The Nun's Tale: An Owen Archer Mystery

by Candace Robb

  ‘Captain.’ He gave a little bow. ‘May I join you?’

  Owen shrugged.

  The little man settled on the step above Owen, bringing his line of sight even with Owen’s. ‘Is it your beautiful, accomplished wife you are missing?’

  ‘How do you know of her?’

  ‘Sir Nicholas is a talker.’

  ‘He is a chattering jay.’

  Chaucer chuckled. ‘And Ned told me of her background, how you met. A fascinating story.’

  Owen frowned still. ‘I am attempting to forget my longing at the moment, Master Chaucer. Pray tell me something of your wife.’

  The poet gave a little bow. ‘Fair enough. You should know as much of me as I of you. Let me see. Something of my wife. We wed shortly after my father died this spring. She is Phillippa de Roet, an attendant of Queen Phillippa’s chamber. Her father was a Flemish farmer, knighted on the battlefield. He died shortly thereafter and his daughters were taken in by our Queen, kind-hearted and loyal to her fellow Flemings. My wife’s sister, Katherine, young and sickly, was sent to the convent of Sheppey, but Phillippa already showed signs of formidable tidiness and practicality, so the Queen found her useful. Phillippa is round and plain like myself.’ He shrugged. ‘And she has little patience with my poetic endeavours. That is all there is to tell.’

  Owen did not detect much affection in the summation. ‘Do you yearn for your Phillippa on your journeys?’

  Chaucer considered it. ‘I was about to say that I am married too recently to answer that; but, now you ask, I do miss her – when a button goes astray or I misplace something. And the bed sport is to my liking.’ He slapped his thighs. ‘Faith, I nearly forgot my mission. I am to bring you to my lord Duke. He made note of your desire for haste and wishes to give you your orders and send you off.’

  Owen was surprised to find Ned sitting with Louth in the Duke’s parlour, looking very pleased with himself. ‘We are to travel together, old friend.’

  ‘You are coming to York?’

  Ned grinned. ‘I look forward to meeting your fair Lucie.’

  Owen glanced at Louth, but could read nothing in his expression.

  The Duke entered the room, looked round. ‘All present. Good. I shall be brief. This matter of Longford and Sebastian being tied together with your nun … I think it timely that you travel together to Scarborough, stopping in York to see whether anything new has been learned from the nun. Master Chaucer is needed back in London, so it must be just the three of you. Sir Nicholas will carry the King’s letter for Captain Sebastian in case you learn something that leads you to the rogue. He will also carry money with which to bribe the captain.’

  ‘I am to go to Scarborough?’ Owen asked.

  ‘Indeed. I should think you will have more luck in ferreting out the weasel Sebastian than Master Chaucer. He is a poet, better at asking questions than finding answers. Eh, Chaucer?’

  The poet smiled and shrugged amiably, but Owen noted the man’s heightened colour. He was embarrassed by his failure, fool that he was. If Owen had failed more often he would be quietly measuring out medicines in York at Lucie’s side.

  Fourteen

  A Pilgrimage of Disgrace

  Summer was in full song. The lavenders were sending up flower stalks; on some the tightly closed buds were already visible. Both valerians were blooming, the delicately scented pink blossoms of the garden valerian and the intense, cloying white clusters of the true valerian. Melisende sprang out from the bushy balms and caught a butterfly drinking nectar from the pink blossoms. The comfrey bells trembled with bees, the starry borage blossoms bobbed in the gentle wind.

  Lucie’s head ached. When she bent over her growing stomach, the blood in her head pounded. She sat back on her heels, closed her eyes, took a deep breath.

  She must have drowsed in the sun, for she thought she heard a familiar voice singing,

  ‘Heo is lilie of largesse,

  Heo is parvenke of prouesse,

  Heo is solsecle of suetnesse,

  Ant ledy of lealté …

  ‘Blow, northerne wynd,

  Sent thou me my suetyng!

  Blow, northerne wynd,

  Blou! blou! blou!

  ‘For hire love y carke ant care,

  For hire love y droupne ant dare,

  For hire love my blisse is bare,

  Ant al ich waxe won;

  For hire love in slep y slake,

  For hire love al nyht ich wake,

  For hire love mournyng y make

  More then eny mon.’

