by Candace Robb
‘Did anyone see you place it in the box?’
‘William Ferriby was here. We’d been discussing his brother’s stubborn insistence on keeping his school in this liberty, whether there was any way William might dissuade him. But none of the boys were here.’ He moaned. ‘I’ve been a fool. I’d brought the scrip from the Clee, thinking it would be safer here.’ He looked distraught. ‘This is terrible.’
‘I won’t deny that it worries me, Master John. Have a care when you first enter this room.’ He made certain that the schoolmaster met his eye, saw his concern. The other scholars had begun to file in. ‘I should leave you to your students.’ Walking past Jasper Owen patted him on the shoulder. As he stepped outside he heard the scholars asking Jasper whether he’d been helping the captain. It would be a good day for the lad, but not for his grammar master.
The wind almost pushed Owen into George Hempe, who awaited him outside the school.
‘I thought I’d find you here or with Archbishop Thoresby,’ Hempe said, hunching his shoulders to protect his neck from the icy wind.
‘I haven’t seen the archbishop yet.’ He weighed Thoresby’s anger at a delay in reporting to him against having more news for him, and decided that he might at least speak with the goldsmith. He needed to see William and Nicholas Ferriby as well, but he first wanted to consider how to approach them. ‘Before I talk to His Grace I would see Edward Munkton. Would you care to join me?’
‘I don’t know what use I would be to you,’ said Hempe. ‘I’ve been unable to connect the goldsmith’s journeyman with the bargeman.’
‘I’m surprised you’ve taken the time out of your responsibilities to continue to work on this.’
‘I cannot seem to let it go.’ Hempe gave an embarrassed laugh.
As they walked towards Petergate Hempe told Owen what he’d learned about Nigel.
‘You’re a good friend,’ Owen said. ‘I thank you.’ He told Hempe about the cross. ‘I believe the cross is how Nigel became involved with whatever is driving the murders.’
They were turning towards Stonegate when Hempe asked, ‘Why do you think Ysenda de Weston had kept the cross?’
Owen wished he knew. ‘Whatever her reason it was not so simple as a woman coveting a piece of gold jewellery, I’m certain of that. And now that the scrip the lad had carried it in is missing, I’m worried that there was more in it.’
‘Or the scrip itself was worth something?’
‘I wondered that, but I doubt it. As I recall it was good leather, not the best, with a brass clasp fashioned like a buckle. I cannot think that worth sneaking into St Peter’s School to steal.’
‘Nay.’ Hempe tucked in his chin and braced against the wind whistling down Stonegate.
Edward Munkton looked dismayed by yet another visit from Hempe, but was more civil to Owen, no doubt because he’d bought a mazer, a beautiful wooden drinking cup decorated with delicate gold filigree, from the goldsmith a few months earlier. He’d wanted something special to present to Lucie when she was brought to bed with the child. The visit was well worth it, for Munkton jerked to attention as soon as Owen described the cross.
‘Nigel, may he rest in peace, asked about such pendants a few days ago. He wondered about their worth and who made them. I sent him across to Robert Dale. He makes such pieces.’
That was good news to Owen, for Robert Dale was a friend.
‘Have you presented your wife with the mazer yet?’ Munkton asked.
‘No. I’ve avoided temptation by hiding it.’ He’d taken it to Brother Michaelo for safekeeping, knowing that he would be able to retrieve it at once – there was not a better organised man in all York, in Owen’s opinion.
‘Admirable constraint, Captain,’ said Munkton with a conspiratorial wink as Owen and Hempe left the shop.
Across Stonegate, a servant showed them in to Robert Dale’s workshop to stay warm while he fetched his master. Several of the journeymen were working on a large piece and their hammering was deafening. The goldsmith soon joined them and, making a show of covering his ears and wincing, led them outside and up to his hall.
Swearing him to secrecy, Owen told Robert about the Gamyll cross. The goldsmith sat with his head down, nodding to indicate his attention, but he perked up at the name.
‘The Gamyll cross, did you say? Sir Baldwin Gamyll of Weston?’
‘Yes,’ said Owen, ‘did you make it for him?’
