by Candace Robb
‘It will be a comfort to have you there,’ Lucie said.
‘Go on, then, tell him what a fool Alice Baker is. We all know it. Then if you have time, stop back here for some cakes for my godchild and her little brother.’
Gwen’s friendly manner had taken the edge off Lucie’s mood. As she crossed the yard to the warehouses she felt less as if she were meeting with an adversary.
Her good mood faded as she heard Camden’s voice raised in anger. Two servants huddled over a cask and the smell of wine permeated the vast room. She began to back away, thinking it might go easier for her if she caught him in a better mood. But Camden noticed one of the servants looking up at her and turned to see who had witnessed his outburst.
‘Mistress Wilton!’ Camden smiled as he strode towards her. ‘What must you think of me? My temper was justified, I assure you. But I would not have you think me a scold.’ He was a bear-like man with bushy brows and a hawk-like nose.
‘I apologise for interrupting at such a time. But Jasper just told me this morning about your calling at the house.’
‘Not at all. Come, let us withdraw from this clumsy pair and escape the sad perfume of spilled wine.’ He led her to a small room separated from the larger area with wood screens. The odour of the wine was not so strong here, but still the smell prevailed. Camden motioned for Lucie to sit on the one high-backed seat in the room. He settled on a bench, took a moment to calm himself, rubbing his forehead, pulling on his chin – an old habit from the days when he had had a beard. ‘It is my own fault, I fear. Impatient is what I am. My apprentices would have managed it without mishap. But I had to ask those two to shift the cask.’
‘Is it a great loss?’ Lucie asked.
‘Do you know, that is not the cause of my grief? It is the quality. A fine French wine I was saving for my Celia’s wedding. Dear Lord but I am an old fool.’
He was not so old and no fool at all, but Lucie understood how much more of a loss it was than merely the wine. A fond father who wished to make his eldest daughter’s wedding day perfect in a way he knew how. And the wedding was only a month hence.
‘There is no time to replace it?’
Camden pulled on his chin. ‘I shall get another fine French wine. In fact, I have others. But this one …’ He shook his head, then suddenly sat upright and slapped his thighs. ‘Enough of my moaning. You will be wanting to hear my thoughts about Alice Baker’s accusations.’ He dropped his eyes, regarding the floor for a moment. He was a heavy breather, being a man of great size.
Lucie listened to his measured breaths, wondering whether they were faster or slower than usual. She felt as if she were back in the convent, awaiting a punishment for some ill-conceived prank. ‘I believe I know what happened,’ she offered in much too small a voice.
Camden glanced up through his brows. ‘So do I. So does the rest of the city. Alice Baker thinks that if a pinch is enough to cure most folk, a shovelful is what she needs. She believes she is a delicate creature, beset by devils in every organ and joint. Oh, aye, I know Mistress Baker.’
‘That is possible, but the jaundice cannot be explained by one large dose of anything,’ said Lucie. ‘She mixed the wrong items.’ She told him Magda Digby’s theory and the remedy that she had recommended. ‘But I cannot stand over her and force her to obey me.’ She heard the defensiveness in her voice.
So did Camden, who motioned for her to calm down. ‘I accuse you of nothing. I merely wished to be apprised of the details so that I might know how to defend you if anyone does attempt to accuse you.’
‘No one has?’
‘There has been some gossip among members, but primarily those who live without the city and do not know Mistress Baker. And, of course, there has been much discussion of her colour.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘In truth, it is not such a bad hue.’
Lucie bit her lip, fearing a rush of tears. ‘I cannot tell you how relieved I am.’
‘I see it in your eyes, my friend. Come, let us go and have some refreshment with Gwen. I grow nauseated by the scent of that precious wine.’
*
On her way home, Lucie stopped in St Saviour Church. She knelt before the Blessed Mother, put her head in her hands and in the dim candlelight at last felt private enough to let the tears come. Tears of relief, mourning, fear and remorse – it did not matter. She felt purged when at last she rose and gathered the parcel of cakes for the children.
