The Nun's Tale: An Owen Archer Mystery

by Candace Robb

  Owen went back down to the hall with an oil lamp and read of Joanna’s self-mutilation. Lucie asked whether Owen thought Joanna’s attack on herself might have been her response to her mother’s death. Owen tucked that idea in the back of his mind and read on: Lucie grew larger and clumsy, Sir Robert was proving a patient, helpful gardener, Jasper was to come stay for the eve and day of Corpus Christi; and Lucie had adopted a stray kitten, an orange tabby, whom Melisende disliked. Owen groaned. Melisende was intrusive enough in their small house. Why was Lucie adopting another cat? She wrote that she hoped Owen would take time to see Beverley Minster, which was said to be almost as beautiful as York Minster. By now she trusted he would desire a peaceful place where he might think. Owen smiled. She was right. And her concern was a comfort; a man could feel so alone. Lucie closed with the unexpected request that Owen check the grave in Beverley once more. ‘ “No one should suffer the grave before Death’s sleep”… it is very important, my love.’

  Ravenser joined Owen. ‘You have read about Dame Joanna?’

  Owen nodded. ‘Bad luck she has been unable to speak.’

  ‘The woman is dangerous. My uncle sees no difficulty in returning her to St Clement’s once we know all is safe, but I do not agree.’

  ‘His Grace is in York now?’

  Ravenser shook his head. ‘At Windsor or Sheen on the King’s business, but he hopes to return shortly after you arrive. What do you think about the nun’s obsession with someone being buried alive?’

  ‘Lucie wrote of that to you?’ What had possessed her? Owen hid his anger with a shrug.

  ‘Jaro could not have been alive when they buried him.’

  Ravenser frowned at the memory of the corpse. ‘I agree. I cannot see how one’s neck could be broken in the grave. So it is Dame Joanna’s own burial that haunts her?’

  ‘According to Edmund, she was not long in the ground. A few shovelfuls of earth over her. Can a momentary experience leave such a scar?’

  ‘Edmund told you this? The man who sleeps upstairs?’

  ‘He took part in the ruse.’ Owen rubbed his eyes, weary from days of journeying with the tension of Edmund’s spectral pursuers. ‘I have much to tell you. But Joanna’s obsession with someone buried alive – perhaps it should make me more uneasy, Sir Richard. How thoroughly did you examine Jaro?’

  ‘We opened the grave, cut open his shroud, noted the broken neck.’ Ravenser tilted his head to one side, leaned back in his chair. ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘That I should take a look at that grave. And speak to the gravedigger.’

  ‘You doubt our thoroughness?’

  ‘They tell me Jaro was huge. Fat. Much could be hidden with such a corpse.’

  Ravenser pressed the bridge of his nose. ‘I confess my own doubts on the matter.’ He closed his eyes, leaned his head back. ‘I shall attend you. When do you wish to proceed?’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Ravenser whispered to himself. He opened his eyes, lifted his head. ‘I ask you to wait one more day, until the Corpus Christi revellers are safely gone. It is so crowded in the city at present that nothing can be accomplished without an audience.’

  Owen agreed. ‘Tomorrow I shall speak with the gravedigger and the priest who buried Joanna.’

  Ravenser nodded. ‘I shall arrange for them to come here.’

  Owen tucked Lucie’s letter in his belt, slapped the arms of his chair and rose, stretching.

  Ravenser smiled. ‘You are not comfortable sitting in a chair for long, are you?’

  ‘True enough. Years of campaigning. Gets the body out of the habit.’

  ‘I look forward to hearing about Scarborough in the morning.’

  Alfred and Edmund were up long before Owen. He slept like the dead, finally waking when a servant came in with a cup of spiced wine and Ravenser’s request that Owen join him as soon as possible in his parlour. He would find bread and more wine in there.

  The parlour walls, hung with embroidered panels in vibrant colours, caught Owen’s attention. No stories were depicted, rather the panels looked like the edges in illustrated manuscripts, particularly one, on which animals formed an alphabet. Owen had long ago given up any effort to be inconspicuous when he examined a room, his single eye making it necessary to turn his head this way and that like a bird.

