by Candace Robb
‘I do. And a ship, and letters to speed us along once we land in Gloucester.’
Owen received the news numbly. He was far more pleased by the arrival of Master Edwin, the physician.
Archdeacon Rokelyn told his servant to lead Owen, Iolo and Master Edwin to the guest chamber.
‘I shall be eager to hear how soon we may depart,’ Friar Hewald said as Owen rose.
Rokelyn no longer smiled.
‘I would read His Grace’s letter before we talk more,’ Owen said. The friar handed it over. Thoresby’s seal. It seemed out of place in St David’s.
Owen nodded to the friar, the archdeacon and left the room in the company of the physician, who called for clean cloths and water in a basin. Two servants helped Iolo cross the screens passage to the guest chamber.
‘I pray you, attend Iolo first,’ Owen said to Master Edwin.
‘I am not a babe, to be pampered,’ Iolo muttered. But once he had shooed away the servants, he leaned back against the pillows and allowed Master Edwin’s assistant gingerly to cut away the thick bandage Enid had wrapped round the foot.
After the servants had helped Owen with his boots, they withdrew. Owen moved to a bench near a lamp, broke Thoresby’s seal and read. Thoresby’s letter touched his heart as the messenger had not. Owen wondered at Alice Baker’s jaundice, cursed the woman for blaming Lucie. Abbot Campian of St Mary’s said that Jasper spoke of taking vows. That meant the lad was unhappy. At his age, such a mood could be difficult. Owen hoped Lucie would see it as a passing trouble and not fret over it. But the most disturbing news was that outlaws had attacked several large farms outside York. This was the cause of Thoresby’s insistence on his hasty return. Thoresby wanted Owen there, seeing to the defences at his manors. He also complained of much work to be done, a steward’s work. Owen cared nothing for the archbishop’s manors. But what of Freythorpe Hadden? Was the young Daimon capable of defending it? Phillippa was now there alone. What could Lucie do if she heard of trouble at the manor? Alice Baker, Jasper, outlaws. And Owen away for so long. It did not sound as if Brother Michaelo had yet returned when Thoresby wrote the letter. Then Lucie would have the added burden of grief for her father.
Master Edwin was shaking his head over Iolo’s swollen, blood-caked foot. Owen took the opportunity to shift the map from his tunic to Thoresby’s letter, rolling up the map within. He tucked the letter in one of his boots.
He sat back, waiting his turn with the physician, disturbed by thoughts of York. He pushed them aside. He must think how to escape the watchful eye of the friar, for he had no doubt the man would fret over his every move until they were on board ship. But Griffith of Anglesey must be delivered of the map before Owen could think about York. He needed brandywine. A servant’s soft shoes showed beneath the tapestry in the doorway. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Owen walked the few feet to the doorway and made his request.
The brandywine arrived as Edwin’s assistant helped Owen with his tunic.
‘Good,’ said Master Edwin. ‘Pour him a good draught. He will need it when we remove the bandages. This good man would benefit from one also.’ He nodded to Iolo, who lay back against the pillows pale as the costly bed linen, his thin hair clinging to his damp temples.
Owen knew full well the cause of the physician’s comment – he had bled much on his journey from Math and Enid’s farm. The bandage did not part from his flesh easily. The wound must be stitched closed once more. Owen’s side was on fire by the time the physician and his assistant departed.
‘He has not Enid’s gentle touch,’ Iolo muttered when the tapestry fell back across the doorway.
‘Nor her patience,’ said Owen. ‘Why did they not put the brandywine within reach?’
Iolo shouted for a servant. ‘So what says the archbishop?’
‘He commands me to return at once. There is much outlawry in the countryside and he worries about his lands.’
‘And your family?’
Owen was quiet while the servant filled their cups and smoothed the bedding.
‘The lad Jasper is unhappy,’ Owen said when they were alone once more. ‘He thinks to find joy with the brothers of St Mary’s. An ignorant baker’s wife accuses my wife of incompetence. Mostly I worry about Sir Robert’s manor and the troubles in the countryside. My wife’s aunt is assisted by a young steward of little experience.’
‘Then you must hurry home.’