Robert trained his myopic gaze on Owen as he slowly nodded. ‘I did. And you are not the only one who has asked about it of late. Disturbing.’
‘Who else has mentioned it?’ asked Hempe.
‘Father Nicholas – the merchant Peter Ferriby’s brother – was inquiring about what quality of chalice he might purchase with money left to his church in Weston and mentioned in passing a birthing cross in his parish. I was curious about it, and he said it had been a gift to the late Lady Gamyll from Sir Baldwin. Is this the same cross?’
‘It is,’ said Owen. ‘Did he say anything else about it?’
Robert puckered up his face, thinking. ‘Oh yes. He asked how many such crosses he might purchase with the money, and then laughed. But then he asked again. I told him quite a few, that a chalice requires far more gold. He did not press me further.’
‘Master Edward said he’d sent his journeyman, Nigel, here when he’d asked about small gold crosses. Did he talk to you?’
‘He sent him here? That horrible man? God grant him peace, but he would not have been welcome in this house.’ Robert frowned. ‘He might have spoken to someone in the shop. Shall I inquire for you?’
Owen and Hempe were offered watered wine by a maid while they waited for the goldsmith to return.
‘Nicholas Ferriby,’ Hempe said, staring into his cup. ‘Now why would he have that cross on his mind?’
‘Perhaps he thought it lost and wondered whether he might replace it,’ said Owen. But he was bothered by Nicholas’s interest as well. He’d been in York the night Drogo died. Was there something to that, he wondered, something he wasn’t seeing? Then there was the missing scrip. Might Nicholas’s brother have mentioned seeing it at St Peter’s School?
Robert returned with an apprentice about Jasper’s age in tow, who hesitated just inside the doorway.
Robert gave him a little push. ‘Do not be afraid, Michael, you are not in trouble. In fact, this might earn you the day off you have asked for.’
The boy’s face lit up with that, and he quickly settled down on a stool by the fire. Owen noticed gold glitter on Michael’s simple hat.
‘Tell them about Nigel,’ Robert said.
‘We were standing in St Peter’s after Mass on Sunday last,’ said Michael, ‘and he asked me if we made gold crosses for ladies to wear as pendants round their necks. I told him we did, and some bore pretty sayings, or prayers – short ones.’ He looked to his master for approval, which he received as a smile and a nod.
‘Did he want to purchase one?’ Owen asked.
‘A journeyman?’ Michael laughed. ‘He asked if Sir Baldwin Gamyll had ever been in the shop, and I said yes, we had just made a delicate gold circlet for his new lady to secure her veil.’
‘Anything else?’ Owen coaxed.
‘He wondered whether Sir Baldwin and Master Robert spoke as if friends. I said as much as a merchant and a lord might be friendly, they were. After all, Master Robert knew that the circlet was for Sir Baldwin’s second wife, so he knew something of the family.’ Michael winced as he glanced at his master.
Robert nodded his approval and thanked him.
That was enough for Owen. Nigel had been asking about the Gamyll cross, there was no doubt of that.
Owen and Hempe were quiet as they walked out into Stonegate.
‘I’ll see His Grace now,’ said Owen. ‘We’ve matters to discuss.’
‘I’ll be at the York Tavern if you have need of me,’ said Hempe. He began to walk away, but paused and turned back to Owen. ‘They might have worked together, Dro
go and Nigel. Stealing and selling downriver.’
That had crossed Owen’s mind. ‘But who caught them then?’
Hempe shrugged and continued on his way.
Owen almost changed his mind about seeing Thoresby before the Ferriby brothers, but he’d already delayed long enough that the archbishop would be in a fine fury.
Eight
SCAPEGOAT
OR CRIMINAL?
Brother Michaelo met Owen in the archbishop’s hall. ‘His Grace expected to see you earlier.’ His elegantly sculpted face was set in an expression of mild irritation.
Owen bowed slightly to the archbishop’s secretary. They had known one another a long while, and were friends in their ways, but Michaelo’s loyalty was to the archbishop, not Owen. When Thoresby was irritated with Owen, so was Michaelo. ‘I’ve more to tell His Grace now than I had earlier. I pray he will be glad of that.’
‘Will Emma Ferriby be pleased with your findings?’ Michaelo asked.