  Ravenser stood by the window, the shutter opened to let in a lovely breeze, and smiled at Owen’s study. ‘You like them?’

  Owen sat down, pulled apart a small loaf of pandemain, took a bite and washed it down with wine. He sighed and settled back. ‘I do, but with reservation, Sir Richard. They draw me in, invite me to turn myself on my head to see all the fine features.’

  ‘Too distracting?’ Ravenser took a seat opposite Owen.

  Owen nodded. ‘I should accomplish little work in this room.’

  ‘Perhaps that is why the Irish are so difficult to rule. They are too distracted with their dreams.’

  ‘These are Irish embroideries?’

  ‘I was up in Ireland for a short time.’

  ‘They say the Irish are much like us.’

  ‘I forgot. You are Welsh.’

  ‘Also difficult to rule. Also dreamers.’

  Ravenser shrugged. ‘I want to hear about Captain Sebastian.’

  Owen told him of the conversation in the church.

  Ravenser sniffed. ‘Arrogant traitor. Why should such as he expect knighthood?’

  ‘He is an excellent captain, they say. Men have been knighted for less.’

  Ravenser studied Owen. ‘But not you, eh? Ever resent that, Archer?’

  Owen laughed. ‘A Welsh longbowman? Knighted? I was never fool enough to expect it.’

  Ravenser did not join in the laughter. ‘Yet the old Duke and my uncle entrust you with delicate business. You are an odd one not to resent that.’

  ‘I have a good life, Sir Richard. Far better than I ever dreamed. What do I need with the responsibilities of paying for the mount, arms and livery of squires and soldiers?’

  Ravenser grunted. ‘What of the stewards of Scarborough, the Percies? How did they behave?’

  ‘They have learned, I believe with the help of gold, to look away from the transgressions of the Accloms and Carters, the governing families of the town who happen to be smugglers and thieves. Sir William explained the need for compromise. If he did so with them, most like he also did so with Sebastian. And Sir William has not informed Matthew Calverley of his son’s murder. He thinks it was Accloms or Carters who ordered Hugh’s death. Best to remain silent.’

  ‘I see.’ Ravenser pressed his fingertips together and closed his eyes. ‘You speak of a powerful family, Archer.’ A vein on one eyelid twitched.

  ‘Put aside what I have said if it disturbs you, Sir Richard. I offered it as an explanation, not a battle cry.’ Owen had no desire to take on extra investigations – he was ready to be done with them all.

  Ravenser nodded, then glanced round to make sure no servants were present. ‘And what of Maddy’s murder?’

  Owen told him about Jack. ‘I am sorry I let him get away. Edmund believes the man is following us, awaiting his opportunity to attack. Alfred and I are beginning to believe him.’

  ‘You have seen signs of pursuit?’

  ‘No. ’Tis just a sense of eyes at our backs.’

  ‘Good.’ Ravenser pushed his chair back from the table. ‘It is time we were off to St Mary’s.’

  ‘I thought the vicar was to come here.’

  ‘It appears that Thomas has an ague. We must speak with him in his bedchamber.’

  Neither the priest nor the gravedigger had been forthcoming with any new information, though both recognised Edmund, which removed any doubts Owen might have had about Edmund’s story.

  ‘He stood there with his friend, very respectful, looking very sad,’ the priest said.

  Before returning to Ravenser’s, Owen chose to walk from North Bar to Longford’s house with Edmund as guide. One of Joan
na’s stories had been that she had lost her way. He wanted to see if that was likely. It was just Owen and Edmund on this pilgrimage. Alfred had been sent off to a tavern to sit quietly and hear what he might.

  Edmund led Owen off the main street into a small churchyard. An oak shaded it, and a well tempted the thirsty. ‘This is where she lost the Magdalene medal. Stefan came here and retrieved it from the priest.’

  ‘Now there is someone who might have something interesting to say. How did Stefan find him?’

  Edmund shrugged. ‘I did not accompany him. I never thought to ask.’