  Lucie started as a hand pressed her shoulder. ‘Would you be grateful for a strong arm to help you rise up off your knees? Or shall I kneel beside you?’

  She turned round and rejoiced to find Owen’s voice had not been a dream. Her weariness gone, Lucie gladly grabbed his steadying arm and rose into a fierce embrace.

  ‘Sweet Heaven, how I’ve missed you,’ Owen whispered into her hair.

  Lucie began to cry. Confused by her reaction, Owen held her tight until the spell passed. Then he held her at arm’s length and asked, ‘What is it? Are you not happy to see me?’ His face was furrowed with concern, then puzzlement as Lucie smiled up at him.

  ‘It is wonderful to hear your voice and see you here before me, to touch you. The tears were –’ she shrugged. ‘Of late strong feelings conjure them.’ She hugged him hard.

  ‘What does Magda say about the babe?’

  ‘That all is as it should be.’

  Owen crossed himself.

  ‘You are so soon from Pontefract. Did all go well?’

  ‘Yes, but Lancaster has given me a task that will take me away again. He wishes me to go to Scarborough to look for Hugh Calverley.’

  ‘The Duke of Lancaster concerns himself with Joanna?’

  ‘Longford, actually.’

  ‘Soon all of England will be caught up in Joanna’s story.’

  ‘This reaches far beyond Joanna, Lucie. Longford may be scheming with King Charles to lure our soldiers into the Free Companies to fight against Don Pedro.’

  Lucie caught herself as she was about to admit knowledge of the possibility. The time was not right for confessing her continuing involvement. ‘But why you, Owen? Why must you go to Scarborough?’

  He drew her back into his arms. ‘I shall hurry back to you. I promise.’

  With Owen’s return, Sir Robert and Daimon moved to a room in the York Tavern, which Bess and Tom hastily readied. Sir Robert used the opportunity to repeat his offer of the house next door.

  Lucie was glad of the privacy when Owen blew up at the news that she had dined with Thoresby and visited Joanna at the abbey. They managed to hold their anger in while they were downstairs in the kitchen with Tildy, trading their new information with courtesy, but Owen slammed the door when they went up to their bedchamber.

  ‘Sweet Jesu, woman, you shall drive me as mad as Joanna.’

  ‘Owen, for pity’s sake, lower your voice. All York will know you are home with such a ruckus.’

  He began to pace the room.

  Lucie sat on the end of the bed, kneading her lower back with her knuckles. ‘I thought we were going to bed.’

  ‘My legs are stiff from sitting my horse all day.’ Owen’s voice was not friendly. ‘God’s bones, Lucie, I cannot leave you for a few days without your behaving recklessly.’

  Lucie wearily rose and began to unpack Owen’s bag, seeing that there was to be no immediate rest. ‘You grow tedious. We have had this argument before. I am not a simpleton.’ Lucie regretted her sharp tone, but he treated her like a child.

  Owen’s scar stood out angrily. ‘Do you not want my baby? Is that it?’

  Lucie blinked. Whence came that remark? ‘What does this have to do with our baby? Of course I want our baby. What are you talking about?’

  ‘You should be resting.’

  ‘Sweet Mary and all the saints, there would be precious few people on this earth if mothers must rest while carrying their babies. Who ha
s the leisure to rest for nine months?’

  Owen crossed the room to her, put his hands on her shoulders. ‘You put yourself right in the path of danger.’ His grip tightened.

  Lucie shrugged away from him. ‘And you do not? Does our child not also need a father?’

  ‘I do not volunteer for these things, Lucie.’

  ‘I did not volunteer either. I was asked.’

  They stood a few feet apart, mirror images with hands on hips, chins thrust forward.

  ‘The archbishop himself does not know what to make of Joanna Calverley, whether he should admit her back into the convent. And why? Might it be because a man’s neck has been broken, a woman has been raped and strangled, and Colin may die? Yet you go gaily quizzing the woman who seems to be the centre of all this.’

  ‘I have not done it gaily, and I have had an armed escort.’

  ‘I don’t like it.’

  Lucie sat down on the bed and bent over to pull off her shoes. Anger and the ache in her lower back brought tears to her eyes.