‘First I must see the map into the right hands.’
‘You will seek out Griffith of Anglesey, then, despite the archbishop’s summons?’
‘I cannot think Master Edwin will advise us to travel on the morrow.’
Seventeen
MISTRESS OF THE HALL
The clouds parted late that afternoon and the sun beat down on the rooftops of York and glistened on the damp gardens. The irises drew Lucie’s eyes away from her stitching, and at last she pushed the linen herb sachets aside and slipped out of the apothecary workshop into the garden. The lacy camomile bowed beneath the weight of the raindrops and its own tiny buds. At the end of the rose beds stood Phillippa, her hair tidy in a white cap, an apron tied neatly at her waist. She used her cane to support her as she leaned over the lavenders to see something behind them. Lucie joined her.
‘Peonies,’ Lucie said. ‘I planted them last spring. I had hoped for blossoms this year, but no matter. The older ones make up for these with a fine show and by the time I need their roots these young ones will be old enough to bloom.’
‘What else is new since my last visit?’ Phillippa asked. Quite lucidly. Without a hint of this morning’s confusion.
Lucie pointed out her new acquisitions, though it was difficult to remember what Phillippa might have seen. Her aunt was rewardingly delighted, requesting cuttings and seeds. They paused at the rosemary hedge, where Lucie crouched to pull at a twining clover.
‘You do not like clover?’ Phillippa asked.
‘I prefer it on tapestries. It grows in all the wrong places.’
‘It has its uses, Lucie.’ Phillippa bent awkwardly to lift some rosemary branches and observe the intruder. ‘But it is crowding the rosemary, I agree. I seem to recall that Nicholas had a spell for clover, to keep it in its place.’
Lucie believed in weeding rather than casting spells, but she saw a way to turn the conversation down a helpful path. ‘He did find a spell. It is in one of the manuscripts in his chest. We should go through them.’
‘But I cannot read.’
‘You would recognise the drawing.’
Phillippa had straightened. She leaned on her cane, gazing down absently at the rosemary. ‘I should have learned to read.’
‘So that you would understand the parchment you spoke of?’
Phillippa looked up, startled. ‘What parchment?’
‘Something your husband had. You spoke of it last night.’
Phillippa pressed her heart, suddenly pale.
Lucie reached for her aunt’s arm, but Phillippa turned away.
‘Aunt Phillippa –’
‘Say nothing more now,’ Phillippa said softly, taking a deep breath.
Lucie cursed herself. She was no good with her aunt, did not understand what helped, what threatened her fragile dignity. Perhaps a cup of wine would soothe her.
‘Do not leave,’ Phillippa said as Lucie began to walk away. ‘I am relieved to have spoken of it. But I do not remember – oh Lucie, it is the cruellest curse, to be witless one day, lucid the next. It is as if I have been sleepwalking and everyone has witnessed my foolishness. All look at me with such pity – and fear that they, too, might come to this end if they live so long as I have. It is horrible. Horrible.’ Her jaw was set in anger and frustration.
‘I wish that I had a physick to help you,’ Lucie said.
Phillippa shook her head. ‘I have told you before, there is no cure for old age. Except death. So I do not waste my prayers.’
‘I wish only to help.’
‘I know. But I am
such an old fool. Had I learned to read, or showed the parchment to you …’ Phillippa sighed. ‘But my father thought reading unnecessary. It did not seem so important when I was young. My brother could read a little, with effort. My husband could read – not well. But look at you, keeping your accounts. You used your reading to study medicine.’ Phillippa shook her head in wonder.
This parchment. Lucie wondered how something that apparently meant so much to her aunt had been lost. ‘How did you come to lose the parchment?’
‘I hid it too well and too often. I have searched all the hiding places I can remember, but it is not there.’
‘Why did you hide it?’
‘Douglas was so secretive about it. He had me sew it into the tapestry – the one I brought to Freythorpe.’
‘But that is the one the thieves stole!’
‘No matter. I removed the parchment long ago.’
‘How long ago?’
‘When your mother came to the manor. I did not know that she would have so little interest in the housekeeping. I was worried she would discover it.’
