The Nun's Tale: An Owen Archer Mystery

by Candace Robb

  Or Harry never heard it. But Owen had watched him when he first came in the room. He seemed to get the gist of what people were saying by watching their lips. ‘Any other trouble?’

  Harry chuckled. ‘Always trouble round Master Hugh. He was watching a house, I can tell you that. I can even show you. Got interested when I told him I’d seen that one-legged man there.’

  ‘Longford?’

  ‘Aye.’ Harry nodded. ‘That’d be him.’

  ‘How long ago did you see Longford there?’

  Harry shrugged. ‘A few years past.’

  Owen sat back, frowning. ‘Do you mean to say Hugh watched this particular house for a few years?’

  Harry held his hand up to his ear. ‘What?’

  Owen leaned closer and repeated the question.

  ‘Oh, aye. On and off, you see. I’d tell ’im when I saw folk he might find interesting.’

  ‘What sort of folk?’

  ‘Soldier types. Or folk who seemed out of place.’

  ‘And who was it most recently?’

  ‘The redhead.’

  ‘You will take us to the house?’

  Harry nodded. ‘This evening. Better then. In the dark.’

  Louth knocked on the door to the small room Owen was sharing with Ned and Alfred. Being a canon of Beverley and clerk to Prince Edward, Louth had been offered his own chamber, equally small, but private. Ned had gone off with Alfred in search of amusement, and Owen had been lying on his cot, thinking over the morning’s business. He did not welcome an interruption and sighed at the second round of knocking. ‘What is it?’

  Louth opened the door only wide enough to poke his head in. ‘I would speak with you.’

  Owen nodded.

  Louth settled on the edge of Ned’s cot. The flesh on his round face was slack, as if the trip was taking its toll. ‘You were on the heels of something about the Percies not reporting Hugh’s death. Why did you veer away?’

  ‘I want to worry them.’

  Louth blinked. ‘Why?’

  ‘People do foolish things when they worry.’

  ‘What do you expect them to do?’

  Owen shrugged. ‘We shall see.’

  Louth lowered his eyes. ‘You do not trust me.’ Petulant.

  Did he trust Louth? Owen had little confidence in him, but he believed Louth meant well. ‘I do not know what they are hiding, Sir Nicholas. It is but a feeling I have.’

  Louth met his eye again. ‘You might have got it out of them right away.’

  ‘No. They have no reason to confide in me, much less confess to me if it comes to that. Not now. Not yet.’

  ‘What do you think we shall learn seeing the house Hugh was watching?’

  ‘Perhaps nothing. But Harry himself is interesting. Joanna came to mind when I asked him about trouble. Why?’ Owen nodded. ‘Harry will be far more helpful than the Percies, I think.’ He slapped his thighs, rose. ‘I need a good walk, fresh air. Want to walk the battlements with me?’

  Louth’s eyes widened in horror. ‘Faith, no. I shall go to the chapel.’

  Owen grinned. He had guessed that Louth would shrink at the suggestion. Now he would have time alone to think.

  Sixteen

  Near Death

  Daimon ran to keep up with Lucie, who marched down Davygate, hurrying after Brother Sebastian, her pale shawl fluttering behind her. It was so early that few folk were about, and the river damp intensified the stench of sewage in the narrow streets. At this moment Daimon was not enamoured of the great city of York; but he adored the woman who kept so many steps ahead of him, and he would gladly live and die in this crowded, dark, stinking city if it meant he could be near her. He had lost his heart just moments ago when Lucie Wilton had wakened him in the shop and whispered her request that he accompany her to the abbey without waking Sir Robert.

  ‘Sir Robert sleeps so soundly,’ she had said. ‘I would fain let him get his rest.’

  Daimon had not been able to take his sleepy eyes from her hair, strands of red and gold shimmering in the lamplight. Mistress Wilton crouched on the floor beside his pallet, leaning close. She had a warm, sweet scent. Lord. He had thought her lovely before, but at that moment, her hair loose, her body warm from bed, her breath so sweet … Jesu, give him strength to control himself.

  She had had to repeat what she had said to him.

  Daimon had, with great effort, pulled his eyes away from her and considered. ‘Leave Sir Robert?’ He shook his head. ‘He will not like it.’

  ‘Please.’ She touched his shoulder. So gently. ‘We must go quickly, Daimon. Brother Sebastian waits in the kitchen. Dame Joanna is injured .’