Ten
MATH AND ENID
A short-legged cattle dog barked at Owen and Iolo as they hobbled up to a large stone farmhouse. Owen tried to remember what Ranulf de Hutton had told him about the farm of Cynog’s parents – did this look like what he had described? Or did Owen just hope it did? They had not walked far, but he felt as if he was dragging Iolo, not simply supporting him. Owen’s hip was wet with the blood from the wound in his own side, and his arm was on fire.
A woman came out of the house, wiping her hands on a cloth. She shielded her eyes against the sun to see who approached, then hurried towards them. The dog followed, making wide circles round the two men as she barked. Owen’s head pounded.
‘I told Math I heard shouts in the wood,’ the woman said in Welsh. ‘Both of you injured!’
‘We were attacked by three men,’ said Owen. ‘On our way from St David’s to the family of Cynog, the mason.’
‘And what did you want with them?’
‘I wish to find out who killed their son.’
‘Come.’ She shooed the dog away, led them into the house and over to a large boxed bed.
Iolo sank down on to it.
Owen sat on the edge. ‘If I lie down, I think I shall never rise from there.’
‘Then I shall see to you while you sit by the fire,’ the woman said. ‘Your friend. He is very quiet.’
‘I do not want to curse in front of you.’ Iolo’s voice was hoarse.
Owen forced himself up, placed a stool so that he might sit and lean his head against the wall. He thought he might close his eye while the woman tended Iolo. He woke when she touched his sleeve.
‘You must slip your arm out of this.’ She helped Owen shrug out of his leather and linen. He winced as the cloth pulled away from the wounds on his forearm and his side, but lifting the right arm brought the greatest pain, even with the woman’s help. A broken arm would make him worthless with a bow – for the second time in his life. He searched for something to distract him. ‘Do you know Cynog’s folk?’ Owen asked.
‘I am Cynog’s mother,’ the woman said softly. ‘God bless you for caring how my son died.’
‘He was a good and gifted man.’
She traced a long scar on Owen’s shoulder. ‘By your scars I see this is not the worst wound you have suffered.’
After so long without a woman Owen found her touch disturbing. ‘What of my arm? Is it broken?’
She ran her hands down his upper arm, pressing here and there, moving it slightly. ‘It is swollen, but I feel no bones out of place.’ Her face was lit from below by the fire, shadowed from above by the white cloth wrapped round her hair. Owen saw no lines – a smooth, pleasant face. She did not look old enough to be Cynog’s mother. She put his soiled clothes aside, brought a lamp closer to examine his wounds. ‘Not deep.’ She felt along his arm once more. ‘To have your arm twisted in the wrong way can be as painful as a break, I know. I shall clean the wounds, wrap them in cloth, then tie the arm against you to keep it still. That will help the healing.’ She rocked back on her heels, rose, rummaged in a large chest by the bed.
‘Iolo sleeps?’ Owen asked when she returned with strips of cloth.
‘He does.’ She was quiet a moment, soaking one of the cloths in water. ‘Iolo,’ she said as she smeared an oily unguent on another cloth. ‘And how are you called?’
‘Owen.’
‘I am Enid. My husband is Math. I am sorry, but you must lift your arm so I might clean the wound in your side.’
Owen held his breath as he tried lifting his arm
sideways. He could not hold it there. Enid dragged over the one chair with a back and helped him raise his arm to rest on it. Her touch was gentle.
‘How did you know my son?’
‘Cynog was making a tomb for my wife’s father. For St David’s.’
Enid smiled sadly. ‘My son had spoken of it. Very proud, he was, to carve the tomb of a man blessed with a vision from St Non. Did he complete it?’
‘No.’
Enid said nothing for a while, her breathing uneven, as if she wept.
Were it not for his wounds, Owen would have drawn her into his arms. God watched over him. He would not insult this gentle woman so, and in her husband’s house. And where was the husband? Owen could not tell the time of day in the dark, smoky farmhouse. ‘How long did I sleep?’
