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

by Candace Robb

  ‘There are many will miss him,’ Honoria said softly.

  Bess had much to ponder as she headed for home. So Anneys had not been Julian’s leman. But had she murdered him? The man Finn seemed to suggest that. She prayed God Owen found the woman and brought her to justice if it was true. The city could use a good hanging.

  But as she walked Bess thought more of Honoria’s tale of Adam Carter’s leman and his bastards than of vengeance. Poor Uncle Julian. It did him credit that he had felt such remorse for neglecting his partner’s family. She could feel proud of him once more.

  Thirty

  Jasper’s Despair; Wulfstan’s Request

  Shivering in his damp clothes, Owen jounced about on the wagon seat as he guided two horses unaccustomed to pulling a wagon. Alisoun sat beside him; Erkenwald rode in the back with Anneys. Owen felt cursed. Pestilence had touched his house this day – for he had no doubt Jasper and Lucie had gone to Brother Wulfstan, and he himself had breathed the poisonous air surrounding two victims, ‘John’ and Anneys. It did not help that in addition to his worries and discomfort, he had the irritating Alisoun as companion.

  ‘She is my grandame, you know,’ the child suddenly announced, leaning close to make sure Owen heard. Her breath was stale and her hair stank of sweat and horses.

  But she got his attention. ‘Your grandame?’ So Anneys had told ‘John’ the truth.

  ‘She came to York to get back her treasures.’

  ‘How were they her treasures?’

  ‘Because they were her husband’s.’

  Was it possible? Had Carter been married? ‘Was Adam Carter your grandsire?’

  ‘If you know the tale, why are you asking me?’

  ‘Because that is what I do.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘What else did your grandame say?’

  ‘Why should I tell you?’

  ‘’Twas you began it.’

  A brief, sullen silence. ‘They murdered my grandsire and took all he owned and vanished. My grandame had to give up her children because she could not feed them. And then a farmer married her and she had another son, Finn – the one I thought was stealing from me.’

  ‘The man you wounded?’ So his name was Finn, not John.

  ‘I did not know who he was. My mother never told me.’

  ‘So then what happened?’

  ‘She was widowed again, and she had nothing again.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the sea rose up and turned the farm into a salt marsh, didn’t it?’

  ‘Of course. And then what happened?’

  ‘And so she and Finn thought to find the men who had murdered her first husband and stolen his treasures.’

  ‘An impressive tale.’

  ‘You never believe me.’

  ‘I am a cautious man.’

  For a long while the child was silent. Owen tried to organise what he had learned this day. According to Bess, Anneys was Julian’s lover; and yet according to the child, she blamed him for her poverty and thought him a murderer. Alisoun’s story made his original casting of Anneys as Julian’s murderer plausible; Bess’s did not. And Honoria had been bedding the town council, but not corrodians. A tangled mess, it was, and he felt little nearer the truth than at sunrise.

  ‘Quite a coincidence, your mother and the men your grandame was after both being in York, or nearby.’

  ‘My grandame says she did not know my mother was here. But when she learned it, she saw it as God’s sign that she was in the right.’

  ‘In the right?’

  ‘To avenge my grandsire’s death.’

  ‘And how did she do that?’

  ‘Stole back his treasures.’

  ‘And murdered Taverner and Warrene?’

  ‘No! They died of plague and fire.’

  ‘Ah. Why did you tell no one at the hospital that Anneys was your grandame?’

  ‘I did not know.’

  ‘Your mother did not tell you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A queer thing.’

  ‘Grandame said Mama punished her for abandoning her in Scarborough.’

  Owen wondered who had been punished more – Anneys or Alisoun. The child was silent for the rest of the journey.

  The gatekeeper at Bootham Bar stopped Owen. ‘Abbot Campian prays you hasten to his house.’

  ‘Brother Wulfstan?’

  The man bowed his head, made the sign of the cross.

  ‘I can take them from here, Captain,’ Erkenwald said. ‘Sir Richard’s squire Topas will stand watch with me.’

  ‘I thank you. You have been a great help to me.’

  ‘God forgive me, but it has been my pleasure, Captain. Now hasten to your friend.’