‘Is she here?’
‘No. But you know that His Grace wishes above all to lift the pall of suspicion from her brother-in-law, Master Nicholas.’
Owen might have known more had he not followed his conscience to call on His Grace before calling on William and Nicholas. Frustrated and irritated with himself, Owen snapped, ‘I would see His Grace, Michaelo.’ His words echoed in the hall, despite the tapestries and cushions on the elegant seats.
Michaelo smirked as only he could do. Bowing, he said, ‘If you will follow me, I shall announce you.’
Thoresby was pacing in his parlour when Michaelo opened the door. That did not bode well for Owen, but he’d weathered worse. At least his family had nothing to do with the matter at hand, so there was nothing with which Thoresby might threaten him.
‘Your Grace,’ Owen said, bowing.
‘You have kept me waiting half the day, Archer,’ Thoresby said, still prowling about the room arrayed in his archbishop’s robes. Owen wondered what official appearance had required them.
‘I was working for you, Your Grace. I have much to tell you. But if you’ve more important matters to see to, I could return.’
‘Is Nicholas Ferriby innocent?’ Thoresby lifted a document from a shelf and tapped his other hand with it for a few beats, then put it back. The archbishop had a gift for thrusting to the heart of the matter.
‘I cannot say for certain as yet.’ Owen wished he would sit down. This prowling was so uncharacteristic of late that he did not know how to interpret it. It felt like dark, anxious energy.
Thoresby paused with his back to Owen, bowing his head for a moment, hands clasped behind his back, his archbishop’s ring catching the light from the brazier. They were old hands now. The archbishop had aged greatly in the nine years that Owen had known him.
‘Shall we sit, Your Grace?’
‘Emma Ferriby has suffered much of late. You are aware of that, I know, her father’s death, her mother’s feud with the Bishop of Winchester.’
‘That all happened a year ago, Your Grace. Since then life has been calm in her household, and with her mother.’
Thoresby grunted. ‘I met in the chapter house today with the dean and chancellor. They now suggest that the rumours surrounding Master Nicholas are proof that he is unsuited to take charge of young scholars. Canon William was also present.’ Thoresby perched on his chair, hands on knees, and shook his head at the brazier. ‘You would say the same?’
Owen relaxed his self-recrimination about not going to William at once upon learning he’d witnessed the storing of the now-missing scrip, as he’d perhaps been spared having the dean, chancellor and archbishop present when he spoke to him. ‘What had William to say?’
‘He mentioned that a large landholder in Nicholas’s parish had asked him why his brother deemed it necessary to set up his school in the minster liberty. William wondered whether the man was concerned about the character of his parish priest.’
‘What was his opinion about his brother’s motives and his character?’
Thoresby shook his head. ‘He merely reported the visit, no more. He was otherwise present merely as a courtesy, I believe.’
‘Did he name the landholder?’
Thoresby sighed, signalling impatience. ‘No. I told you all he said.’
Owen bit back a frustrated curse. ‘I wish you had asked. I would like to know if it was Sir Baldwin or Osmund Gamyll.’
‘Are you criticising me, Archer? Have a care.’ Thoresby emphasised the warning with a brief pause. Then, with a dismissive shrug, he said, ‘It would be wise to talk to William Ferriby in any case.’
‘I intend to.’ Owen wondered about William’s loyalties. ‘To explain my hesitation about Nicholas Ferriby’s guilt or innocence requires that I tell you all that I have learned, Your Grace.’
‘Then begin, Archer, begin.’
The prospect suddenly seemed exhausting. Owen took the chair opposite the archbishop and forced himself to begin with Hubert and his mother. When he reached Nicholas’s meeting with Robert Dale and his mention of gold cross pendants, Thoresby snorted.
‘This is the evidence that he is a murderer?’
‘Your Grace knows me better than to suggest that,’ Owen said. ‘If I might inquire, Your Grace, would money assist Nicholas in opposing the chancellor’s intention to close his school?’
‘Fetch the wine and cups from the table.’ Thoresby sat back, fussing with the drape of his sleeves. He nodded his thanks to Owen before he took a sip. ‘Ah. Better. I found the minster air filled with stone dust. Difficult on old lungs.’
