat back and watched the fire.
Finally Jasper straightened and raked the hair from his eyes, which looked red and a little swollen.
‘He looked like he hoped we’d save him,’ said Jasper in a gruff voice. ‘That’s how he looked. Like he wanted us to order him to come with us.’
‘Dear God watch over the lad.’
‘You’re thinking a lot about Hubert’s da as well. I think it’s strange he left, but it sounds as if it’s happened before.’
‘Yes, it’s happened before, but both Sir Baldwin and, subtly, Ysenda behaved as if this time he was gone longer than usual, and not to the usual places – where it’s his custom to drink.’
Jasper suddenly slapped the table. ‘The lover attacked him, and he’s lying injured somewhere!’
‘That would be a nasty welcome home from war, but I was thinking more in terms of why he’s hiding from us.’
Jasper was shaking his head, still building his drama. ‘But Hubert said nothing. A son would always choose his father over another man, wouldn’t he?’
‘Fathers and sons can disagree, and a father can seem cruel – or be cruel,’ said Owen. ‘But enough of your lover story – I just want to talk to the man, get a sense of him. We don’t really know anything at all of him, but others’ opinions – that he loves his wife and is a good fighter, a good drinker, a poor farmer. An honest man. Did he not beat his wife he’d seem an uncommonly good man. But he’s avoiding us. Or is he?’
Owen wondered whether Thoresby would give him leave to send Rafe and Gilbert back to Sir Baldwin to ask for his help in searching for Aubrey de Weston.
A dozen or so boys and girls of varying ages were solemnly listening to Master Nicholas explaining the value of committing passages to memory. The classroom door was open to the alleyway yet those closest to the brazier in the room looked sweaty and sleepy. Hempe hesitated, loath to interrupt a lesson, but neither did he wish to return later, when he might very well find the same situation. He stepped into the doorway.
A young girl gasped to see him and tugged on the sleeve of her neighbour. Soon all were looking his way, which at last drew the grammar master’s attention.
‘Master Bailiff,’ he said with a nod. ‘Are we disturbing the King’s peace with our lesson?’ He smiled and winked at the young scholars, some of whom giggled or chuckled, some of whom were not comforted by his demeanour.
Hempe forced a laugh. ‘Nay, your lesson is blessed noise. I pray you, would you step out with me for a moment. I would talk to you, but I will be brief.’
The grammar master forced his smile to stay and asked his assistant to read a passage from the bible while he stepped out with Hempe.
‘I trust you believe that their lessons are important?’ Nicholas said when they were a house away. ‘I hope that your behaviour in interrupting us does not bespeak your opinion of education.’
‘It is in your power to make this very brief, indeed,’ said Hempe. He sensed that Nicholas’s expression of irritation was an attempt to cover fear. ‘Why did you seek Captain Archer’s counsel yesterday?’
Nicholas squirmed as he glanced up and down the alleyway. But he looked Hempe in the eye at last. ‘I merely wished to know whether Captain Archer felt my name had been cleared, whether he’d heard any more gossip concerning the poor man who bled as I prayed over him.’ He lifted his chin as he completed his little speech.
‘But surely Dame Lucie might have answered that for you. Why did you not ask her whether you had won back your good name?’
‘I did not consider that Dame Lucie would know of all that Captain Archer had heard. Is that all?’
Hempe shook his head. ‘Nay, I doubt that is all. You sought out the captain for more than that. You seemed worried. Perhaps a little frightened.’
‘You were not there. How can you know how I behaved?’
‘I ask questions. I am working with Captain Archer at present, so I can tell you that the journeyman’s death has quieted the rumours about you and Drogo.’
Nicholas crossed himself. ‘I’d heard of another death on the river. But what has that to do with Drogo’s death?’
‘Perhaps people think it unlikely that you would attack two men. But I don’t know that. Where were you
that afternoon?’
‘In the schoolroom.’
‘What are you fearfully worried about?’
Nicholas shook his head, but now he did not meet Hempe’s eyes. ‘My good name, that is all. You must understand, as a schoolmaster and a vicar I must be above suspicion, else parents will not trust me with their children, and my flock will not trust me as confessor. Not to mention my trouble with the dean and chancellor of St Peter’s. I’ve no doubt you are well informed about that issue.’ He paused to catch his breath.
He had resumed eye contact, and Hempe did not doubt that all he said was true. It was what he was not saying that Hempe wished to know.
‘I know about that, yes, and I am aware of the import of scandal attached to the name of a priest and grammar master. But I trow you have more to tell.’
‘Is it not enough that my livelihood is threatened?’ Nicholas cried. ‘You say you are aware of the import. You aren’t. You’ve no idea.’
Hempe was glad of the emotion and thought he might push a bit more. ‘You’ve more to tell, Master Nicholas, and I’ll keep asking you until you satisfy me.’
‘You may believe whatever you please, Master Bailiff, but you’ll get no satisfaction from me, for there’s no more to tell. I’ve answered your questions in all honesty and now I must return to my scholars.’
With a huff, the grammar master tugged at his gown to smooth it over his belly and marched back to his classroom. Hempe had no authority to keep him away from his scholars, and he knew to relent before he’d made an enemy. With a sigh, he headed for the nearest tavern outside the minster liberty. It was time for that cup of wine.
Brooding over a claret quite inferior to that which he’d served himself at the goldsmith’s, he eventually let go of his irritation with the grammar master and considered what would be most useful. It was mid-afternoon by now. He was spending far too much time on this. Investigations were not his job, but he could not shake thoughts about it so he’d might as well do something constructive. That the murders were connected he felt in his bones. He had only to find the link, and that might lead him to the murderer. He thought about Drogo and remembered someone searching his house. He’d forgotten to ask Master Edward where Nigel had lodged. The man down the bench, deep into his cups, growled as Hempe rocked the seat in his haste to leave.
