The Riddle Of St Leonard's: An Owen Archer Mystery

by Candace Robb

  ‘Do you think me a fool?’ Anneys let go of the branch and lunged for the bundle. The boat twisted as it caught the current and began to drift from the shore, dragging Anneys with it.

  ‘Kick yourself loose while you are in the shallows,’ Alisoun shouted. She watched helplessly as the current pulled the listing boat down and away, into the deeper water. Anneys could not swim, nor, it had been plain as they’d rowed upriver, had she much experience in handling a boat. And weakened with fever …

  Alisoun dropped the bundle on the bank and ran back towards the farm, hoping that the riders had reached the yard.

  *

  Don Erkenwald reigned in his horse and pointed to the shadows at the edge of the wood.

  ‘They heard us,’ Owen said. ‘Pity.’ He had hoped that Anneys and the child might be making enough noise with their shovels to mask the sounds of their approach. ‘Ride on as if we have not seen them. We shall tether our horses on the fence near the trees in which they hide.’

  With a grin, Erkenwald urged his horse forward.

  Owen made note of the trench of disturbed earth along the fence. So the child had buried the items there. And already dug them up?

  ‘Captain Archer!’ Alisoun Ffulford ran across the yard with an awkward gait, her hem heavy with mud. She waved her arms and shouted, ‘Ride to the river! She is drowning!’

  The child had come from the river; so who hid in the wood? An important question, but there was no time for it at present. The river took its victims quickly.

  When Owen reached the bank, he saw no sign of Anneys or a damaged boat, heard no cries for help. All he heard was the river lapping the bank and the insects buzzing near his ears. He had played the fool. The child’s story had been a ruse to lure him and Erkenwald away from the trench where presumably the stolen items had been buried. Anneys was no doubt hiding in the wood by the barn with another accomplice, and the boat hidden somewhere in the brush on the riverbank.

  As he resolved to turn back, Owen heard a faint cry. He turned round, thinking it was Alisoun running up behind him. But the cry came again, clearly from behind him now, out on the water.

  Erkenwald shouted, ‘Look you! By the rock downstream, near the bank.’

  There it was, a battered boat caught in a tangle of weeds and saplings.

  Alisoun had reached the bank. ‘Help her! The prow has been damaged and Mistress Anneys cannot swim.’

  ‘She is in the boat?’ Erkenwald asked.

  ‘Yes. Hurry!’

  ‘She may yet be safe. The weeds seem to be holding it afloat.’

  Alisoun grabbed Owen’s foot in the stirrup. ‘She is weak with fever, Captain. Please. Hurry. She will die.’

  Owen dismounted. ‘Come. We may need your help as well, child.’ He led his horse down along the bank. Erkenwald dismounted and followed.

  Twenty-nine

  Shattered Plans

  After a brief burst of activity, the shop grew quiet once more. Lucie left her work and stood in the doorway gazing towards Stonegate, hoping to see Owen step out into St Helen’s Square. As the afternoon shadows lengthened, she grew more and more concerned about Owen’s safety, Wulfstan’s condition, Jasper’s silence. And beneath that was the painful yearning for Gwenllian and Hugh. Jasper came up behind her, slipped his arms round her, pressed his head against her back. Lucie turned and hugged him.

  ‘Come,’ she said, ‘let us close the shop and go to Brother Wulfstan.’

  Bess tried to busy herself in the tavern, but the thought of the man in St Leonard’s gaol was finally too much to resist. She marched to the hospital and demanded to see Sir Richard.

  ‘You might prefer to speak with Don Cuthbert,’ Douglas said, his hands folded on his comfortably padded stomach. The corners of his mouth fought an urge to smile; his eyes were not so successful in solemnity.

  Suppressed laughter annoyed Bess. Cheer that must be hidden was at someone’s expense. ‘What amuses you?’

  ‘Amuses me? By Christ’s rood, Mistress Merchet, I am merely happy to be leaving York.’

  ‘How can you be leaving?’

  ‘It seems we have caught the thief and shall shortly also have the murderer.’

  ‘Captain Archer has returned? I had not heard.’

  ‘No, not yet. But Sir Richard is confident.’

  ‘Sir Richard is a fool to act on expectations.’