  A time-consuming task that did not require a clear mind was Lucie’s way of surviving the horrible evening of worrying about Owen and dreading word of Wulfstan’s death. A farmer had delivered swine gall the day before. Lucie and Jasper had transferred it to their own jars earlier, but now she must seal the lids with wax or the odour would foul the storeroom. It was hot work melting wax in the workroom. When Lucie came to a point at which she could pause, she stepped out into the garden.

  The evening had grown cool, with a welcome breeze. As she sat on the bench, she fought sleep, and was drifting off when sounds in the shop caught her attention. She had asked Jasper to tidy up, but he should have been finished long ago. Fearing an intruder, she picked up a knife and moved through the workroom towards the shop. Through the beaded curtain she saw light; an oil lamp flickered on the counter. That relieved her. A thief would not be so bold – unless he had not heard her in the next room. How long had she dozed on the bench?

  She stood against the curtain and waited for the intruder to come into sight. Praise God, Jasper crossed behind the light. He carried a leather pouch. Lucie slipped through the curtain.

  Jasper looked up, startled, then swung the pouch behind him, out of sight. ‘Mistress Lucie. I thought you slept.’

  Sweat beaded on Jasper’s upper lip and glistened at his temples. Was it the heat from the workroom? Or was he nervous, Lucie wondered.

  ‘I must have slept. You should have waked me. The spirit lamp is lit in the workroom.’

  ‘I saw. I was watching it.’

  ‘From in here?’ Lucie took a few steps to the left.

  Jasper moved so that his body still hid the pouch.

  ‘What is in the pouch?’

  ‘What—’

  ‘No, Jasper. Do not play the fool, or mistake me for one. I saw you carrying a pouch. What is in it?’

  He set the pouch on the counter.

  Lucie did not look into it. Not yet. ‘What are you doing?’

  Jasper tossed his head to clear the hair from his eyes. ‘I mean to continue Brother Wulfstan’s work.’

  ‘You are no physician.’

  ‘Neither is he.’

  ‘Jasper.’

  ‘I can apply ointments, make a tisane to ease pain, lance boils.’

  ‘No.’

  He grabbed for the pouch, but too late; Lucie already clutched it to her.

  ‘Come to the house with me,’ she said.

  ‘I mean to do this.’

  ‘You will obey me, Jasper de Melton. You are my apprentice and you live under my roof as my son. Come to the house.’

  He followed.

  The warmth of the sickroom soon dried Owen’s clothes and soothed his joints, particularly the knees on which he knelt beside the sick-bed. Brother Wulfstan was near death, his breath rattling in his shrunken chest. But he opened his eyes, recognised Owen.

  ‘I am comforted. Lucie and Jasper are in your hands, and God’s, and both of you are trustworthy.’ Wulfstan signed a blessing over Owen, then closed his eyes. ‘Peace, now.’ He smiled slightly.

  Owen bowed his head and prayed. Not so much for Wulfstan’s soul; he had no doubt the infirmarian would die in a state of grace. Rather he had recognised the smile, one he had seen on the mortally wounded after batt
le, when they wearied of fighting for life and welcomed the peace of death. Owen prayed that Wulfstan’s suffering would soon be over.

  When at last Owen rose, Abbot Campian asked for a word. Merciful Mother, what now?

  The abbot looked as if he would be the next victim, his face pale and shadowed from lack of sleep and food, his eyes red-rimmed.

  ‘You must rest, my lord abbot.’

  ‘Soon enough. While my old friend still breathes, I shall stay with him. I ask a favour for him, Captain. I do not like it. Nor will you. But it is Wulfstan’s wish that I intercede for the man John, save his life so that he might dedicate himself to God. Brother Wulfstan believes there was a reason the man survived the pestilence, that he is to devote his life to praying for the victims of the pestilence in York.’

  Owen did not like it. Not at all. But when he looked into the abbot’s grief-ravaged eyes he could say only, ‘I shall present the case to Sir Richard on the morrow, my lord abbot.’

  ‘Jasper means to return at first light. You will not prevent him?’

  ‘I would not try.’

  Some wine and a quiet talk with Lucie, perhaps some bread and cheese. Owen did not ask for much. His heart sank as he walked into the hall and heard Bess’s voice up above. He sat down on a bench and rubbed his knees. ‘What are they about up there, Kate?’

