by Candace Robb
‘Master Osmund is away,’ he said.
‘You said naught of this at dinner,’ said Owen’s guide.
‘I don’t need to inform the household of my master’s comings and goings.’
Having no patience for servant chatter, Owen thanked their guide. ‘You are free to return to your duties in the hall.’
Clearly disappointed, the man shuffled down the steps.
‘He isn’t here, sir,’ said the servant, a man of perhaps twenty years with a deformed ear and a drooped eyelid.
‘What is your name?’ Owen demanded.
‘George, sir. I know you’re Captain Archer. I heard about you in the kitchen.’
‘You did, did you, George? Then you know that I’m on the archbishop’s business and you’ll stand aside while I look round your master’s room.’
Alfred put his hand on the door and pulled it open wider, startling the servant. ‘Whether you will or no, we will come in,’ said Alfred.
George moved aside, muttering something about hell.
The room was high-ceilinged though small, with one shuttered window. It was furnished with a curtained bed in the far corner, a brazier, several chests, and a small table with a pair of campaign stools. Owen thought it strangely lacking any indication of the man who lived there.
‘When did your master depart?’
‘Not sure, Captain.’
Weariness made Owen impatient. He grabbed the man by the shoulder. ‘If you bide here in this room you know when he departed.’
‘Morning after the fire,’ the servant gasped. ‘At dawn.’
Owen let him go. ‘Did he tell you where he was going, or when he’d return?’
The servant shook his head. ‘I knew he wasn’t just going to the inn in Weston because he took another shirt.’
‘Thank you for your help. You might want to sit with your friends in the kitchen while we are here.’
‘I don’t think I should leave you unattended.’
‘I do,’ said Owen.
The servant nervously departed, peering in once more before shutting the door.
‘Let’s search the chests,’ Owen said.
One contained a number of documents and a ledger indicating a wide variety of business transactions.
‘He’s not an idle young man,’ said Alfred.
‘He’s certainly not sitting back to await his father’s passing,’ Owen agreed.
Another chest was filled with linen and hides, and Alfred was straightening out what he’d rumpled when he called out, ‘Here, now.’ He drew out a casket, no larger than two hands long and shallow. ‘Captain,’ he said, holding it out to Owen.
‘Remember the poison. Wipe your hands.’ Owen was thinking of the knife used on Drogo. He used some linen from the chest to protect his own hands as he took the casket and set it down.
Within were several small pouches of powder and a jar of unguent. Physicks or poisons, Owen could not immediately tell.
‘What is the likelihood that he would save the poison?’ he wondered aloud.
‘If this were his chamber in York, I’d say it was most unlikely – he doesn’t sound like a fool,’ said Alfred. ‘But so far from York, and in his father’s home, he might have felt safe.’
Owen nodded. ‘We’ll take this back with us, for Dame Lucie to examine.’
In the third chest they found an elegant pair of boots and several elaborate hats, including a green one trimmed in fur that sported several peacock feathers attached with a circular brass pin. Owen wondered whether Osmund was the finely dressed man whom Alice Tanner had seen on the riverbank with Nigel, the man with the furred and feathered hat. Many men might have such hats, but that Osmund owned one was of particular interest to Owen.
As they passed through the yard, Owen noticed Hubert standing in the stable doorway, cuddling a cat. He was glad the boy had found something warm and living. He’d looked so forlorn when sitting with his mother.
As Jasper headed down past the minster towards home, the late afternoon light reminded him of the afternoon less than a week earlier when he’d hurried after his friends and boarded the abbey barges. So much had happened since then. Drogo’s murder, Jasper’s journey to Weston with the captain, Nigel’s murder. And now, nothing. Waiting. For all the captain had praised his help on the journey, he’d left him behind this time. Dame Lucie had explained that this time might be more dangerous, and he should not miss more school. But Jasper was still upset. He felt betrayed, that he’d believed the captain’s praise only to learn it had been false.
