by Candace Robb
‘Living too long.’ The blunt reply made Cooper uneasy. ‘What I say is not how I feel, Mistress Merchet. You understand that?’
‘I do. But I pray you, explain yourself.’
‘The corrodians pay a sum, reckoned on some assumptions: they are elderly, they have decided to retire from active life, and so they will likely soon sicken and die. The sum is set high, hoping that they die before it is used up in supporting them. Else why take them in? But some folk are too long-lived.’
Bess felt a queer chill down her spine. Certainly her Uncle Julian had outlived his fee. As no doubt had Laurence and Matilda. ‘Where did you hear this?’
‘It is whispered all about town.’
‘God bless you for telling me what you have heard, John.’
‘God go with you.’ John moved away from the wall. ‘I’ll be on my way, then. Forgive me if I’ve worried you. Julian Taverner is a clever man. More so than his friend. You’ve naught to worry about with him.’
Bess found that comment surprisingly naïve. No one, no matter how cunning, was ever safe from all harm.
Flexing his fingers in the looser bandages, Julian Taverner wondered at the difference two days of the new ointment had made. His fingers were tender, but not so tight. His aching shoulder was much improved by Mistress Wilton’s mustard ointment. And the tisane his niece brought him several times a day eased his headache miraculously. He must think of a way to show his gratitude. They had traded harsh words the previous day, and he was sorry for that. Bess thought it best that Honoria kept her distance. But Julian saw no harm in enjoying a pretty face.
Not that Honoria’s devotion to him was without its problems. Julian liked Anneys – he found her crisp competence reassuring and she was comely despite her lined face – and he did not wish to antagonise her. But there it was. Honoria’s cheery visits inspired frowns of disapproval from Anneys. Then again, he did not know whether pursuit of Anneys would prove rewarding.
That morning Julian had found Anneys a disturbing presence. He had been haunted by painful memories and had been trying to push them aside with prayer when Anneys had arrived. Setting her trays of medicines down on his bedside table, Anneys had stood back and shaken her head. ‘You pray in such earnest this morning, Master Taverner.’
‘I would be away from that coughing.’
Anneys cocked her head, listened. ‘Mistress Catherine. She cannot help it.’
‘My mother had such a cough.’
Anneys sat down beside him. ‘And you do not like to remember her?’
‘She died of such a cough.’
‘Ah.’ Anneys shook out a linen cloth, draped it on the bed, began to arrange the medicines. ‘What of your wife? Is it true she was lost at sea?’
Sweet Heaven, how had she touched the ache so accurately? ‘My wife and my only child.’
‘You speak of it as if you still feel pain. Yet it must have happened long ago. They tell me you have been a corrodian of St Leonard’s for nineteen years.’
Some pain took longer to lessen. Yet it was true, they had died a few years before the first visitation of the plague. Julian turned away. He did not like this conversation.
‘I do not believe in remembering only the good, Master Taverner. God brought us suffering to cleanse us. We must not shrink from it.’
‘I have done more penance than you can imagine. And Laurence with me. Now I wish to be left in peace.’ Julian felt his eyes burning. Now look what her prying had done. He would embarrass himself with tears.
Anneys opened his shift at the shoulder, applied the warm mustard ointment. As she worked it into the stiff joint, she asked, ‘Penance? Both of you? For what sin?’
‘I would rather not speak of it.’
‘There was a strong bond between you and Master Warrene. Were you comrades-in-arms?’
‘Nay. Neither of us were for soldiering. We grew up side by side in Scarborough, went into business together.’
‘The tavern?’
Why must she ask so many questions? ‘No, Laurence was never a taverner. This is unfair, you know. You have told me nothing of your past.’
‘There is little to tell. I married, raised three children, I was widowed and offered my services here.’
‘Three children. Did you not wish to live with any of them?’
‘No.’ Anneys closed up his shift, helped him sit up so she might examine the bandage on his head wound. ‘Now I have told you of my life. I thought you were a taverner.’
‘I was.’
‘And yet you say you went into business with Master Warrene, a business that was not a tavern.’