  ‘I do not know as I ought to say, Captain,’ Kate whispered, her eyes bright with worry. ‘Perhaps it is best you go up.’

  Slowly he climbed the stairs; he had left his shoes below.

  Bess was saying, ‘All those churches right there, in Spen Lane or near, and not a priest came out to help Brother Wulfstan. I tell you, Lucie Wilton, it—’

  ‘For pity’s sake, be quiet!’ Lucie snapped.

  Owen wished he could back down the stairs and let them be, for he knew such behaviour from Lucie meant trouble. But he would not be able to rest below for wondering. He stepped on to the landing. From a chair placed before the door to the children’s room, Lucie looked up, startled. Her eyes were swollen. Had she begun her mourning for Wulfstan? Bess stood against the rail of the landing, arms folded over her middle. Though she had not been crying, she looked grim. He thought to cheer them.

  ‘Fortune smiles on me this evening, to find two beautiful women at the door of my chamber.’

  ‘Jasper’s chamber,’ Lucie said.

  ‘It does not sound as poetic.’

  Neither woman smiled.

  ‘Why are you sitting there?’

  ‘The door has no lock, so I am barring it.’

  ‘Who is within?’

  ‘Jasper.’

  ‘What has he done?’

  ‘It is what he meant to do.’ Lucie told Owen how she had discovered Jasper in the shop.

  Bess nodded. ‘He is a good lad. He means well. But she is right, you know, it is not the place for a young boy, working among those dying of pestilence.’

  Were they both mad? Did they truly think the boy would disobey Lucie? ‘Why are you here, Bess?’

  ‘To hear what happened at Ffulford farm.’

  ‘I have brought Anneys, the child, and the stolen items to St Leonard’s. That is all you shall hear tonight, Bess.’

  Her face as red as her hair, Bess turned from him with a little gasp and sought a sympathetic look from Lucie.

  ‘I pray you, leave us,’ Lucie said.

  When Bess had snapped her skirts and marched with a good bit of noise down the stairs, Owen said quietly, hoping to control his anger, ‘You cannot be doing this, Lucie.’

  A cold stare. ‘Do you disbelieve your eye?’

  ‘You have stood back and let him grow as he would. Why do you stop him now?’

  ‘Do you want him dying of pestilence?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you want him out on the streets at night, stumbling among the sick?’

  ‘You exaggerate—’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Come away from there. Let me talk to him.’

  ‘He was stealing from me, Owen. He meant to disobey me, his master.’

  ‘It is not the master apothecary who sits so, it is the mother.’

  Lucie folded her arms and turned away from him.

  Owen went down to the hall, calmed himself with wine, filled the empty pockets in his stomach with bread and cheese. When at last he climbed the stairs once more, he found the chair moved aside, the door open. Within, Jasper slept on his cot, fully clothed. Lucie sat beside Hugh’s cradle, staring at nothing.

  ‘Come to bed, my love.’

  At some god-forsaken hour of the night Owen woke to find Lucie pacing the room. His first thought was of Jasper. He sat up sharp. ‘What is it? Has the boy disappeared?’

  Lucie turned, hurried over. ‘No. He still sleeps.’ She sat at the edge of the bed. ‘Poor Bess. She had much to tell you.’

  ‘It did not seem the time to talk.’

  ‘No.’ Lucie played with the edge of the light mantle she wore over her shift. ‘I know she would prefer to tell you herself, but …’

  Owen took one of her hands in his. ‘Does it involve Anneys?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Please, my love, tell me. The woman is dying. If there is aught I need ask her, I must do it soon.’

  ‘The man in St Leonard’s gaol is called Finn. He has confessed he murdered Walter de Hotter. And he has suggested that Anneys can name the murderer of Julian Taverner and Laurence de Warrene.’

  So Owen had guessed right. Anneys was the murderer. She had to be. ‘Mother and son murderers. It explains much about that unpleasant child.’

  ‘Finn is Anneys’s son?’

  ‘Aye. And Alisoun is Anneys’s granddaughter. Charming family. According to the child, Anneys claims to be a Carter.’