He was fuming when he passed a finely-dressed man heading into the minster gates, but something made him turn to look again. He was glad that he had, for it was the young man who had talked to Father Nicholas the night of Drogo’s death, the one called Osmund, who Jasper had later realised must be Osmund Gamyll. He wondered what he was doing in York. The captain would be sorry to have missed him. Jasper turned back through the gate to follow him, but he’d vanished. He hurried towards school and, catching sight of Osmund just turning down Vicar Lane, he followed, trying to stay hidden in the long afternoon shadows.
Osmund stopped at Master Nicholas’s school and when the guard had passed around the corner on the near side, he tried the door. Jasper thought that worth the chase to witness. Failing to open it, Osmund turned down the alley on the far side. Jasper followed and peered round the corner, watching the man try a door farther down the alley that would lead into the same building. Jasper ducked back as Osmund looked around. Waiting what he hoped was long enough for the man to be walking away, Jasper peered around the corner. The alley was empty. Might he have broken in? Jasper crept carefully down the alley, listening for footsteps, and then tried the door himself.
‘Why is Captain Archer’s foster son following me?’
Jasper jumped. Osmund stood less than a hand’s breadth behind him, breathing down his neck.
‘Christ Almighty,’ Jasper cried. ‘I wasn’t following you, I’m looking for Master Nicholas.’
‘He does not seem to be in,’ said Osmund.
He was quite obviously Sir Baldwin’s son, though his hair was paler and his build much slighter. He was studying Jasper in a disturbingly focused manner as if he was boring into his soul.
‘Father Nicholas’s parish needs him,’ Osmund said. ‘One of his flock has died – Ysenda de Weston.’
‘Hubert’s mother?’ asked Jasper. ‘How? What happened?’
‘A fire. May she rest in peace,’ said Osmund.
‘What of Hubert?’
‘He was with his father. He is a friend of yours?’
‘We’re in school together.’
‘Ah. If you should meet Father Nicholas, do tell him to hurry back to Weston.’ He made Jasper an exaggerated bow, and sauntered off.
Jasper’s heart was in his throat, but he cursed that he had no way of quickly getting word to the captain that Osmund Gamyll was in York looking for Master Nicholas. He stopped in the minster to pray for Ysenda’s soul, and for Hubert, as well as saying a prayer of thanks for having dealt safely with Osmund, and then he trudged on home.
After helping Edric close the shop, Jasper joined Alisoun in the corner of the hall where she was watching Gwenllian and Hugh play with a paddle ball. He told her about his encounter.
She listened with rapt attention, almost forgetting her charges. When they fussed over her distraction, she offered them each a piece of dried apple and returned to Jasper.
‘What will you do?’ she asked with a conspiratorial air.
‘I don’t know. I might tell –’ He stopped himself, uncertain whether or not she knew where Master Nicholas was biding. ‘I might tell His Grace, and ask him for advice.’
‘Can you do that? Just walk into the archbishop’s palace and speak with him?’
Jasper nodded, pleased to have impressed her. ‘I’m sorry for Hubert. He was devoted to his mother. She was very pretty.’
‘Do you wonder what you would be like now if your
parents were still alive?’ Alisoun asked.
‘I’d be apprentice to a carpenter,’ said Jasper. ‘What about you?’
‘I don’t know. Betrothed to some farmer, I think, and hating the thought of it.’
Jasper was delighted to have her attention, and let her lead the conversation. He would make his plans for seeing Master Nicholas once he went to bed.
On their return from Osmund’s room, Owen and Alfred found Sir Baldwin and Lady Gamyll gazing down at the opened chest, quietly talking. Aubrey sat nearby with his head in his hands. Perhaps some answers might come out of this, Owen thought.
Their hostess came over to greet them, looking worn and anxious. ‘How did you find Master Osmund?’
‘He has been gone since dawn yesterday,’ Owen said.
Baldwin glanced up at that. ‘Since then? So soon after the fire?’ He shook his head. ‘My son is a riddle to me.’ He lifted a length of silk from the chest and let it drop back. ‘It is good you are here. We have much to learn from Aubrey and his son, I think.’
‘Shall I go for the boy?’ asked Lady Gamyll.
Sir Baldwin’s expression softened. ‘That would be best.’
As she passed Owen she whispered, ‘My husband showed the chest to Master Aubrey against my advice.’
