by Candace Robb
And if he did not return? Her stomach burned with the thought, as did her eyes. Heavenly Mother, do not let him forget me.
Enough of this. Lucie dressed, went down to the kitchen, where she found Kate already stirring the fire. She ate bread and cheese, drank enough ale to quench her thirst and headed for the apothecary in the cool early morning. Work warmed her, wearied her. Two customers and still no Jasper. Lucie could hear Gwenllian shrieking and giggling in the garden. Slipping out through the workroom, Lucie called to Kate, who came running, her cap flying away in the breeze.
‘Have you seen Jasper this morning?’
‘No, Mistress,’ Kate panted. ‘I thought he had gone early to the shop. He was not in the room when I went to the children.’
Could he have gone to Freythorpe? Would he do that? ‘Bring the children to me. I shall watch them while you go to the Merchets and Roger Moreton’s house. Ask if they have seen Jasper.’
‘But Master Moreton –’
‘Is away, yes, but his housekeeper will be there. Go!’
‘Aye, Mistress.’
Calm yourself. Kate will return with no news and later Jasper will appear, explaining that he went to St Mary’s Abbey. And if he had gone to Freythorpe? Perhaps everyone’s suspicions were unfounded. But Lucie’s heart did not believe that.
Hugh and Gwenllian wanted to linger in the workroom, where great stone jars, baskets and bags of dried herbs, stones and more exotic items sat on low shelves along one wall. Lucie shooed them into the shop.
But Kate returned too soon, her face all frowns.
Dear God, what am I to do?
‘He has taken a horse from the Merchets’ stables, Mistress!’ Kate said. ‘The groom believed you had sent him off to Freythorpe.’
‘Holy Mother, protect him.’ Lucie picked up Hugh and held him close. What should she do? How could she help Jasper now?
After Kate departed with the children, Lucie paced the shop. Bess came to apologise for the part her groom had played in Jasper’s disappearance.
‘At another time I would think naught of the lad riding off by himself,’ Bess said. ‘But with all the brigands on the roads, and after such a savage attack upon Freythorpe, I shall not feel at peace until he returns.’
‘It is worse than that, Bess,’ Lucie pulled her into the workroom and told her all that was on her mind.
‘Dear Heaven. I shall send a servant with a message to the archbishop’s retainers. They must go after the lad.’
‘They are the archbishop’s men. I cannot order them to help me.’ Lucie hugged herself and fought hysteria.
‘Then send a message to the archbishop, for pity’s sake,’ Bess urged.
At least Bess agreed with her about the need to muster help. Lucie had just gathered her pen and parchment when Alice Baker entered the shop.
‘Mistress Wilton, I am in need of –’
Lucie interrupted her. ‘There is an excellent apothecary in Stonegate, Mistress Baker.’
Alice Baker straightened, frowned. ‘I do not care for him.’
‘Perhaps you should try him again. For I shall no longer serve you.’
‘You cannot refuse me.’
Keeping her voice low, Lucie said slowly, enunciating each word, ‘Leave my shop.’
‘I shall take this up with the mayor.’
Lucie kept her eyes focused on the paper, refusing to say more. She had said nothing she might regret Alice repeating. So far.
‘Mistress Merchet, you have witnessed this,’ Alice said in a shrill voice.
When would the woman leave?
‘I have,’ said Bess. ‘And I approve. She should not give you the means to poison yourself.’
With a twitch of her skirts, Alice flounced out of the shop. The door closed loudly behind her.
At last Lucie glanced up.
Bess beamed at her. ‘Well done!’
Lucie could not smile. ‘I must go after him, Bess.’
‘And what would you do?’
‘He is but a boy.’
‘That I know. And you are but one person, torn between your little ones, your ailing aunt, your apothecary and an apprentice who has gone off to help you. Alfred and Gilbert are at the manor. If Thoresby sends men after Jasper, the boy shall encounter help no matter which way he turns. I shall fetch one of my lads to carry your request to the archbishop. It will not be the groom who loaned Jasper the horse, I promise you.’