  ‘We do not leave at once. His Grace the Archbishop arrives tomorrow and will dine here. But we hope to depart by the week’s end.’

  ‘Ah. Archbishop Thoresby returns. Does he arrive with his dismantled house?’

  ‘A portion of it, yes. He rides ahead of the slow-moving barge.’

  ‘People are dying all round and the nephew entertains, the uncle plays with his lavish tomb. No wonder God is punishing us. ’Tis a pity He is punishing the wrong people.’

  ‘Mistress Merchet, you tread dangerously.’

  ‘I shall leave you to your packing, Douglas. Where might I find Don Cuthbert?’

  Brother William directed Lucie and Jasper to Abbot Campian’s house. ‘My lord abbot has moved Brother Wulfstan to his quarters.’

  Lucie caught her breath. Of course she had known there was scant hope Brother Wulfstan would survive the pestilence, but to have withdrawn Brother Henry’s care seemed a premature admission of defeat. Lucie reached for Jasper’s hand, clasped it firmly for comfort as she led him through the abbey grounds to Campian’s house.

  They were met at the door by Brother Sebastian, Campian’s secretary, his pale, ageless face solemn as he bowed and led them to the abbot’s parlour. Even before they reached it, Lucie could smell the incense of burning juniper wood. As Sebastian opened the door the smoke drifted out, an aromatic but unhealthy, too heavy fog. The room was also too hot for the summer evening. The abbot had placed Wulfstan’s bed before a briskly burning fire. It was no wonder the infirmarian struggled for breath. ‘Give him some air, I pray you!’ Lucie said as she moved towards a casement window.

  Sebastian stopped her. ‘I pray you, Mistress, I know what you think, but Brother Wulfstan’s breathing was as laboured in the infirmary. It is neither the smoke nor the heat of the fire causing it.’

  Of course not. It was the pestilence. Lucie turned back towards the bed.

  ‘Brother Henry thought a good sweat might help dispel the poisoned humours,’ Sebastian added in a voice that trailed away uncertainly.

  Lucie touched his forearm. ‘Forgive me. You are very good to him. I do not mean to interfere.’

  Abbot Campian knelt at Wulfstan’s bedside, a string of paternosters flowing through his hands as he prayed in a low murmur.

  Lucie hesitated to approach. She had lost so many she loved, and yet each one was as if the first, the pain as sharp and deep, the desire to deny the possibility of death as strong.

  ‘Is he awake?’ Jasper asked Sebastian.

  The monk nodded solemnly. ‘His breathing is more evenly measured when he sleeps.’

  Abbot Campian turned an ashen face to the visitors. ‘Come. I know he wishes to speak to you, Mistress Wilton.’

  Don Cuthbert rocked back and forth on his sandalled feet, his hands tucked up his sleeves, and listened to Bess’s tirade with a blank expression.

  ‘I know nothing of the master’s plans, Mistress Merchet. He asked me to talk to the prisoner, discover who he was, what wrong he had committed, and I have done so.’

  ‘You have spoken to him?’

  ‘More to the point, he has spoken to me. The threat of lying naked on the stone floor without food or water eased his tongue.’ Cuthbert sniffed smugly.

  Bess found his satisfaction disturbing; but she must humour the little torturer. ‘What have you learned?’

  ‘His name is Finn. He has admitted to assisting in the thefts, and – how did he describe it?’ Cuthbert dropped his head, searching his memory, lifted it suddenly and smiled, showing his teeth. ‘He admits to “being surprised by Walter de Hotter and in my panic mortally wounding him
”. He seems to dislike the word “murder”.’

  Perhaps she was too kind to those she questioned; the canon had learned much from the prisoner in a short time. ‘What of my uncle and Laurence de Warrene?’

  ‘For that, he suggests we speak to Anneys, lately a lay sister of this hospital.’

  ‘I know who she is.’

  ‘I never trusted her, God knows that I did not. And I warned Dame Constance about giving her too much responsibility.’

  ‘What has that to do with my uncle’s murder, for pity’s sake?’

  ‘No one watched her.’

  ‘What will you do with him?’

  ‘He pleads benefit of clergy and asks for sanctuary at St Mary’s.’

  ‘Sweet Jesu! How can he expect such a gift?’