‘I thought as much, my lady,’ he said.
She moved on.
‘You’ve seen some of that before?’ Owen asked Sir Baldwin, taking a seat near the chest.
‘All of it,’ said Baldwin. ‘It’s all from this hall. Aubrey, tell the captain what you’ve just told me.’
Aubrey slowly lifted his head, and when he looked at Owen his face was lined with suffering. Now it seemed less the pain of too much wine that tormented him than a more profound wounding.
‘My wife was ever bringing home small things from the hall when she worked here, as if her admiration for them made her foolish, unable to let go of them,’ said Aubrey. ‘I would find things and return them as soon as I might. It seems I was good at it, for Sir Baldwin was aghast when I confessed it just now, though now and then he’d noticed things gone missing.’
‘I never thought of Ysenda,’ Sir Baldwin said.
‘But this –’ Aubrey gestured at the chest ‘– and her calling out for Master Osmund.’ He closed his eyes, his forehead pleated with suffering. ‘Were they his gifts to her?’
‘Perhaps because of Hubert, Ysenda felt she was owed more,’ Baldwin suggested. ‘The boy is my son, Captain. Aubrey took her to wife knowing that, protecting her honour.’
‘Her honour,’ Aubrey said with a bitterness in his voice. ‘No, I failed at that, it is certain.’
Owen poured a cup of wine, using it as a prop to excuse a few moments of quiet thought. ‘So the cross was just one thing of many that she’d taken.’
‘It seems so,’ said Baldwin. ‘When I returned from France, cook complained of many items that had disappeared, including two casks of wine and several silver goblets as well as a plate. I note the silver is not in this chest. Then I discovered that the circlet I intended to present to my lady on her first evening in our home was missing. Osmund expressed outrage and threatened to beat all the servants. My steward, having more sense than my son, instead searched all the servant’s quarters and the stable. Of course we did not find it. Nor is it in the chest.’ Baldwin rose with a curse and began to pace, but halted when he caught sight of his wife.
Lady Gamyll was crossing the hall, Hubert and the cat following close behind her. Baldwin sank back down on his chair.
‘Come, sit beside me, son,’ said Aubrey, patting his bench. ‘We are in need of your counsel.’
Bits of hay stuck out of the boy’s curls, and he’d looked half happy until his father spoke. Now he sat down too quietly and stiffly for a lad his age. Owen was glad when the cat leaped up onto the boy’s lap and curled up, awaiting no invitation. Hubert stroked the cat’s head as he looked around, then at the chest. Owen detected no spark of recognition in the boy’s eyes.
‘Son, do you remember when I asked you whether Master Osmund had accused your ma of thieving?’ Aubrey sounded weary and sad.
Hubert’s nod was jerky, hesitant, and he glanced at Owen and Sir Baldwin as if wondering why his father was repeating such a question in this company.
‘Now let me ask you this,’ Aubrey continued in an unsteady voice, ‘while I was gone last summer, did Master Osmund come to our home?’
Hubert stopped petting the cat and closed his eyes. ‘Yes,’ he mumbled.
‘Often?’
Hubert nodded.
‘Did he bring presents to your mother?’
Owen pitied the man, for by his questions it was plain the depths to which he suspected his wife had sunk.
‘Sometimes,’ said Hubert. ‘Jugs of cider, wine, a duck once.’ His voice was tight, but he’d opened his eyes and was gazing down at the sleeping cat.
‘When he came – oh, lad, just tell us all you can about his visits.’ Aubrey looked away.
Hubert looked round at all the faces watching him, then leaned towards Aubrey and said softly, ‘I tried to tell you last night, Da, I swear.’
Owen’s heart ached for both of them, the boy edgy and the man bowed, both ashamed.
‘Tell me now, son, and that will be good enough,’ said Aubrey.
Hubert nervously licked his lips. ‘There’s not much to tell because they sent me out when he came. When I’d return sometimes Ma was humming, but more often she would go out to gather firewood – I thought she was upset and wanted to walk.’
‘Did she ever talk about Master Osmund? Try to explain his presence?’ asked Owen.