‘It was not his fault.’
‘He should know better.’
Lucie sat down and composed her letter to His Grace. By the time she had finished, one of Bess’s servants stood ready to hasten to the archbishop’s palace.
Lucie had not long to wait for his reply. She had taken care of three customers when the young man returned.
‘His Grace assures you that he is sending four men at once,’ he said, giving a little bow.
‘God have mercy, he is a good man,’ Lucie whispered, crossing herself.
Twenty-six
A CROWD
At the crossroads, Owen and Friar Hewald halted to say their farewells to Edmund, Sam, Tom and Jared, all Lancaster’s men and headed for Kenilworth. Owen would be glad to be quit of them. All along the way they had exclaimed about his letter, the outlawry rife in the countryside, how expensive it would be to replace a gatehouse. He wished to be alone with his own thoughts. His own worries. What enemy had he made who sought revenge by attacking his family? If he had not waited for Gwen, had not been delayed by Cynog’s death, might he have prevented it? Would his enemies have chosen to attack him instead?
Jared broke into Owen’s anxious thoughts. ‘There is no need for fare thee wells. We have resolved to accompany you.’
Sweet Jesu, Owen had dreaded this. ‘I must make haste. And your duke awaits you.’
Edmund doffed his cap, bowed from the saddle. ‘By your leave, Captain. The duke does not know of our arrival in Gloucester. He does not know to expect us.’
‘So a week, it will matter naught to him,’ Tom finished with a hopeful grin.
‘If you would have us,’ Sam said softly.
‘You are good men, all,’ declared Friar Hewald.
Owen could think of many arguments against them, but he had already wasted precious moments. ‘Keep up with me,’ he said, taking spurs to his horse.
Twenty-seven
AN UNNATURAL SLEEP
After breaking her fast, Tildy slipped into the buttery to fetch Daimon’s morning medicine. She took advantage of the privacy to smooth her gown, tug at her cap and pinch her cheeks. The door creaked open.
‘Oh!’ Nan exclaimed, backing up and shutting the door.
What had she meant to do, that Tildy was such a disturbing surprise? Tildy puzzled over the cook’s behaviour while mixing Daimon’s physick. As she closed the jars, she noticed how little mandrake was left. Had there not been more of it last night? She used very little – Magda had said it would ward off evil spirits in the house and give Daimon peaceful dreams, but that it was dangerous in larger doses. Tildy had not used so much of it, surely. She hastened out into the hall, kicking the buttery door closed behind her.
Yesterday by this time Daimon had already been helped outside by one of the servants so he might relieve himself, and while he was gone Tildy had freshened his bed. It was no wonder he slept late today, after sitting out in the yard all the previous afternoon and getting agitated about the maze. But was that the true cause of his long sleep? Tildy stood near him now, noticing the dark blond stubble of his beard, wishing she might shave him. But there were small blisters on his face from the fires and she dare not risk a blade near them. Such a pity to hide any of his handsome face.
Tildy crouched beside Daimon and leaned close, whispering his name. When he did not respond, she bent closer and gently kissed him on the forehead. It was the merest brush of her lips, nothing too bold. But oh so sweet. Still he did not move, his eyelids did not flutter.
She sat back on her heels, perplexed.
How could he sleep through that? Did he play with her?
Or had he been given the mandrake? Becoming alarmed, she reached for the flagon of watered wine she had brought him to wash down the ill-tasting physick, poured some into a cup, held it up to Daimon’s mouth. No response.
She called his name, patted his cheek.
One of the servants came over, asking what was wrong. Tildy told her to get water and a cloth. She patted Daimon’s cheek again. At last his eyelids fluttered, he gasped as if suddenly taking in much more air, flailed his arms.
‘God’s blood, I am awake. Give a man a chance!’ Daimon cried.
‘Has anyone been bringing you food but me?’ Tildy asked.
He blinked at her in confusion for a moment, then gulped the wine. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘Why?’
‘You were difficult to wake.’
‘I am ever so. Did I say anything to offend you? My mother says I sometimes curse her.’