  ‘Badly?’

  ‘Would they send for me at this dark hour otherwise?’

  That had seemed a good reason to risk Sir Robert’s anger. Daimon had agreed. He saw now how wise that had been. Sir Robert would have lagged far behind. Mistress Wilton glanced back as she turned into Lop Lane, paused, waited for Daimon to catch up, grabbed his hand. Glory to God on the highest!

  ‘Come, Daimon. We do not want the gate warden at Bootham Bar to give up on us and return to bed.’

  Her hand grasped his with surprising strength. Daimon hurried along with her, hand in hand, marvelling that his feet could still brush the earth.

  Tildy had awakened Lucie with a frightened face. ‘’Tis Brother Sebastian from the abbey, Mistress Lucie. He says you must come.’

  Lucie had looked up at the window, confused. ‘Is it such a dark morning?’

  ‘It is very early, Mistress.’

  Brother Sebastian. The abbot’s secretary. Lucie sat up quickly at that. Something must have happened that Abbot Campian wished to keep quiet. Tildy helped Lucie dress. Shivering in the morning air, Lucie grabbed a shawl. Down in the kitchen Brother Sebastian waited. He looked very pale.

  ‘What has happened?’ Lucie asked.

  ‘Dame Joanna tried to kill herself, may God in His mercy forgive her.’ Sebastian crossed himself.

  Lucie did likewise. ‘But she is alive?’

  The monk nodded. ‘There is much blood.’

  Lucie tried to keep her teeth from chattering. ‘Who found her?’

  ‘The Reverend Mother woke to an odd sound. Coughing. Choking.’

  ‘Brother Wulfstan is there?’

  Sebastian nodded. ‘Our infirmarian says Dame Joanna is alive, but has lost much blood. He wants you to try to speak with her, to see whether you can wake her. He says you are best with her.’

  Lucie scooped up some fennel seeds from a shelf by the door and chewed them to freshen her breath. ‘What about Dame Isobel?’

  ‘She fainted.’

  Ah. How like Isobel.

  Now, as Lucie hurried through the postern gate dragging Daimon behind her, she wondered what self inflicted wound could be so horrible as to make the prioress faint. She shivered and took a deep breath. Her stomach was not as strong as usual in her present condition. Would she embarrass herself?

  Brother Oswald and Abbot Campian waited for them on the guest house steps. The hospitaller held a lantern up to Daimon’s face.

  ‘The lad should stay with Oswald,’ Abbot Campian said. ‘Bless you for coming, Mistress Wilton, and at this early hour. Brother Wulfstan particularly wished to have you here.’

  ‘Has she wakened?’

  The abbot shook his head. ‘Please go up. Sebastian will wait for you here and escort you to my parlour when you have finished. I shall have food and wine for your troubles.’

  Lucie gathered her skirts and hurried up the stairs. Through the doorway to the right of Joanna’s room she could see flickering lamplight. She paused, stepped inside. The serving girl bent over Isobel.

  ‘She is still in a faint?’ Lucie asked.

  The girl raised her head, her eyes large with fear. Lucie stepped closer, noted Isobel’s bloodstained hands. A pitcher and cup sat on a small table beside the bed.

  ‘Wine?’ Lucie asked.

  The serving girl nodded.<
br />
  Lucie poured some into the cup and drank. Her shivering ceased. She drank again, welcoming the warmth that crept from her throat outward.

  ‘Keep the Reverend Mother warm,’ Lucie said. ‘I shall see to her after I have tended Joanna.’

  The girl nodded.

  Lucie left her, stepped out into the corridor, took a deep breath, pushed open Joanna’s door – and stepped back at the strong, sweet stench of blood. ‘Deus juva me,’ she whispered, crossing herself and gulping the cleaner air of the corridor. Then, getting herself firmly in hand, she entered the room and joined Brother Wulfstan, who sat nodding beside Joanna’s curtained bed, an oil lamp burning on the table beside it, the flame dancing in the breeze from the window.

  Lucie squeezed Wulfstan’s shoulder. ‘Brother Wulfstan. It is Lucie Wilton. I am come to help you.’

  He started, woke, rubbed his eyes, looked up at Lucie and pressed the hand still on his shoulder. ‘Bless you, Lucie. I think it best we try to wake her, see whether she can speak, where she has pain.’ He stood up.

