by Candace Robb
‘But you will be –’
‘In the way? I shall try not to be.’
‘In danger, Mistress Wilton. Captain Archer would never forgive me if aught happened to you. I would fear for my life.’
‘You are welcome to ride with us, or ride ahead, as you wish.’
Alfred fell in with them.
The three rode most of the way in silence, stopping only once to fortify themselves with meat pasties and ale, supplied by Bess Merchet.
‘Jasper is growing into a fine young man,’ Alfred said, breaking into Lucie’s agitated thoughts. ‘You must be proud of him.’
‘I am. How was he when you saw him? Frightened?’
‘I would say he seemed determined to do what needed to be done.’
Roger, long silent, had clearly been fuming. ‘How could John Gisburne be so careless?’ he cried suddenly. ‘How could he recommend a man he knew so little?’
‘Perhaps he knew more than he admits,’ Lucie said.
‘He would not use me like that. A liveried member of the guild.’
‘If he has, he will have taken care you will never prove it,’ said Alfred. ‘Just as he has protected Colby from the bailiffs and sheriffs.’
‘I shall bring it before the guild,’ Roger declared.
In the early morning, Jasper had slipped into the hall to warn Tildy, who nodded in a chair beside Daimon, that Nan was carrying food to the outbuilding they had been watching.
‘What have they waited for all night?’
‘They said it was better to attack when they can see that no one escapes. Nan may see the archbishop’s men surrounding the house. If there is fighting, you will be safe in the chapel. I shall come get you as soon as we can slip away.’
Tildy had waked Daimon and helped him to the chapel. But Harold had discovered the move and she was forced to lock them in before she could bring the medicines and some food. It was now mid-morning and she was so thirsty. She could not imagine how Daimon felt. Men needed far more food and drink than women. But he protested that being locked in the chapel with her was the greatest comfort.
Nan came to the door now and then, tempting them with offers of food and drink. Though they were hungry and Daimon in need of his medicines they did not open to her.
As Lucie and her companions neared the manor, she noticed a figure running across the fields, in the opposite direction. ‘Alfred! What is happening?’ Another running man appeared and a horseman following, leaning from his horse to grab the man.
‘Dear God,’ Lucie moaned.
‘The rider is one of ours,’ Alfred said. ‘We must have attacked.’ He loosed his sword.
‘Why, for pity’s sake, are they pursuing?’ Roger cried. ‘There are people in the hall who might be harmed.’
‘You want these men caught, certainly?’ Alfred asked.
Lucie did, most assuredly. But Roger was right, too.
‘Is there any way we might get to the hall without watchers seeing us?’ Roger asked her.
How could they know what was watched? In the name of heaven, how was she to think clearly? They must try to remain concealed. ‘I could lead you through the woods into the orchard behind the hall and from there to the maze, through the maze, and then it is but a short run to the hall.’
Alfred perked up. ‘You might just do that, aye. I shall ride up to the house, try to keep attention on myself. But you must not endanger yourself by approaching the house.’
‘I mean to find Jasper, Tildy and Daimon,’ said Lucie. ‘Beyond that I do not care.’
At first the noise had been so far off, Tildy could not be certain what she heard.
But Daimon sat up, his eyes fearful. ‘Men shouting.’
‘Where?’ Tildy whispered. She did not want Harold at the chapel door again. He had frightened her a while ago, pounding at the door. He had said she had imagined all this, that they would starve in here and she was depriving Daimon of his medicine, a warm fire, because she was mad.
Daimon had taken her hand. ‘He is wrong, Matilda. He wants to get in here. Mayhap this is the one place he has yet to search.’
How had he known what she had been thinking?
Now there were noises in the household, someone running, Nan shouting something. Tildy went to the door, pressed an ear against it.
‘The archbishop’s men have attacked,’ Nan was saying. ‘What do they want with my son? What has he done? Why is Ralph hiding the mistress’s apprentice in the stables?’
‘Go back to the kitchen, woman.’ It was Harold Galfrey’s voice, but different now, angry.
Footsteps approached the door. Tildy backed away with a horrible feeling that Harold could see through the heavy wood. But it had held so far. She did not know why Sir Robert had put a bolt on this side of the door, but she thanked God for it. She returned to Daimon, knelt beside him.