He did seem fine. She felt a bit foolish. ‘You said nothing stronger than “God’s blood”.’
When Daimon was sitting up and had eaten a bit of bread soaked in milk, Tildy took the tray back into the buttery and gathered the jars. There was still the mandrake – someone had used it. Where could she hide the jars from Nan – who else might slip something into his food? She thought of the treasury. Lucie had entrusted the key to her. Only to her, Tildy had thought. But when she opened the door and took in the small lamp, she discovered a jumble of accounts books on the table. She had been in here the previous day. Everything had been tidy then. She straightened them. Noticed that there was more room on the shelf than yesterday. One book? Two? She searched the room, behind the chest, in the chest, beneath the chest and the table. Nothing.
That did it. She locked the treasury, locked the buttery and went back to Daimon.
Nan stormed over a while later. ‘Someone has locked the buttery.’
‘I did,’ said Tildy.
‘I cannot have that.’
‘I cannot have it open,’ Tildy said.
‘Why?’
‘If you have need of something from the buttery, send Sarah to me.’
‘I shall never get anything done.’
Tildy said nothing more. Nan marched away.
‘What is the trouble, Matilda?’ Daimon asked. ‘Why have you locked the buttery?’
‘Things have gone missing, my love. Nothing for you to fret about. Rest now. You must be bored, sitting there.’ She did not want him to go back to sleep. ‘Is there something you might do to occupy yourself while sitting there?’
He brightened. ‘Some wood and my whittling knife are in the stables.’
Tildy sent a servant off to collect them while she began the tidying of the hall. As she worked she daydreamed about Harold’s departure and Phillippa’s return. What would her status be then? Would they send her home? Would she stay to assist Dame Phillippa? Would she marry Daimon?
She peeked at Daimon, now humming as he picked up the pieces of wood, considering which to use. Had she been mistaken about the medicine? Had he truly just been that tired? But the jar of mandrake should be fuller.
As she turned back to her work, she noticed a blank space on the wall above one of Sir Robert’s shields. Three swords should hang there. The brackets were still in place. She looked round, thinking the maid had taken them down for cleaning, though that was the groom’s job. Perhaps Ralph had taken them – but he should not do that unless Tildy ordered it.
Nan’s behaviour, the swords, the maze. Something was very wrong. This was not her imagination. Checking that Daimon was engrossed in his work, she hurried out to the stables. She would talk to Ralph, then Alfred and Gilbert, if they were still there.
Ralph knew nothing of the swords. Alfred and Gilbert agreed that perhaps another tour of the property was in order. They would leave now, look carefully at the surrounding houses and outbuildings.
In the yard, Tildy encountered Harold.
‘Nan and Sarah tell me you have locked them out of the buttery,’ Harold said, his eyes cold.
‘I have.’
‘Why?’
‘Someone has searched the treasury behind it, removed some account books and I do not know what else. Too much of Daimon’s medication is gone. So I locked the buttery.’
‘You mean to stir up trouble. Why?’
‘How can you say that? I am not the one causing trouble.’
‘I heard Daimon protest that he was fine.’
‘One of his powders is too low.’
‘The treasury has a separate key.’
How did he know that? ‘I – yes, I know that. But two locked doors are more difficult than one.’
‘You suspect Nan or Sarah of all this? Stealing physicks and account books? Neither of them can read.’
‘No. I do not know. But I mean to keep order. I am sorry to make them come to me. But that is how it shall be until –’ Until what? Harold waited for her to continue. ‘Until I see fit to unlock it.’
He grinned. It was no smile. ‘What is your scheme, Mistress Tildy? To poison Daimon, take the money in the treasury and run away with some lover? Who might it be? Joseph, Nan’s son? Eh?’
‘You are mad!’ How had he turned this around? ‘I do not have time to stand here and listen to you. I do not need to stand here.’ As Tildy moved, Harold grabbed her arm.
‘You are a foolish woman, Mistress Tildy,’ he said in a soft voice.
She yanked her arm away and ran from him back to the house.