  Lucie squeezed Owen’s hand. ‘That is the key! Adam Carter had two bastard children. When he died, his leman abandoned the children to his family, who sent them away.’

  ‘To St Leonard’s.’

  ‘So it seems.’

  Owen embraced Lucie. ‘I shall make it up to Bess somehow.’

  ‘Let us pray that matters with Jasper are as easily solved.’

  Thirty-one

  Remorse

  In the morning, Jasper apologised and begged to go to St Mary’s as he had planned. When Owen saw Lucie’s haunted eyes, he offered to escort the lad and entrust him to Abbot Campian until he returned from St Leonard’s. Lucie accepted.

  When they arrived, they found the door to Abbot Campian’s house ajar.

  ‘Wait here, Jasper.’ Owen stepped into the hall, listened, heard nothing, made his way to the sickroom. Within, Abbot Campian knelt beside Wulfstan’s bed, head in hands, weeping. Owen withdrew. He had no need to tell Jasper of his loss; St Mary’s bell had already begun to toll for Brother Wulfstan.

  ‘We must go back, Jasper. Tell Lucie.’

  Eyes wide to fight tears, Jasper nodded. His face was chalky beneath the dark freckles. ‘I should go to her. You go on to St Leonard’s. I promise to go straight to the apothecary, nowhere else.’

  ‘Your word is good enough for me.’

  It did not make Jasper smile, but he stood a little taller as they made their way back to the postern gate.

  *

  When Owen arrived at Finn’s room in St Leonard’s gaol, the man was sitting up in a chair, drinking a cup of ale. Owen leaned against the door and stared at the man who had survived the pestilence. Why him and not Brother Wulfstan? God’s purpose in this was difficult for Owen to understand.

  ‘Perhaps God spared him so that we might know the truth,’ Don Cuthbert had suggested.

  Owen thought it a paltry reason.

  Finn began to fidget. ‘Why do you stare at me?’

  ‘Is it true Anneys is your mother?’

  ‘Is that why you refused me sanctuary?’

  ‘You murdered a man who had done you no harm.’

  ‘I am in minor orders; I demand benefit of clergy.’

  ‘And you shall no dou
bt be granted it if you can read a passage from the bible. But if you think the Church’s justice will be gentler than the King’s, you are a fool.’

  ‘At least I would live.’

  ‘Perhaps. And perhaps you will regret that. So. Is Anneys your mother?’

  ‘She is my mother in fact, though little in feeling.’

  ‘And yet you assisted her, did you not?’

  ‘What do you know?’

  Owen prayed God would not punish his family for the lies he intended to tell. ‘Your mother is ill, so I did not force her to speak too long. I know that she came to York seeking Julian Taverner and Laurence de Warrene, and the goods she believed they had stolen from her. And that you assisted her in this, which led to the death of Walter de Hotter by your hands.’

  ‘That is all?’

  ‘That is your response? You feel no remorse?’

  ‘She told you naught else?’

  ‘What else is there to tell?’

  ‘What of the deaths of Taverner and Warrene?’

  ‘Pestilence and fire, she said. Is she lying for you?’

  Finn spat on the floor. ‘The day she lies for me, for anyone— Oh, aye, she tells you of my mortal sin, but confesses neither of hers. Unnatural mother. She cares for no one.’

  ‘She searched the north for her daughter.’

  ‘That, Captain, was God’s doing, not my mother’s. She sought her treasures, not her daughter.’

  ‘Do you accuse her of murdering Taverner and Warrene?’

  ‘I have no need. God knows.’

  ‘The Master of St Leonard’s wishes to know. On the orders of His Grace the Archbishop.’

  ‘I can be loyal.’

  ‘You would have her look worse than you. But it is a fool’s lie. She had the goods, why would she need to murder them?’

  ‘She hated them is why. She did not arrive with that intention, but watching them living in such comfort. On her wealth. Matilda de Warrene never knew a hungry day and was pampered by those thieves. Worse was Taverner bragging of his saintly work among the sick, and all the riches he had given to the spital.’

  ‘Taverner thought he saw a man in Laurence’s burning house.’

  ‘Mother is tall for a woman, eh? I never set foot in the spital grounds till I left the monk’s bag with her. She cursed me for that.’