‘She told me he reckoned he was responsible for us while Da was serving Sir Baldwin.’ His blush was witness to his understanding.
‘I know this is not easy for you,’ said Baldwin. ‘But I pray you, tell us how often my son visited your mother.’
‘He’d come a few days in a row sometimes, but more often once between Sundays. But the last time I was there when he came it was different. Ma told me to stay.’
‘When was that, son?’ Aubrey prompted.
‘The day before the fire.’ The boy described how he’d soon run out of the house. He expressed such regret despite his mother’s unseemly behaviour. He clearly felt somehow responsible for her, the child parent to his mother.
‘You told me yesterday about the man who sometimes came to the house,’ Owen said, ‘that you thought of him when Drogo took your scrip and wondered what treasure you’d stolen from her hoard, and that is why you ran.’
‘Hubert, is this so?’ asked Baldwin.
The boy nodded.
‘Do you think now that Drogo was the one who came?’ Owen asked.
Hubert looked up at Owen as if he expected to be struck. ‘I don’t know, Captain. He always wore a hood, and Drogo always wore that green hat.’
‘But there was something about Drogo that reminded you of him,’ said Owen. ‘Do you have any idea what it was?’
Screwing up his face, Hubert looked down at the floor, thinking. After a while, he looked up at Owen. ‘The way he held his head to one side,’ he tilted towards his left shoulder, ‘like this. And he sounded like he was holding his nose.’
‘His oft-broken nose,’ said Owen.
‘Long ago there was talk that Ysenda and Drogo had pledged marriage,’ Aubrey said. ‘But she always denied it. I saw her with him at the fair once, and once in Sir Baldwin’s woods when she said she was gathering firewood. But I’ve not seen him in a good long while.’
‘God bless you, Hubert,’ said Baldwin, smiling at the boy. ‘You’ve been a great help. I pray that Dame Ysenda can soon talk.’
Aubrey mumbled something unintelligible, but by his angry expression Owen guessed he’d cursed his wife. He thought the boy had been through enough for now.
‘You’re a fine lad, Hubert,’ said Owen. ‘Sir Baldwin, might we walk out into the air?’
‘What are you going to do with my wi
fe?’ Aubrey cried, rising so fast he almost tripped over the cat, who’d leaped off Hubert’s lap at the cry.
‘We shall take care of her until she is recovered,’ said Janet. ‘I’m certain my lord agrees?’
‘I see no cause to do anything less,’ said Baldwin.
‘And us?’ Aubrey asked.
Baldwin’s face softened. ‘You have done nothing I would not have done to protect my wife, Aubrey. And as for Hubert – you need not ask.’ He turned to Owen as Aubrey’s eyes swam. ‘Captain.’ He gestured for Owen to lead the way out to the yard.
‘Wait,’ said Hubert. ‘There’s something else. Ma would drink a lot while Master Osmund was in the house, and after she’d just keep drinking until she fell asleep. Maybe that’s when the fire happened.’ He described the recent near accident, when she’d upset a lamp.
Aubrey sat down again and took Hubert in his arms. ‘Brave lad. You’re a brave lad. You’ve been a good son. Do not blame yourself for your mother’s suffering.’
‘Come, Captain,’ said Baldwin.
Outside, clouds with the look of snow approached along the river valley. Sir Baldwin led Owen across the yard to the stables.
‘The horses keep the air much warmer in here,’ he said, taking off his felt hat and raking a hand through his hair that was so much like Hubert’s. ‘I don’t need to tell you that the lad’s revelations chilled my heart. I’ve often wondered whether I should have acknowledged him and brought him up in my own household. But Aubrey is a good man, and – I suppose we’ve all been blind to the fair Ysenda.’ His pale eyebrows rose and fell, a facial shrug. ‘I’ll find a way to do more.’
‘Tell me about Ysenda.’
‘I think she’ll live, Captain.’ Baldwin did not meet his eye.
‘You know what I mean. What was she like when you loved her? How were you drawn to her?’
Baldwin walked over to a handsome stallion with slightly wild eyes, the sort that’s never entirely tamed, but loyal to one man. He murmured to him and stroked him between the ears.