Owen settled back with his own cup, willing to wait for Thoresby to come round to answering his question. He’d managed to communicate what he’d learned without many interruptions, so he felt he should now be patient.
‘If I were not opposed to excommunicating Nicholas, he would need to raise money to put a petition before the pope,’ said Thoresby. ‘But I am on his side, so there is little chance they will prevail. The school is small, and his own parish church is not particularly well endowed, so he might welcome more money, but so might we all. There is precedent for the chapter’s reaction to a grammar school in the liberty – or at least near it. Years ago the dean and chancellor were incensed by St Leonard’s grammar school. But the school remains. I believe this tempest will pass as well, and Master Nicholas’s school will survive. It is a modest institution, and girls are accepted – certainly nothing St Peter’s will ever consider.’
‘All Nicholas need do is wait?’
‘I believe so. But whether he has the wisdom to do so, I cannot judge.’ Thoresby sipped his wine. ‘What will you do now?’
‘I must see Master Nicholas and his brother. Nicholas came to the shop while I was away but would not talk to Lucie in my stead.’
Thoresby tilted his head as if thinking. ‘Do you expect another murder?’
‘Until I find the murderer that is always the danger, and the motivation for dropping all other responsibilities and searching in every way I can think of.’
‘God go with you, Archer, and with your family. Dame Lucie is well?’
Owen smiled. The archbishop was godfather to both Gwenllian and Hugh, and intended to stand for the child to come. ‘She is as well as a woman might be as she slows and grows anxious for the babe to arrive.’
‘Cherish her, Archer. Do not stint in your attentions to her because of these crimes.’
The comment confused Owen, made him suddenly wonder whether he had neglected her, whether Thoresby had heard she’d complained. But Owen knew that to be unlikely. ‘I do cherish her, Your Grace.’ He resented feeling the need to defend himself. But perhaps he did need to express his affection for her more.
Thoresby rose. ‘I want to hear what Nicholas and William have to say to you.’
Owen had thought that would be the case. He bowed and took his leave. As he departed the hall he wondered why he’d taken Thoresby’s admonition about Lucie to heart, a cleric never wed, though with
experience of women, never having lived with one so long as Owen had with Lucie. He thought of how she’d pulled him down onto the bed when he’d returned last night – there was a time when they’d lustily taken every chance to lie together. But that was before the children, and before Lucie’s aunt had moved in. Perhaps since her accident the previous year he’d been reluctant to make love to her too often.
He realised he’d been so distracted he’d missed his turning and had to double back. Enough. He did not need his mind clouded with doubt about his treatment of his beloved wife. As he headed down Vicar Lane towards Master Nicholas’s school he fought a twinge of anger. Thoresby meant well. He was good to Owen’s family, very good.
It was the supper hour for the scholars and Nicholas was able to withdraw into his large chamber with Owen. He did not look well, as round as ever but with a pallor that seemed excessive even for the sunless season.
‘Captain, I am in your debt for coming. I am not one to scare easily, but I’ve –’ he flung wide his arms, ‘well, since the goldsmith’s journeyman was murdered I’ve not known what to do with myself to stay calm, which of course I must do for my scholars.’ He’d begun to sweat.
‘You knew Nigel, the journeyman?’ Owen asked.
Nicholas shook his head. ‘No, no, I knew him not, but –’ He took a deep breath and reached beneath his collar, pulling out a gold chain from which hung a delicate gold cross. ‘This is a birthing cross belonging to Sir Baldwin Gamyll. Drogo brought it to me for safekeeping the day before he died.’
‘Holy Mother of God, it’s here.’ Owen caught his breath.
‘Have you been looking for this?’
‘Looking for it? You f –’ Owen caught himself and dropped the fist he’d raised. ‘This was in the scrip Drogo took from Hubert.’
Nicholas had flinched at the sight of the fist. ‘God help me,’ he murmured.
‘You not only lied to me, but you kept this a secret?’ Owen struggled to keep his voice low. ‘How could you not guess how important this is, eh? By the rood, you had better have a good reason for keeping this from me – and the fact that you knew Drogo.’