  ‘She wounded herself?’ Lucie said.

  Wulfstan pressed his fingers to his brows, released them, nodded. ‘She is not a pleasant sight.’

  ‘Why did she do it?’

  Wulfstan shook his head. ‘She has slept most of the time since we bled and purged her. I had no idea she was alert enough to do such a thing.’

  ‘Dame Isobel has been no help?’

  ‘The Reverend Mother was in a faint when I was called. I have not spoken with her.’

  Lucie nodded. ‘Open the curtain.’

  Wulfstan gave her a worried look. ‘I hesitated, considering your condition. Owen would not like you to be exposed to this.’

  Lucie clenched her fists at her side, trying not to express her impatience. Brother Wulfstan had once done her a favour that went far beyond common friendship. She would not lose her temper with him. ‘Please, Wulfstan. Open the curtain.’

  Lucie held up the lamp. Wulfstan pushed the curtain away. The stench of blood intensified. Unable to help it, Lucie took a step back, turned her head away.

  Wulfstan steadied the lamp. ‘Are you all right, Lucie? Do you need to go outside?’

  She shook her head. ‘I shall be fine. It is just such a lot of blood.’

  ‘Had she been weaker, she would not have survived, I think.’

  Lucie turned back to the bed, moving the lamp closer to Joanna’s still form. She lay with her right hand raised up to her shoulder, clutching a bloody knife.

  ‘Where did she get the knife?’

  ‘It is from the kitchen. She must have kept it after one of her meals.’

  Across the bloody neck a wound gaped, a jagged wound. Joanna had made several tries, Lucie guessed. She turned away, took a deep breath, turned back. Joanna’s hands were smeared with blood, as was her face. Lucie had noticed a bowl of water and some cloths on the floor beside the bed. ‘Would you moisten a cloth for me?’ Wulfstan did so, pressed it into her hand. Lucie dabbed at Joanna’s face. She had no wounds on her face, thanks be to God. She went to dab at Joanna’s neck, but Wulfstan reached out to restrain her.

  ‘Do not touch the wound. It must clot,’ he said.

  ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God,’ Lucie said, crossing herself and trembling at what she had almost done. ‘I am not skilled in this.’

  ‘No matter.’ Wulfstan gestured at the blanket, at the bloodstains farther away from the neck. ‘Would you examine her beneath the blanket? I pulled it back, but could not bring myself …’

  Lucie nodded.

  Wulfstan turned away.

  Lucie pulled the blanket down. Joanna’s shift was bloody at the pelvis and the upper thighs. Lucie pulled up the shift, gave a little cry.

  ‘What is it?’ Wulfstan whispered. ‘Do you need me?’

  ‘No. It is just – Sweet Heaven, why does she hate herself so?’ Lucie bent down to Joanna, dabbed at her stomach and thighs with the cloth. The thighs were untouched. But there was a deep wound in Joanna’s womb. Jagged, as if Joanna had stabbed and then moved the knife back and forth to do more damage. How could she inflict such a wound on herself? ‘She has stabbed herself in the stomach,’ Lucie said, turning away and covering Joanna. ‘We must clean and pack the wound.’

  ‘I have sent for Dame Prudentia. Try to rouse Joanna, Lucie.’

  But try as she might, Lucie could get no response from Joanna. At last, exhausted and faint with hunger, Lucie left Joanna in the care of the two infirmarians.

  Joanna’s ragged wounds haunted Lucie as she followed Sebastian to the abbot’s parlour. How had the woman mustered strength enough to inflict such wounds? What could bring Joanna to such an act of violence on herself? Had Magda’s therapy worked too well? Had Joanna wakened, alone, confronted by a memory she had tried to bury, vivid now because her mind had cleared? Or was it perhaps Owen’s telling her of her mother’s death that had driven her to despair? It seemed too extreme an act for the mourning of a parent, but Lucie knew so little of Joanna’s heart that she could not say that it was not so.

  Brother Sebastian opened the door into a cheery room with a fire just right for the cool morning and a tempting scent of fresh bread baked with herbs. Abbot Campian rose from a chair where he had been reading. He was not a young man, but his face was smooth, neither laughter nor frown lines adorning it. A man who took care to keep emotions at bay. He signed the blessing over Lucie and welcomed her to sit at the small table. Sebastian backed out of the room and closed the door softly. Campian poured wine for both of them. Lucie noted his white hands. Owen had told her that Abbot Campian had the cleanest hands he had ever seen. They were remarkable. Lucie glanced up at Campian’s eyes, expecting to see them, too, devoid of anything untidy. But his eyes watched her with keen interest and concern.