  ‘He believes that God had some purpose in curing him of the pestilence.’

  ‘He did indeed. So this Finn could be properly punished.’

  ‘Indeed. But that awaits Captain Archer.’

  ‘I must speak to the prisoner.’

  ‘No, Mistress Merchet.’

  Well, she would find a way.

  *

  At high tide the bank was as treacherous as a marsh with flooded pools hidden by underbrush. Owen lost his footing once and frightened his horse. He moved even more cautiously after that.

  His slow gait made Alisoun impatient. ‘She will drown before we get there. Why did you not leave your horses back on the high ground?’

  ‘She may be far from the bank, but the weeds on which she is caught tell me that the water is shallow enough there for a horse to walk. I can put her on the horse.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Do you have a better plan?’

  ‘No.’

  Abbot Campian rose, invited Lucie and Jasper to take his place at Wulfstan’s bedside.

  Lucie reached for Wulfstan’s hand. He pulled it away, but not before she had felt its heat.

  ‘I would not have you ill, my friend,’ Wulfstan whispered.

  ‘Are you in much pain?’

  A trembling smile. ‘It has passed.’

  ‘But you burn with fever.’

  ‘God purifies me.’

  ‘I did not believe He would take you. How can He withdraw the comfort you have given to the sick?’

  ‘He answers to no one, Lucie. Not even my lord abbot.’ Again the weak smile.

  ‘Forgive me, Brother Wulfstan.’

  ‘Forgive?’

  ‘I once asked for your silence. You almost died then because of me.’

  Now he reached for her hand, pressed it with the little strength he had. ‘Good has come of it. I forgave both of us long ago.’

  *

  Erkenwald turned his head. ‘There is someone back in the clearing.’

  ‘The treasures!’ Alisoun cried. ‘I left the bundle of treasures back there.’

  ‘Who is behind us?’ Owen asked.

  But the child was already crashing back through the brush.

  Owen continued downstream; Erkenwald followed.

  Owen could now see the boat and the woman clutching it. She was halfway in the boat, her legs floating on the current. Owen could not tell whether her head was in water. But surely it had been she who shouted just a while ago, so he still hoped to find her alive.

  When they were as close to Anneys as they could get on the bank, Erkenwald took a rope out of his saddlebag, tied it round a sturdy trunk, and Owen pulled the rope through his horse’s harness. Then he and his horse waded out.

  Alisoun dropped to her hands and knees and crept through the tall weeds to the edge of the farm’s landing-point. She saw no one. Nor did she see the bundle. She rose and moved into the trees, heading for the farm. There was no easy path upriver from the landing-place, so whoever had taken the treasure must have gone inland.

  The water swirled round Owen’s legs. It was cold, even in the shallows. He soon felt the cause of the shallow area as his feet discovered an uneven, rocky bottom. He worried for the horse. But the beast picked its way with care until it reached Anneys’s bobbing feet. Then it shied, but it quieted and stood still when Owen waded past and moved the legs into the broken boat. He felt for a pulse. Anneys moaned.

  ‘Do not be afraid. I am going to lift you on to my horse. He will carry you to the riverbank.’

  Near the barn, Alisoun’s uncle and cousin stood arguing.

  ‘This load will slow us,’ said Lame John. ‘I say we bury it in the hay, return tomorrow with the cart.’

  Rich laughed. ‘Oh, aye. They will ride away with the woman and child and never think to watch for us.’

  Lame John crossed himself. ‘You heard the child. The woman has drowned. I told you we should not damage the boat. We killed her.’

  Alisoun crept into the house and retrieved her bow and arrows.

  Anneys clung to the horse, shivering. Erkenwald had taken his blanket from his saddle, spread it on dry ground. As soon as the horse reached the bank, Erkenwald lifted Anneys, carried her to the blanket, rolled her up in it.

  ‘God watched over you,’ the canon said, shaking his head. ‘I cannot think why.’

  Owen crouched by Anneys’s feet. ‘Come. We shall lift her to the horse, return to the farm for the child.’

  Alisoun sat in the doorway of the house. ‘You should see to my uncle. Out by the barn. He is injured. And my cousin Rich. I shot them for thieving.’