  Owen dropped to his knees and gently pushed her hands away, slipping off her tight shoes, then pulled her into his arms. ‘God’s blood, why do we argue, my love?’

  Lucie let the tears come freely, knowing it was futile to fight them. When she was quiet, Owen patted her eyes with the edge of the blanket, then covered her face with kisses.

  Lucie put her arms around him and leaned her head on his shoulder. ‘I pray every chance I get that this baby will live and thrive and grow to be like his father,’ she whispered into Owen’s ear. ‘I could hope for nothing better.’ She kissed his cheek.

  He turned and kissed her on the lips, a long, lingering kiss, then held her away so he might see her face, smoothing back a stray lock. ‘And I pray that she will be just like her mother. Perfection.’

  ‘I have avoided asking Magda whether it is a boy or a girl.’

  ‘She would know?’

  Lucie gave a little laugh. ‘What doesn’t Magda know?’

  Owen squeezed Lucie’s side and she squirmed and giggled. ‘I’d wager she does not know where your ticklish spot is.’ He reached for it again. Lucie tried to grab his hand, but he kept snaking it out of her grasp. She dissolved into giggles. Owen pushed her back on the bed. She rolled over on top of him and tried to pin down his hands. ‘Shall we remove these clothes and have a real homecoming?’ Owen was already unlacing the back of her shift. ‘Unless your condition …?’

  ‘Magda says it is fine.’ Lucie wriggled out of her shift.

  Dame Isobel gave Owen a little bow. ‘I fell on your wife’s mercy and she has been my deliverance, Captain Archer. Joanna is much calmer.’ She turned to Lucie, took her hands. ‘I am most grateful.’

  ‘Let us see whether calming makes her more pliant,’ Lucie said.

  Joanna had been brought down to the parlour of the guest house; she sat propped up with blankets and cushions in a chair by the window. Today she wore the mantle like a shawl. Owen was struck by her remarkable green eyes and the pallor that made her freckles look inky.

  But when she turned to study him, Owen no longer thought her eyes beautiful. They seemed to see him and then continue through him, at once vague and intense.

  ‘Captain Archer. You have returned.’

  ‘I bring news of your family.’

  Joanna frowned and dropped her eyes. ‘You labour in vain to please, for I would fain hear none of such news.’

  ‘You are not curious about your family?’

  The green eyes looked him up and down. ‘You are not the first well-muscled man I have seen, you know.’ Joanna sniffed, dismissing him.

  Owen halted on that change of subject. Lucie had warned him of Joanna’s rapid shifts in thought, but it was still disquieting.

  ‘You do know that, Captain?’ Joanna asked, now teasing.

  Owen had caught his balance. ‘I hear your brother Hugh is quite a warrior. Is it he of whom you speak?’

  Joanna glanced over at Lucie, then down at the Magdalene medal, which she proceeded to turn round and round in her hands.

  ‘Is that your Mary Magdalene medal?’

  Joanna took a deep breath. ‘They have bled me and purged me, these Christians, then poisoned me again. What do you think of that? Would you feel safe in such a place?’

  Owen glanced over at Lucie, who gave an almost imperceptible shrug. She was not about to come to his aid. ‘Why would they do such a thing – purge you, then poison you?’

  Joanna’s pale lips curved into a smile. ‘An empty stomach drinks the poison faster. But I have tripped them up.’

  Owen might disagree that she had been poisoned, but he knew she would not accept his argument. ‘How did you trip them up?’

  Joanna touched the blue mantle. ‘Our Lady protects me.’

  Owen wondered how she could put so much faith in such an ordinary piece of cloth. ‘Why would anyone wish to poison you?’

  The eyebrows arched. ‘I am cursed,’ she stated, as if surprised he did not know.

  ‘But you say that Our Lady protects you. Would she protect a cursed soul?’

  The stubby hands clenched the medal until they trembled with the effort. The jaw clenched. Anger or fear? ‘You have been to Leeds?’ Joanna asked suddenly. She did not look at Owen, but out of the window. ‘You have climbed Calvary?’

  ‘Yes. I met your father.’

  After a long pause. ‘He is a silly man.’