‘What is that smell?’ Daimon asked.
She smelled it, too. She glanced over, saw smoke beneath the door. Daimon pulled himself from the chair, caught her shoulder.
‘We must open the door, Matilda.’
A man stood just outside, sword ready. Tildy screamed as the small fire caught her skirt.
Lucie had lost Roger somewhere. They had heard a rustling behind them. He had waved her on. Now she stood just within the tall hedges of the maze, peering back, praying that he would soon follow. All along she had feared to see one of the running men, or a body – Jasper’s body. She pushed the idea away as often as it came to her, fearful lest even the thought would make the deed.
Something, now, in the orchard. Gone. A bird, mayhap.
What was that? A shout, from the direction of the house, another higher scream. Footsteps. Several pairs. Somewhere close. A quickly muffled cry. The hair at her neck prickled. Surely that had been Jasper’s voice. From the sheath on her girdle Lucie drew a dagger, one Owen had given her when first they wed, for protection if she should ever be surprised in the shop. She had never used it.
A pair of pigeons took flight above her. She could not be certain, but she thought they had flown from somewhere in the centre of the maze. The footsteps were closer, then a shout and the sound of a struggle.
‘What do you want from us?’ Jasper cried.
Lucie gathered her skirts and, holding the dagger in her fist, made her way swiftly, quietly to the centre of the maze as the sounds of a struggle grew loud, then suddenly stopped.
Harold sat on one of the stone benches with his back towards Lucie, wrestling to control someone thrashing on the stones beneath him. He was breathing hard. He leaned forward. Lucie crept closer, trying to see whether it was Jasper who lay on the ground. She recognised his shoes.
‘Where is it?’ Harold hissed, his bent right arm jerking.
Jasper coughed and struggled, gasping for air. Harold was choking him.
Lucie ran towards them. Hearing her approach, Harold turned awkwardly on the bench, but she plunged the knife into his back before he knew what was happening. He shrieked in agony. She pulled out the knife, slashed at his upraised arm. He knocked the knife from her hand as he fell sideways. Jasper had pulled himself up on to the bench. He bent double, struggling for air. There was blood in his hair.
‘Jasper!’
Suddenly Harold scooped up Lucie’s bloody knife and rose beside her. How could the man move? Jasper struggled up behind him. And then Lucie was falling to one side, twisting as someone ran past her. Her head hit the flagstones.
Had she fainted? She tasted blood in her mouth. Someone moaned by her side.
‘Lucie? My love. Lucie!’
Sweet heaven, Owen had returned in time. Lucie opened her eyes, closed them as the world spun and her stomach protested. Strong arms helped her up, held her as she retched.
‘I shall never forgive myself.’
It was Roger, not Owen.
‘Mistress Lucie.’ Jasper circled her with his arms.
‘Your head. You are alive?’
‘I am.’
&nbs
p; ‘Harold?’
Jasper lowered his head towards a still form on the path.
‘I killed him,’ Lucie whispered.
*
Lucie had been put to bed in Phillippa’s chamber in the solar. But she could not sleep. Horses in the yard below stomped and whinnied. Men shouted. She felt removed from it all, as if floating above them, listening to them from high in the air – a not unpleasant feeling.
Save that her head throbbed, her left hip ached, as did her left hand. She must have fallen on that side. Remembering blood in her mouth, she explored with her tongue. A tooth felt wobbly, the inside of her cheek was cut. She dozed.
She heard men’s voices down below, so many of them. Or was she dreaming? Was Owen among them? Why did he not come up? Her head had been bandaged. Something cool eased the pain.
Tildy tiptoed in. ‘Can you sip some steeped herbs, Mistress Lucie?’
As Tildy bent down, Lucie remembered someone talking of fire. She touched Tildy’s face. She was unscarred. ‘Nan told me your gown had caught fire.’
‘Aye. Nan saved me. Threw a bucket of water, then tore off my gown. I have blisters on my legs, but that is the worst of it.’
Lucie’s jaw ached when she spoke, and her head. But she had questions. ‘Then Nan was not one of the thieves?’