‘You do not wish to go into detail, neither do I.’
‘Why is that, Master Taverner?’
He winced as she probed the wound. ‘Why do you not wish to tell me more of your life?’
‘There is little joy in the tale. And you? Why do you not wish to speak of the business?’
‘Because I lived to regret it and did great penance for it. I have told you how I worked among abandoned victims when the pestilence first came to the north.’
‘Ah, yes. I remember.’ She moved to his hands, completing her ministrations in silence.
For that Julian was truly grateful. Perhaps he did not like her looks so much. Honoria was far more comforting.
Lucie had gone out into the garden to work before opening the shop. Owen sat up above watching her, wondering what he might do to cheer her.
Kate knocked on the door. ‘Mistress Merchet begs a word with you, Captain.’
‘She is here?’
‘Below, Captain. Whatever it is, it is not good news.’
Owen found Bess down in the hall pacing, arms bent and pumping, hands clenched into fists, her eyes blazing and colour high.
‘They have accused Julian of setting the fire, have they?’ Owen asked when Bess turned towards him. He leaned against the doorjamb, arms folded across his chest.
Bess paused. ‘Who is spreading such an untruth?’
Owen pointed at his visitor. ‘’Tis you put the thought in my head, by your foul mood. Why else would you be so angry?’
‘Angry?’
‘That is how you appear to me.’
‘I was but thinking.’
Owen pushed himself off the wall and, taking Bess by the elbow, escorted her to the table set up beneath the south windows. ‘Come, sit down and tell me what thoughts make you pump the air.’
Bess sat down, clutching her hands before her. ‘Forgive me for intruding. I know it is a difficult time.’
Owen leaned across the table, slipped one hand under Bess’s and laid his other on top. He levelled his good eye at her.
Bess grinned down at her hands cradled in Owen’s. ‘If you meant to distract me, you have succeeded, you handsome rogue.’
‘Good. I want no eruptions in my hall, just quiet talk. What is troubling you?’
‘Bless you for asking. I need your advice. I’ve quite a tale to tell.’ Bess recounted her uncle’s description of the events surrounding the fire at St Leonard’s and described the wounds she had seen on the two friends.
‘It does not sound like an accident.’
Bess pounded her fist on the table with satisfaction, sat back. ‘No more than Walter de Hotter’s death. Indeed. Do you know what John Cooper said last night?’ She told Owen.
‘Rumours. You must pay them no heed. They will send you down the wrong path for certain.’
Bess threw up her hands. ‘Then how do I find the right path?’
‘Find out if anyone witnessed the accident, Bess. That is the only certain way to know the truth.’
‘Cuthbert has me watched at the spital. I am herded to my uncle’s bed. I cannot go elsewhere.’
‘He is worried about the very rumours you repeated, Bess.’
‘Oh, aye. He is right to worry.’ She suddenly tossed her head, letting her ribbons bob merrily and gave him her most engaging smile. ‘You would not …’
‘No, Bes
s. I want no part of it. You would soon grow impatient with me anyway. My skill as a spy is naught compared to yours.’
Bess’s expressive face was caught between a smile and a frown.
Owen had no intention of being drawn into Bess’s concerns. He had worries enough with the children away, Lucie’s melancholy, the pestilence, Thoresby’s absence and the constant stream of frightened customers begging for plague cures. Bess had time to spare at present – pestilence meant few travellers, and many folk avoiding public places as much as possible. But she was a good friend. Perhaps a suggestion.
‘Don Erkenwald is also uneasy. You might speak to him.’
‘I doubt Cuthbert will let me.’
‘I have never known anyone strong enough to stop you when you are determined, my friend.’
Barker the gatekeeper bowed stiffly and gingerly placed two Italian glass goblets on the cellarer’s table.
Cuthbert recognised them as part of the set missing from the guesthouse. ‘You found these in your search?’ He had ordered a search of all the spital and the houses in the city belonging to St Leonard’s.
‘In the room of Mistress Staines, Domine.’ Barker wiped his hands on his doublet. ‘And other items I did not care to bring. Personal, you see. But not of a sort should belong to a lay sister.’