  ‘He is your father.’

  Joanna looked Owen in the eye. ‘More’s the pity.’

  Owen tried smiling. ‘For him or for you?’

  She did not return the smile, but leaned forward, frowning. ‘Do you go now to Scarborough?’

  The abrupt question, such an excellent guess, made Owen wonder who might have told her. But he could think of no one.

  Now Joanna smiled. It was not a friendly smile. Head down, eyes looking up through the brows, as if she had tricked him. ‘No one told me. It is the logical thing to do. You are on a pilgrimage of disgrace.’

  This woman was neither mad nor possessed of evil spirits. Why did she expend so much energy on clever avoidance? ‘If I go to Scarborough, whom shall I see there?’

  ‘The Devil.’

  ‘And who is he?’

  Joanna cocked her head to one side, still smiling. ‘Will the sins of the father be visited upon your child? Will she have but one eye?’

  Owen jerked back as if slapped.

  Lucie, who had been gazing out the window, lost in her own thoughts, looked up, first at Owen, then at Joanna, and back to Owen with a frown.

  Joanna put a hand to her mouth, no longer smiling. ‘Forgive me. I do not mean to be cruel. There is naught to be won from cruelty. Christ should have known that.’

  Christ? Owen tucked that one away. He wished to return to the Devil. ‘Did you meet the Devil in Scarborough, Dame Joanna?’

  She dropped her gaze to her lap again. ‘I am very tired.’

  Owen could not guess whether she was truly tired or just avoiding the question. He thought the latter. ‘Who is this Devil? Will Longford?’

  Joanna shivered, closed her eyes. ‘Jaro’s neck is broken.’

  ‘Who killed him?’

  Joanna shook her head. ‘I did not like him. But no one should die like that.’

  ‘When you ran away from St Clement’s, did you run to a lover?’

  Joanna looked up, laughter in her eyes. ‘And do nuns have lovers? St Clement’s is but a tiny priory. Where might I hide him?’ She looked over at Lucie. ‘You are getting angry with me. You must understand. I cannot think about these things.’

  ‘Why?’ Lucie asked.

  ‘What things?’ added Owen.

  Joanna shrugged. ‘Well, surely if you do not agree what is important, I cannot judge.’

  ‘You play with us,’ Owen said. ‘Cleverly. But you ruin your own game if you mean to make us think you are mad. Such cleverness does not describe madness.’

  Joanna grew solemn. Her eyes tur
ned inward.

  ‘Joanna?’ Owen touched her hand.

  She jerked it away from him, eyes wide, staring into his. ‘Noli me tangere.’

  ‘Why must I not touch you?’

  Joanna did not reply.

  ‘Please, Joanna, tell me what has happened,’ Owen said.

  The eyes focused on him once more, studied his face, moved along his shoulders. Joanna reached out and took his hand, studied the palm, turned it over, studied the back of his hand, touched it to her cheek. ‘You are someone I might have loved.’

  ‘I am honoured.’

  Joanna let go of his hand. ‘But I am cursed now. I yearn for death.’

  ‘Then why complain that someone poisoned you?’

  ‘I was not complaining.’

  ‘What, then?’

  She shrugged. ‘Wondering is all.’

  ‘I wanted to tell you about Hugh and the arm of St Sebastian.’

  ‘He sold it to Will Longford.’

  ‘No. He sold nothing to Will Longford. It was a seal he carried, from a French soldier.’

  Joanna giggled. ‘We lied to him. It was St Hardulph of Breedon, not St Sebastian.’

  ‘There was no arm,’ Owen said softly.

  Joanna looked away. Her hands clenched the Magdalene medal. ‘Am I to understand that Hugh did not sell the arm of St Hardulph to Will Longford?’

  ‘That is right.’

  Joanna took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘It is still at the parish church in Leeds?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Poor Hardulph,’ she said flatly.

  Owen closed his eye and pressed beneath the patch, where a shower of painful needle pricks gave physical form to his frustration.

  Joanna leaned forward, gently touched Owen’s scar beneath the patch. ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘May I see the eye?’

  ‘No. Why do you think Christ was cruel?’

  ‘Because He was. To Mary Magdalene He was. He took her love, then cast her aside.’