  ‘Were you able to rouse Dame Joanna?’

  ‘No. She is in a faint after losing much blood.’

  The abbot sat with his cup of wine untasted, his hands folded in front of him on the table, his eyes focused on his hands, perhaps to give Lucie privacy in eating.

  She sipped her wine, trying to erase the memory of the blood’s scent. The wine revived her. She must take care to stop before it dizzied her. Magda had told her that one of the greatest dangers in pregnancy was falling, not just because she might injure the babe in her womb but the midwife had observed that women’s joints seemed more easily overstretched and strained when they were with child, perhaps readying the body for birth. Lucie sighed. Her every move was restricted by an ever growing set of rules and cautions – not as onerous as those at St Clement’s, but frustrating all the same. Was that what Joanna had run from? Rules? Eyes following her every movement? She had run to her brother. Did he seem to enjoy more freedom?

  Of course he did. Owen certainly did.

  Lucie sighed, took a piece of bread, nibbled at it. Warm and flavourful. It stirred her appetite. She must eat, must put the nauseous sight of Joanna’s wounds out of her mind.

  ‘You are not hungry?’

  Lucie was startled by the abbot’s soft voice. She found him regarding her thoughtfully.

  ‘What I just saw … It is difficult to put the scene from my mind.’

  Campian nodded. ‘God help her find the peace she seeks in a less sinful way.’ He shook his head. ‘My stomach liked neither the odour nor the sight. For you it must be far worse. I am in your debt for coming. Your husband would not be pleased with me.’

  ‘He would understand.’

  ‘I do not think Captain Archer understands anything untoward where you are concerned, Mistress Wilton.’ Campian smiled. A peculiar smile, causing no wrinkles, expressed only on the mouth and in the eyes.

  Lucie thought it would be difficult to like Campian, but she knew that he and Wulfstan were old friends.

  ‘Will she live, do you think?’ he asked.

  ‘If we can keep her from injuring herself. I wish I knew what she runs from. I would like to help her.’

  ‘What do you see in
her that makes you wish to help her?’

  Lucie considered the question. ‘In truth, I cannot say. Except that she is a fellow sinner, suffering something so horrible she wished to end her life. I have felt despair like that. I have come to wish for death at times. But I have never acted on it. How much more must she suffer not only to conceive the act, but to try to carry it out until she fainted from loss of blood.’

  ‘You think that is what stopped her? The loss of blood?’

  Lucie nodded. ‘That and exhaustion from the terrible strength she called up to inflict those wounds.’

  ‘Is it possible they were not self-inflicted?’

  Lucie shook her head. ‘I think not.’

  ‘How can you know?’

  ‘I said I think not. I do not know it is not so. I do not have the skill. But having spoken with Joanna, having seen some way into her heart, I can believe she did this to herself.’ Lucie lifted her cup of wine in trembling hands.

  ‘I am sorry I asked such questions.’

  ‘You have a right. She lies in your guest house.’

  Lucie gazed round the small, comfortable room. On the far wall was a fresco of a Benedictine monk kneeling before a woman in a deep blue mantle, kissing her outstretched hand. Presumably the Blessed Virgin Mary, to whom the abbey was dedicated. The painting was simple, almost childlike, but for Mary’s eyes, which somehow expressed an immense sympathy and kindness.

  Campian noticed where Lucie’s eyes lingered. ‘A clumsy painting, but I have grown fond of it.’

  ‘The Virgin’s eyes. Were they painted at the same time as the rest of the fresco?’

  Campian looked surprised. ‘So you notice it, too? How Brother Peter’s gift blossomed when he reached her eyes?’

  ‘It is as if the rest of the fresco were merely a background, an explanation of the expression in her eyes.’

  Abbot and apothecary looked at one another with fresh appreciation.

  ‘Has he painted anything else?’

  Campian shook his head, his eyes sad. Lucie looked, startled, at his eyes, then at those of the fresco. The expressionless face, the soul revealed only by the eyes.

  ‘What is it?’ the abbot asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Lucie said, sipping her wine to hide her smile.