Cuthbert closed his eyes, pressed his hands together, rocked on his feet. Honoria de Staines. So he had been a fool to trust her. ‘What other items, Barker?’
A pause.
The cellarer glanced at the gatekeeper, noted his red face. ‘Personal items, you said. Shifts, perhaps?’
Barker nodded with grateful enthusiasm. ‘Aye, Domine. Of finest silk they are. And a wimple of heavy silk. I thought to tell you. To my mind ’tis not fitting a lay sister should own such things.’
Indeed not. But a whore might. Or a thief. ‘You were quite right, Barker. And these goblets, where in her room did you find them?’
‘Hidden in a chest. Wrapped in some old cloths.’
‘I see. Did you find anything else? Naught in any other rooms or elsewhere within St Leonard’s liberty?’
‘Naught, Domine.’
Only the woman who had so fooled him. His fellow Austins would be much amused. ‘God go with you, Barker. You have done a good day’s work.’
Cuthbert sent for Honoria.
She entered his parlour, hands folded meekly, eyes downcast. ‘Don Cuthbert. They have told me what you found.’ She was a small woman with a soft, caressing voice, even now when she must be fearful.
‘Can you explain yourself?’
‘It is not what you think. I am guilty of betraying your trust, yes, I admit to that. But I did not steal the goblets.’
‘Why then did you hide them away?’
‘Italian glass goblets were mentioned as missing from the guesthouse. I worried lest my fellow sisters might think mine were those goblets.’
‘They are of the set.’
Only now did Honoria lift her eyes to meet Cuthbert’s. They were wide set, round, like a doe’s. ‘Of the set? But that cannot be.’
‘Whence came the goblets?’
She returned to her study of the floor. ‘They were a gift.’
‘From whom?’
‘I would rather not say, Domine,’ she said quietly but firmly.
‘He may be the thief of St Leonard’s, Honoria. You will tell me.’
‘He cannot be. They were his to give. He swore that they were.’
‘You would protect this man, though your own salvation be forfeit for him? Excommunication is the punishment for one who enters the hospital to do violence or to steal. Did you know that?’ Cuthbert thought he detected a shiver.
But Honoria’s voice was still calm as she said, ‘God will not so punish me for something of which I am innocent, Domine.’
‘You deny that you stole the goblets. Yet you confess you have betrayed my trust. Have you lain with men since taking your vows?’
She dropped to her knees, touched her forehead to Cuthbert’s feet. ‘I am innocent of what you accuse me.’
Cuthbert backed away from her. ‘You have made a fool of me once, Mistress Staines. You shall not a second time.’ He walked to the door with purposeful strides that made him feel tall. ‘Barker!’ he shouted.
Nine
The Master’s Cares
Ravenser allowed himself only one night at his uncle’s manor of Bishopthorpe, then headed towards his duty in York.
On the road, his company encountered a group of pilgrims making their way to the shrine of St John of Beverley, tattered folk with the smell of death upon them. Ravenser’s squire moved to block their access to his master. But Ravenser ordered Topas to stand aside while he blessed the pilgrims. It was not that he approved; he wished such folk would stay at home, not spread the pestilence abroad and particularly to his beloved city of Beverley. For surely they carried the poisonous air about them, these folk who had lived among the victims, sat with them at their death beds, buried or burned their corpses. But he would not deny them his blessing. Still, when he was finished, Ravenser held a ball of ambergris close to his nose as protection and rode on; all in his company appeared discomfited by the encounter, especially his clerk Douglas, who gazed about him with haunted eyes, one hand protectively covering his broad middle.
Just outside the gates of York, the company came upon a man, wrapped in animal skins and clutching a shepherd’s crook, who stood upon a rock warning all who passed of the coming of the Antichrist, made manifest in the form of healers. ‘Seek ye not asylum from the Lord’s wrath!’