‘Then it was not you who tore the tapestry recently?’
Phillippa had not been aware of the tear, but could not say with any assurance when she had last made note of the tapestry. ‘You see? My servants must have thought I ruined it and did not wish to speak of it. Sweet heaven, I have been too proud, not asking for help.’
Lucie thought her father would have noticed the damage to the tapestry. Had someone been in the hall, searching for the parchment, since Sir Robert departed in February? If so, they had known where to look. At least where it had once been hidden. But so long ago. ‘Did you receive any visitors this past winter?’ Lucie asked, but already knew that it was the servants she should be questioning. She must go to Freythorpe. But how could she leave the shop again so soon?
Daimon improved under Magda’s care. Tildy delighted to see him coherent, sitting up for hours at a time and eager to be back on his feet soon. But his pallor and the shadows beneath his eyes reminded her that he had only begun to heal. Magda had cut his hair close to his head so that it was easier to apply her healing ointments. He looked like a tousled child with tufts of hair sticking up like bristles.
‘You misjudged Harold Galfrey,’ Daimon chided her after Magda explained that he could not tolerate the amount of physick Lucie had instructed Tildy to give him.
‘I did not tell you of my suspicion,’ Tildy said. ‘Did Magda?’
‘No one needed to. When you came upon Harold bending over me yesterday, I saw the look on your face, Matilda.’
If her fear had been so obvious to Daimon, had Harold also guessed? ‘Do you think I should apologise to him?’
‘No.’
How quickly died the smile, thought Tildy. ‘What is this?’
‘Something – perhaps nothing. There was a man today, he asked for Harold by name. And his voice, it took me back to that night. The attack.’
‘Sweet heaven!’
Daimon tried to shake his head, stifled a curse. ‘I cannot be certain. That night the voice was rougher – he was threatening, shouting. This morning the voice was pleasant. I did not see him – I could not move quickly enough. Let me sit at the table tonight. Perhaps we might talk of this visitor.’
‘That is simple to arrange.’ Tildy smiled encouragingly and lifted her tray of medicines.
Daimon touched her hand. ‘I wish also to keep my eye upon my rivals.’
‘Alfred and Gilbert? Rivals?’
‘They have seen far more of the world than I have.’
What did that matter to Tildy, who seldom went farther than St George’s Field in York? ‘I have heard their boasts at the captain’s table,’ she reminded him. ‘They are soldiers born and no proper husbands for anyone.’ She blushed, realising what she had implied.
Daimon’s eyes lit up. ‘Is it possible that your fears for me mean you have had a change of heart about us?’
‘My heart has been yours all along,’ Tildy said. ‘It is my head that warns against your suit.’
‘Then you have not changed your answer?’
‘Ask me again when you are well and strong.’
‘I shall recover quickly in anticipation of that moment!’
Tildy escaped from those hopeful eyes as quickly as she might.
The table was set up by Daimon’s pallet so that he might be propped up and comfortably join in the conversation. Tildy had told Magda what Daimon had said about Harold’s visitor. The Riverwoman had seen the man.
‘It was Colby, one of the mayor’s servants. He has been in and out of trouble all his life. Magda and thee shall see what he wanted with the borrowed steward, eh?’ She would bring up the incident at dinner.
Tildy was glad that she need not spend the evening seeking a clever time in which to introduce Colby’s unexpected presence. Without that worry she found it quite merry and indulged in the fantasy of being the steward’s wife, accustomed to such evenings. Alfred and Gilbert kept up a lively chatter about their adventures and Magda joined in with stories of her own travels. Even Harold relaxed and told a tale about his youth. Tildy almost liked him at that moment. Daimon said little, but laughed heartily and ate with a healthy appetite.
Tildy began to wonder whether Magda had forgotten. The old woman drank more than her share of the wine, then brandywine. How could she think clearly?
But Harold provided the opportunity. ‘Is it true you leave on the morrow, Goodwife Digby?’
‘Aye. Daimon is, as thou seest, stronger now. Magda did wonder what is the news from York. Was that not one of John Gisburne’s servants came to see thee this morn?’