Tildy kept herself busy tidying and fetching for Nan – who was getting her revenge for the locked buttery by discovering items she needed at once, one at a time.
Shortly after midday Tildy heard a shout at the gatehouse, then a horse enter the yard. Dreading more trouble, she glanced out of the hall door. ‘Jasper!’ she cried, running outside. Just the sight of him cheered her.
‘What are you doing here, lad?’ Harold asked, frowning as he walked out from the stables.
‘Is anything wrong in York?’ Tildy demanded. Jasper looked agitated.
‘Mistress Wilton allowed you to come alone?’ Harold inquired. ‘In these times?’
Ralph came running from the stables to help Jasper dismount and take the horse.
‘Mistress Wilton does not know I came,’ Jasper said. ‘I wanted to help her. She is occupied with Aunt Phillippa, who is much confused. She asked for a few things from the manor. I thought to fetch them – Mistress Wilton has enough to worry about.’
It was a breathless speech for Jasper. Tildy knew something was wrong. She ushered him into the hall. But Harold followed them. She needed to get Jasper to some place where they could talk.
Daimon called out, ‘Jasper! It has been a long while since I have seen you. You are taller than I am, I trow.’
The young man crouched down, pretending to study Daimon’s carving, but Tildy heard him ask Daimon how he was, truly, for the Riverwoman had been concerned. What did Jasper know, that he played the spy? Had Magda Digby spoken of Tildy’s concerns? Mistress Wilton thought so highly of Harold Galfrey, which bothered Tildy. Mistress Wilton had always been a good judge of a man.
‘Go with Matilda,’ Daimon said quietly. ‘Try to keep out of the man’s way.’ He raised his voice as Harold approached. ‘I have been too long idle. See how I ruined this piece of wood?’
Jasper picked up the wood, turned it over thoughtfully. ‘I could not do as well.’
‘Alfred and Gilbert rode off earlier,’ Harold said, ‘but when they return and you have gathered what you came to fetch for Dame Phillippa I shall have them escort you back to York, Jasper. You should not be on the roads alone.’
‘It might be dark by then,’ said Jasper. ‘Would it not be better to return tomorrow?’
‘I do not want Mistress Wilton to worry about you.’
‘Then we have no time to lose,’ Tildy said, whisking Jasper off to the buttery. She grabbed the oil lamp that sat outside and closed the door carefully behind
them.
Jasper glanced round the buttery, began to rummage among the baskets and jars.
‘What are you looking for?’
‘Aunt Phillippa keeps talking about a parchment. She thinks that is what someone is looking for. It had once been sewn inside the tapestry that was stolen.’
That is why it had been torn. How awful – someone had been searching the hall even before the attack. ‘Where is the parchment now?’
‘She cannot remember where she hid it.’
‘How can that be? Something so important –’
Jasper shook his head. ‘She is old, Tildy, and she hid it in many places.’
‘Well, parchment or no, I think Harold is trying to poison Daimon.’
Jasper did not laugh.
‘You think it is possible?’ She saw that he hid something. ‘Tell me.’
‘No one knows much of him, Tildy,’ he whispered, eyeing the door fearfully. ‘He claims to have been robbed on the road to York, his papers, everything. John Gisburne knows little of him but that he claims to be a distant relation.’
‘Dear God.’
‘What is amiss here? I must know all if I am to help.’
Tildy wondered. Jasper was but a lad. But he was Lucie’s apprentice. Surely that meant she had confidence in him. Tildy told him everything – Nan and the food, the maze, the swords, the account book, the mandrake. ‘I think someone is hiding on the manor – eating the food, arming himself with the weapons,’ Tildy said. ‘I think it is Joseph, Nan’s son.’
‘And the maze might have been one of Dame Phillippa’s hiding places for the parchment.’
‘Nan might have told him.’ It would be just like cook to gossip about the mistress.
‘But what of the mandrake?’ Jasper asked.
‘If Daimon is not being poisoned, I do not know who is. Nor why anyone wants the account books.’
She unlocked the treasury for Jasper, lit another candle.