Ravenser had never been so relieved to see Micklegate Bar. The gatekeeper smiled with surprise at the hearty greeting from the Master of St Leonard’s. But once within, Ravenser saw that the city, too, was changed with the fear that hung over the people. The pillory at Holy Trinity stood empty, folk hustled along with heads down, the fishmongers on Ouse Bridge protected themselves with cloths covering their faces, though they still shouted their wares.
Their muffled voices brought a memory that startled and unnerved Ravenser, a vivid vision of his mother hurrying him past a leper who cried out for alms. His mother had gripped Ravenser’s hand tightly and pulled him along. He did not know where the incident had occurred, but he remembered how frightened he had been when he’d recognised his mother’s fear. Had it happened during the visitation of the plague when he was a child? Is that why he remembered it? Or was it simply the fishmongers’ cloth masks that brought back the moment so clearly? God brought on such visions; what was Ravenser to make of it? Exceedingly uneasy, he crossed himself and trudged on with his men towards St Leonard’s, trying to keep his eyes on his feet. He wanted no more visions.
Topas stayed close, sensing his master’s discomfort. And he was shortly needed. As the company passed along the west corner of St Helen’s Square, a man came rushing towards them, his eyes fixed on Ravenser. Topas moved quickly to block his way.
But Ravenser noted the goldsmith’s emblem on the man’s vest and cap. His guild was wealthy, much given to charitable gifts. Ravenser stepped from behind Topas.
‘Sir Richard, these are dangerous times,’ Topas warned under his breath. ‘Trust no one.’
But Ravenser had his priorities. ‘You have business with me, Master Goldsmith?’
The man took off his cap, bowed with respect. ‘Sir Richard. I am much relieved to see you in the city.’
‘You are kind to say so.’ Ravenser cursed his poor memory for names. He recognised the odd slurring of words caused by the crooked jaw that twisted the man’s mouth, but he could not remember the man’s name, nor what his dealings with him had been.
‘It is no flattery, Sir Richard. I am much relieved to see you, and I pray that I might have a word with you.’
Who was he and what might he want?
The goldsmith saw his confusion. ‘Forgive me. Of course you cannot remember me after so long. Edward Munkton. My shop is in Stonegate, and you once …’
&
nbsp; ‘Ah. Master Munkton. The necklace.’ The goldsmith had designed a necklace for Ravenser, a gift for his mother. It seemed such a long time ago. And indeed, the man had aged, his once round face chiselled with years, his hair grey and wispy. ‘Confer with my clerk, Douglas, to find a time convenient for both of us to talk. At my house in St Leonard’s.’
Munkton’s smile faded. He kneaded his felt hat with nervous hands. ‘If I might have a word now, I should be most grateful.’
Ravenser glanced round. ‘In the street? It affords us little privacy.’
‘God forgive me, but I would stay away from the sick at present, Sir Richard.’ Munkton’s eyes danced away in embarrassment.
But Ravenser understood. ‘Then briefly.’ He took the man aside, beneath the eaves of a closed shop, and held his ambergris down to show his trust in the man.
‘It is about Don Cuthbert,’ Munkton began, his breath sweet with fennel, ‘he came to me a few days past and asked to see my account books.’
Ravenser blinked in disbelief. ‘To see what?’ Had the goldsmith gone mad? Cuthbert?
Munkton, studying Ravenser’s face, smiled. ‘I had hoped to see such surprise, Sir Richard. I did not want to think that you had ordered your cellarer to insult me so.’
‘Of course I did not. Did he explain himself?’
‘He did indeed. He thought I might have purchased a chalice stolen from the spital. I told him that I am a goldsmith, not a trader, and that I have no need for chalices, as he might see if he took the time to look round the shop.’
A stolen chalice? Ravenser had heard nothing of this. But then, one chalice … ‘What possible reason did he have to suspect you, Master Munkton?’
‘The very thing that makes it ridiculous. My reputation for fine chalices.’
Don Cuthbert had gone mad. ‘Forgive me. I had no idea.’ Ravenser had a dreadful thought. ‘Has he so insulted any other members of your guild?’
‘Several. But I was his first victim. Not an honour I welcome.’
‘To be sure. I shall reprimand him, Master Munkton. You will receive an apology, I promise you.’