Tildy watched Harold closely. Brushing his light hair from his eyes, he seemed almost embarrassed as he glanced at Daimon, Alfred, Gilbert, then back to the Riverwoman. ‘Yes, it was. But he said nothing of the city.’ Now he glanced at the two servants who waited by the hearth to be called to serve. He leaned close to those at the table. ‘He wished to warn me that Cook’s son, Joseph, was seen in the city, said he was on his way here.’ He said it all too quietly for Daimon, who could not lean across the table, to hear. Tildy whispered the news to him.
‘We shall discuss this later,’ Alfred said.
The topic seemed to signal the end of the festivities. The men withdrew. Tildy asked Magda to watch her prepare Daimon’s physicks to see that she was doing it correctly and to help make him comfortable for the night. The supper had drained him of his energy and he was glad to settle down.
‘But I warn you,’ he told them. ‘Joseph is trouble. Tell Alfred and Gilbert to have a care.’
‘Aye, Magda has heard much of the man and nothing good.’
‘I shall tell them,’ Tildy promised. As she looked down on Daimon, she thought that his cheeks and nose were pink. ‘His humours are out of balance again,’ she whispered to the Riverwoman.
She received a pat on the forearm for her observation. ‘It is the wine, my child,’ said the Riverwoman. ‘It is all right. Thou must allow him a pleasure now and then.’
‘I did not mean to deny him,’ Tildy protested. Why was the old woman treating her like a child of a sudden?
The Riverwoman drew Tildy away from Daimon’s bedside, guiding her towards the hall door. ‘Thou hast also had much wine,’ she said. ‘More than is thy custom.’
Tildy disagreed.
‘Magda knows,’ the woman insisted. ‘A breath of evening air will do thee good.’
Tildy tried to wriggle away, but the Riverwoman’s grasp was as strong as her will. She held firm to Tildy’s arm until they had slipped out into the cool evening.
It was a welcome feeling, the breeze, the air. Tildy took a deep breath and turned her gaze upwards, to the dome of stars that stretched to the horizon. It was a test of her courage, to look up at the night sky. She had been born and raised in York, had seldom been outside the walls of the city until the past summer, when she had stayed here on the manor with Gwenllian and Hugh. When she fi
rst walked out into the night the vast sky had frightened her. It was too large, too mysterious, a monster with a hundred hundred eyes. Gradually, with the gentle guidance of Magda’s daughter Tola, who had accompanied them as wet-nurse to Hugh, Tildy learned to see the stars as familiar friends, tracing the constellations.
Tildy felt the Riverwoman’s presence beside her. It was much like Tola’s, quiet, reassuring. Why had Tildy been angry with Magda? She felt remorse at her anger with the old healer. She asked Magda now about Tola and her children, Nym and Emma. Tildy knew they had stayed with the Riverwoman throughout the autumn and the Christmas season, and many folks said that Tola showed a gift for healing. ‘Will she stay to help you?’
‘Nay. Tola returned to the moors,’ said Magda. ‘She is needed there.’ There was a sadness in her voice.
‘She will be a healer now, like you?’
‘One day. Magda took a long while learning.’
They said nothing for a time, gazing at the stars.
Then Magda broke the silence. ‘Go to the stables, talk to Alfred and Gilbert, tell them thy concerns.’
The two men had gone there to see that their horses were in good hands.
‘I do not like to interrupt them,’ Tildy said, suddenly shy of the two soldiers.
‘Thou art mistress of the hall, Tildy. Thou shouldst make thy wishes known to those who serve thee.’
Served her. Tildy sighed. She was still uncertain about her status, neither servant nor the true mistress and yet in charge of so many servants. She wished Magda would stay a while longer, a wish she had expressed to the Riverwoman before and repeated now.
‘Thou hast made no mistakes these two days. Daimon’s will to heal is strong. Thou dost not need Magda.’
‘I feel safe with you here.’
Magda’s barking laugh startled Tildy. ‘With Thoresby’s dragon slayers and Harold the Good, what dost thou need with an old woman? Magda will be on her way in the morning, going to those who need her more than thou dost.’
Tildy hugged herself, suddenly feeling the evening chill.