‘Not long. I wrapped Iolo’s ankle, gave him a drink to ease the pain. Hold this to the wound.’ Owen held the cloth with unguent to his wound while Enid secured it with a long strip round his waist. ‘It is fortunate you are slender.’ She tucked in the end. She helped him lower his arm; pushed the chair away. They said little to one another while she cleaned and bandaged the arm, then bound it to his side. When all was done, she helped him into a rough wool shirt. ‘I must wash yours.’
‘I pray you, I can do that when I return to St David’s.’
‘Do you have horses?’
‘We did. Our attackers led them off.’
‘Then your shirt will be ruined if not washed long before you return to St David’s. It will be a time before your friend can walk so far.’
‘I have friends in the city who know I should be back by midday tomorrow. They will come for us.’
‘Unless your attackers lie in wait for them, too.’
Owen had thought of that.
Enid had moved to the fire, where she stirred something in a large pot. Owen, smelling herbs and pottage, realised he was hungry.
‘Did you know the men who fell upon you in the forest?’ she asked.
‘No.’
A man entered the house, white-haired, deep lines round his mouth and eyes. ‘Math, my husband,’ Enid said.
Math brought the chair over to Owen, sat down with a weary sigh. ‘What had Cynog done, that someone should hang him and try to kill his friend?’ He looked much older than his wife, certainly old enough to be Cynog’s father, and his eyes were much the same as his son’s.
‘Do not weary him,’ Enid said.
‘I came here with the hope that you could name his enemies,’ said Owen.
Math shook his head. ‘We knew of none. We were so pleased when he apprenticed in St David’s. Our only son, so near to us. Now I wish he had gone away. Better alive and far away …’ He bowed his head over his folded hands, which were knotted and swollen. ‘To be hanged – it is a dishonourable way to die. As if he were a criminal. My son was an honest man, a man of peace.’
Owen let the silence linger a while. ‘Did he come here often?’
‘I do not know what is often,’ Math said in the voice of one who is weary of thinking.
‘For a time he had come monthly,’ Enid said. ‘I thought I had Glynis to thank, a woman’s counselling. But even after she tore his heart from him he came every month, the day after the full moon.’
‘She did not deserve him,’ Math said.
‘He was killed two nights before a visit,’ Enid said softly.
‘I am sorry to ask you to remember all this,’ Owen said.
Math bent down to scratch the dog, who had settled at his feet. ‘It is not as if we ever cease thinking of our son, Captain Archer.’
Owen felt chastised, though he understood it had been kindly meant. ‘Why did Cynog come after the full moon?’
Enid shook her head. ‘We never spoke of it.’
‘Did he ever bring Glynis with him? Or anyone?’
‘Glynis.’ Enid hissed the name. ‘We never met her. Nor any of his friends. Do you believe someone killed him to prevent his coming here?’
‘You speak nonsense.’ Math rubbed the swollen joints of his right hand. ‘Why would someone care about a mason seeing his parents?’
‘Do you believe it had to do with his visits?’ Owen asked Enid.
‘I believe it has to do with that man folk call the redeemer,’ she said.
‘Wife!’
‘Owain Lawgoch? Cynog spoke of him?’
‘There was a time when he did.’ Enid ignored her husband’s scowl. ‘But of late he had talked only of his work. And how Glynis had betrayed him. He loved her with all his soul.’ She looked away, choking on her words.
‘He felt too much, that lad,’ Math said. ‘When I drowned the billy goats he would not speak to me for days.’ He shook his head, remembering. ‘Passion. Reckless passion. That is what he felt for that woman.’
‘How do you know?’
‘It is how he spoke of her.’ Math faced Owen with his tired eyes. ‘“I cannot live without her,” he said. It is sinful to think such things.’
The journey might be the key. Something done, someone met along the way, in the bright moonlight? ‘When the weather turned to rain, no moon to be seen, did he still come?’
‘He did,’ said Enid.
‘And had no trouble in the wood? Never arrived injured?’ Owen asked.
‘Why should anyone wait for wayfarers near our farm?’ Math shook his head. ‘Few people come this way.’