‘No, though she had been feeding them.’
‘Jasper? How is he?’
‘He has a nasty cut on his head, atop it, not to the side like yours. And a badly bruised neck. A black eye. Naught else that a young man would fuss about. And even those he counts nothing. But we have him resting in Sir Robert’s chamber.’
‘And Harold Galfrey?’ Lucie whispered.
‘He is dead and I say may he burn in hellfire. Now let me help you sit up a moment.’
May he burn in hellfire. How easily Tildy said that. And what of Lucie? She had done the deed. Harold had murdered no one – she had.
Tildy tucked pillows behind Lucie’s head. ‘We have sent for the Riverwoman.’
She helped Lucie drink – mandrake, poppy. Tildy meant for her to sleep. Lucie turned her head away.
‘You must rest, Mistress Lucie.’
‘Horses, men, who is here?’
Tildy stood back a moment, shaking her head.
‘Answer my questions, then I shall drink it all, I promise you.’ Lucie rested her head against the pillows.
Tildy tsked, but sat on the edge of the bed. ‘The archbishop’s men, six of them, and a dozen from York Castle. The High Sheriff sent them.’
‘Not Owen?’
Tildy looked down. ‘No. Not the captain.’
‘The fire in the chapel.’
‘Just without the door. Nothing lost.’
‘The reliquary. Would you bring it to me?’
‘Master Moreton has seen the parchment. He said to tell you.’
Lucie’s eyes grew heavy. ‘And Daimon?’ The words were difficult to shape, her tongue thickening. Too much poppy.
‘Ash from the fire hurt his eyes, but Mistress Winifred showed me how to make a soothing wash. Are you asleep?’
‘Soon,’ Lucie murmured, unable to lift her heavy lids.
When Lucie woke, Jasper sat at the foot of the bed, watching her with concern. His hair was damp, combed back. His face looked gaunt. His neck was wrapped in cloth. In a corner of the room, Magda bent over a brazier, stirring something.
‘Are you in pain?’ Lucie asked.
‘No,’ Jasper whispered. ‘But the Riverwoman said my neck must be protected when we ride to the city.’
‘Thou shouldst not try to speak,’ Magda said, turning from her work. ‘And thee, Mistress Apothecary? Art thou in pain?’
‘I want to see the parchment.’ Lucie eased up, pushing her pillows behind her.
Jasper handed her a folded letter, the seal broken. Here it was at last. Her head pounded. I killed him. Does it matter whether or not he was guilty? I have killed a man. She lay back against the pillows and closed her eyes.
Magda leaned over her, put a damp cloth on her forehead, redolent with herbs. ‘Lie still a while. Magda would strengthen thee for the journey to the city. The charred wood is not good for thy humours. Healing is difficult in such a house.’
Jasper took the parchment from Lucie. ‘This is a letter to Robert the Bruce,’ he said, ‘from Alderman Bolton’s father, offering a bejewelled cup if he would spare their lands.’
‘That is it? It cannot be the cause of all this suffering.’ Lucie’s heart pounded. He was killing Jasper. She must remember that. He had been choking Jasper. Sweet Mother in Heaven, intercede for me, tell your Son you would have done the same.
Thirty-one
BENEATH THE LINDEN
Weary and winded, Owen and his company dismounted at Micklegate Bar late in the afternoon. Steam rose from wet cobbles as afternoon showers gave way to sunshine. Folk stared at them and no wonder – five liveried men and a friar, all filthy from days of riding, soaked this afternoon, now steaming.
Inside the Bar, Micklegate was crowded with merchants and country folk departing after a market day. The pillories at Holy Trinity were full as usual. As the street sloped down towards the bridge, York Minster seemed to rise over the city. Owen smelled the fishmongers well before he reached Ouse Bridge. Crossing over, they encountered an overturned cart blocking part of Coney Street. They must squeeze past to the music of curses and shouts as children ran off with the spilt hay.
Would Lucie be in the shop? Or the house? What would Owen say to her? Were the children well?