  ‘You injured your kin for that pack of treasures?’ Owen asked.

  ‘They have my hen and my cow. I’ll never get them back.’

  Was there ever such an accurséd child, Owen wondered as he headed for the barn in his clothes heavy with river water. Why was she his particular penance? What had he ever done to a child to deserve this? He loved his own, he had taken Jasper in when he was in danger, he always took particular care to instruct customers on the small doses children required.

  An elderly man sat with his back against the wall of the barn, his eyes closed, head hanging down, chin on chest. Another man lay on his stomach, but propped up on his elbows so that he might spew forth curses. Owen knelt to the latter, found a wound behind the man’s left knee that bled freely.

  With a choice curse, the man shoved a small, bloody arrow at Owen’s face. ‘I have removed it, but I cannot stand on the leg.’

  He would live. And walk again. The older man’s wound was in his left arm, near the shoulder. A graze, nothing more.

  Lame John lifted his eyes to Owen. ‘’Tis God’s punishment for damaging the Riverwoman’s boat.’

  ‘So it was you ruined Magda Digby’s boat. She will not thank you for it. Many sick folk must go without her help until another boat be made.’

  ‘I told Rich we should not do it,’ Lame John said.

  ‘Stop your whining, old man,’ Rich shouted. ‘I have paid more dearly than you. Is that not enough?’

  ‘What of the woman?’ Lame John asked.

  ‘She survived the river.’

  Owen rose as Erkenwald approached, leading the horses and holding tight to Alisoun’s hand. Anneys still lay across Owen’s beast. ‘Is there a cart we can use?’

  ‘At our farm,’ Lame John said.

  ‘Aye,’ Alisoun muttered. ‘They kept that, too.’

  Bess found Honoria in a curtained corner of the Barnhous, with the ailing infants. The young woman darned while her three charges slept.

  ‘I have no doubt Captain Archer will allow you to return to your house in the city,’ Bess said, settling down beside her.

  ‘And why is that?’ Honoria asked without lifting her eyes from her work.

  ‘Another woman my uncle held dear also has a pair of Italian goblets. It seems you spoke the truth.’

  ‘I am not the one who needs to be told.’

  ‘I confess I was surprised to learn that my uncle was bedding Anneys and not you.’

  Now the head raised, the dark eyes met Bess’s. Honoria was laughing. ‘Anneys bedded? Oh, I think not, Mistress Merchet. I do not know what her game was
with your uncle, but she did not mean to lie with him. She flirted with him, but she had naught but scorn for him behind his back.’

  ‘Scorn?’

  ‘I know not why. Nor why she quizzed him so. As if she must know everything about him. Yet she was quiet enough about her own past.’

  ‘What do you know of her?’

  ‘She was widowed three years ago. Had three children, none of whom could offer her a home. Or would, more like.’

  ‘She asked my uncle questions?’

  ‘Oh, and he bragged to her. About all the treasures he had given to the hospital, the work he did among the plague-sick when the Death first stalked the land.’

  One of the children woke and began to fret. Honoria put her work aside and lifted the child on to her lap, smoothed her damp hair from her forehead, held her until she slept once more.

  ‘You are good with children.’

  ‘So says Dame Beatrice. Do you have more questions?’

  ‘What do you know about my uncle’s penance? Captain Archer thought it strange, all that guilt about the death of a thief who died thieving.’

  Honoria shook her head. ‘Not for him, for the children. Master Taverner learned that Carter had two children by his mistress – a mistress your uncle never even knew of – and when he died she was without means of caring for them, so she abandoned them to the family.’

  ‘The Carters of Scarborough?’

  ‘They in turn sent them far away. So it was said. And Master Taverner swore that had he known of them he would have given the children their father’s share of the spoils.’

  ‘Did he search for the children?’

  ‘Where would he search? He could not discuss this with the Carters, for pity’s sake. He was not a man to destroy himself.’

  ‘The penance he undertook was severe,’ Bess said.

  Honoria kissed the child in her arms. ‘No more than what we do here every day, Mistress Merchet. Do not fool yourself that your uncle was a saintly man. He was no better than he should have been.’

  ‘I, for one, shall miss him,’ Bess said, rising. She was anxious to escape into the untainted air.