‘Then what were three armed men doing in the wood today?’
‘They must have followed you and Iolo,’ said Enid. ‘Come now, you must eat something and then rest.’
The small sturdy dog who fancied herself a guard lay beside Owen with her short legs curled up, enjoying the warmth from the ash-covered fire. Enid and Math lay on pallets across from Owen. Iolo still slept in the boxed bed in the far corner. Rain tapped softly on the roof and dripped in jarring rhythms from two unseen spots overhead. The pale light from the chinks in the door suggested daybreak. Pain consumed Owen. His wounds were only the visible injuries. The bruises had gradually made themselves known. Deep aches that made every move an unpleasant reminder of the ambush. That he could still drowse was a tribute to how exhausted he had been even before this latest misadventure. Owen was drifting back to sleep when the dog lifted her head, ears pricked, eyes on the door, and began to growl.
Eleven
RUMOURS
The nave of York Minster was bright with candles and echoed with the voices of the chapter singing the Requiem in the choir. Lucie had not expected so many people to attend the Mass. Her father had made more friends in the city than she had known. Phillippa nervously regarded the crowd, asking Lucie to identify those she did not recognise or could not see with her fading eyesight.
‘Do not worry,’ Lucie murmured, patting the hand that clasped her upper arm. ‘I have not invited all these people back to the house afterwards.’
‘No strangers,’ Phillippa said.
‘Of course not. Why should I invite strangers?’
Phillippa glanced away and muttered something to herself.
Lucie prayed that the mood would pass. Phillippa flickered in and out of states of clear-headedness and confusion.
Bess and Tom Merchet, proprietors of the York Tavern next to Lucie’s shop, had both noted Dame Phillippa’s unpredictable moods. Tom had said they would all come to that in the end. Bess countered with, ‘You must put her to work.’ Work was Bess’s solution for all odd behaviour, as if a person needed idleness in which to grow peculiar.
But idleness was not Phillippa’s problem. Lucie wished it were. When Phillippa was clear-headed, she busied herself meddling in the household. She criticised Kate’s cooking, her child handling and her cleaning; told Lucie that she was not strict enough with the children, yet spoilt Gwenllian and Hugh when Lucie disciplined them; urged changes to the children’s diet to ‘make them thrive’; took Lucie to task for the amount of time she spent in the apothecary. When she was confused, she sat, fidgeting and muttering to herself, or wand
ered slowly and aimlessly from room to room.
Lucie regretted bringing her aunt to the city. And not merely because she disturbed the household. Her fear of strangers fed Lucie’s own worries. She had thought much about the High Sheriff’s question regarding enemies. How could she know who might resent the family because of something her father had done during his military career, or because of Owen’s investigations? She was frightened for the manor and for her family. She would much rather face an Alice Baker, who accused openly, than an invisible, unknown enemy – how could she protect her family against such a person?
Lucie tried to hold back a yawn, but her jaw popped with tension. Worry kept her wakeful – not simply about Phillippa, but about the manor, and Owen. And in truth she took some of her aunt’s criticism to heart. Always in the back of her mind was the fear that because of the apothecary she spent too little time with the children, though she knew of no mothers who had the luxury to spend all the time they wished with their little ones. The previous night, as Lucie had tucked the children in, she felt a clenching in her stomach – she dreaded the long dark hours spent lying as still as possible so as not to wake Phillippa, or listening to her fidget and mutter in her sleep. Lucie tried not to strain to understand her aunt’s words, too jumbled to make sense, moans that chilled her. She wished she might bring Gwenllian and Hugh into her room and move Phillippa, have her share Jasper’s room, but then the poor lad would be wakened by her. Besides, Lucie would doubtless still lie awake most nights. Her mind was too full.
Rustling drew her from her thoughts and she found herself still kneeling when everyone around her was on their feet. Rising, she bowed her head and turned her mind to prayers for her father’s soul.
After the Mass, Brother Michaelo asked Lucie if they might speak a moment. She saw now the depth of his emotion, the eyes red and swollen from weeping.