They rounded the corner into St Helen’s Square. From the York Tavern, Owen heard Bess Merchet shouting to one of her servants. ‘Quickly now! Careful!’ And there was Lucie’s apothecary. Owen hesitated, the prodigal son uncertain of his welcome.
Friar Hewald put a hand on Owen’s shoulder. ‘We should leave you to your family. The porter said His Grace is at his palace in the city. We shall go there, let him know of your arrival. I shall send word where we are couched for the night.’
‘Aye.’
Jared took Owen’s reins. As Owen moved his pack from the horse, Jared said, ‘I look forward to meeting your fair lady.’
‘Aye. God go with you.’
The others touched their caps to him as they moved on, guiding the horses up Stonegate.
Pausing at the shop door, Owen remembered the first time he had entered the apothecary, how he had stood near the door watching Lucie with a customer, wondering at the confidence of this apothecary’s daughter, as he thought her. He must behave as ever, no words or gestures revealing his uncertainty. She would find out all soon enough. He pushed at the door. Shut. Locked. Holy Mother of God. He hurried round the corner to the front of the house, pushed open the door.
‘Da!’ Gwenllian was in his arms before he could see her properly.
‘My love, my love.’ He smelled her hair, kissed her cheek. Hugh sat on the floor nearby, gazing up at him with confusion and a little fear. Four months and forgotten.
‘Captain!’ Kate lifted his pack from the floor. ‘You will want to see Mistress Lucie. She is above, resting quiet. Jasper, too.’
‘Hush, girl, let him catch his breath. I thank God you have returned safe and whole.’
‘Aunt Phillippa. What are you doing here?’ And why are you leaning on a stick?
Lucie sat up in bed. Was she yet dreaming? Or had she heard Owen’s voice?
‘Sit up so quickly and thy head shall punish thee,’ Magda warned. ‘Two days since thou wert injured.’
‘Is Owen below?’
‘Aye, Bird-eye is here. Magda must see to Jasper. Thou must see to thy husband.’
‘I cannot think how I must look.’
‘Thou lookst lovely, as ever. Magda made thy bandage with her many-coloured cloth. Not a rag.’ She picked up a tray and slipped from the room before Lucie could ask for her silvered glass.
And then he was there, in the doorway, travel-stained, weary, so handsome. She stood up and was in his
arms before either said a word. He flinched when she slipped her arms round him. A fleeting motion. Then gently he lifted her chin for a kiss. And still it was too soon that he stepped back.
He shook his head as he gazed on her. ‘You threw yourself into danger,’ he said sharply.
‘Who told you?’
‘Dame Phillippa. How could you? If anything happened to you, what of the children?’
‘Me? Four months and more you have been away, with no thought for your children, it is rumoured you will not return at all, and you chide me for trying to help Jasper and Tildy? Who else would, I ask you?’
Owen sat down on the bed, staring at her. ‘There were rumours?’
That was what stung? The rumours? What had happened to him? Was it possible he no longer loved her?
‘What were the rumours?’ he asked.
‘The merchants are full of Owain Lawgoch. Worried lest he disrupt shipping. They say all Welshmen will fight with him. That you would stay in Wales to do so.’
He closed his eye, bowed his head.
She caught her breath. ‘You were tempted.’
‘Aye. For a time.’
So nearly lost. ‘Why did you return?’
He lifted his head. Dear God but he looked weary. ‘Because I cannot live without you.’
‘You are injured.’
‘Aye.’
‘Fighting for that man?’
‘No. Seeking a murderer.’
‘Even there, in Wales?’
‘In a holy city. The victim was the mason who had begun your father’s tomb.’ Owen took a stone from his pack, handed it to her. All with his left hand, she noted. ‘This is the work of Ranulf de Hutton, who completed it.’
A face had been carved in the stone. ‘Father,’ Lucie whispered. ‘It is so like him.’ She began to weep.
Owen held her to him. She buried her face in his broad shoulder.
*
In the early morning Owen walked through the wakening city. A mist hung over the streets. He felt better than he had last night, for certain, with Magda’s comforting bandage on his wound and his arm supported by another of her cloths tied round his neck. He could use the arm if he must, but he thought merely to talk with Joseph and Jenkyn where they sat in chains in the castle gaol, awaiting hanging.