  Owen stepped into the church, a cool, dark womb smelling of candle wax, incense, and damp stone. It reminded him of Lucie’s suggestion to seek quiet in the minster. He would do that later. An old woman knelt by a statue of Mary.

  ‘God be with you, good wife,’ Owen said. ‘I seek the priest of this church. Do you know where I might find him?’

  ‘He’d be at minster most days, being a canon,’ the woman said, never moving her eyes from the statue.

  Owen had forgotten the priest might be a canon of Beverley. He could ask Ravenser about him. Back outside, Owen nodded to Edmund to lead on to Longford’s house. The way was not complicated. If Joanna had become lost, it was for some reason other than a few false turnings. The house was visible from the main street they had followed from North Bar.

  Edmund stood by the door, watching Owen pace the main room. ‘What do you expect to find?’

  ‘Nothing. I am sure what is to be found here has been found. I just wanted to see it. See whether I might learn anything of Longford from his house.’

  ‘So what do you learn here of him?’

  ‘The walls are scarred and pocked; the chairs and table have been mended more than once. I would guess he has a fierce temper. Perhaps when he drinks alone.’

  Edmund nodded. ‘You have learned something of him. Will feels God cheated him with the leg. All those years of soldiering and then to fall off his horse escaping a cuckolded husband and crush his leg.’ Edmund grinned at Owen’s look of surprise. ‘You didn’t know?’

  ‘No one has talked much about Longford the man, just his connection with du Guesclin, with Captain Sebastian, Joanna and Hugh Calverley …’ Owen shook his head. ‘Fleeing an angry husband. An embarrassing end to a career.’

  ‘Will brags about it, his wild wenching, his derring-do. But it is a curse to him.’

  Owen had seen enough. ‘Is there good ale to be had in Beverley?’

  ‘I shall show you my favourite inn.’

  They had not far to go. The taverner paused as they entered, eyeing Owen’s patch and scar. Then he recognised Edmund. ‘Been a long while. Is Longford back, too?’

  ‘Nay. I am on other business. Travelling with Captain Archer here, former captain of archers for the old Duke of Lancaster.’

  The taverner’s eyes opened wider. ‘You fought with Henry of Grosmont?’

  Owen was accustomed to this response. It usually earned him excellent service in the hope of a good tale or two. ‘That I did.’

  ‘Then why in God’s name are you travelling with the like of Edmund here? Outlaws they are, same as the one came asking about him.’

  Edmund tensed. ‘Who was that?’

  ‘The one came with you last time. When you were looking for Stefan.’

  ‘Jack?’

  The taverner shrugged. ‘Can’t say as I remember a name.’

  ‘When was he here?’ Edmund asked.

  ‘Yesterday. Early in the day.’

  ‘Have you seen him since?’

  The taverner shook his head, turned back to Owen. ‘So why are you travelling with Edmund?’

  ‘The King has welcomed his friends back to his service.’

  The taverner’s eyes opened wide, shifted from Owen to Edmund and back. ‘Then ’tis true what they say, our King is desperate for gold to fight King Charles.’ He shook his head. ‘Hard times are upon us when our King needs the likes of Will Longford.’

  After Owen had sent off the taverner with a firsthand account of one of the old Duke’s lesser-known exploits, he and Edmund settled down to judging the ale.

  ‘Too bitter, but smooth, clean.’ Owen nodded. ‘I could drink another.’

  Edmund drained his cup, called to the taverner for another round. ‘Told you he was behind us.’

  ‘He’s in front of us now. Biding his time, I think.’

  When the taverner came with the pitcher, Owen asked, ‘This man asking after Edmund. Did he ask after anyone else?’

  ‘A one-eyed archer – yourself, I should think – Longford, Stefan … and a nun, God help us. I asked did he mean the one who died and was resurrected in Our Lady’s mantle. He said was none of my business, which I took as a yes.’

  Owen thanked him for the information.

  Edmund fell to his drink while Owen studied him. He’d been on the road with Edmund for days now. What had he learned of him? Edmund was quiet, thoughtful, steadfast in his loyalties, or Owen was no judge. ‘You don’t seem the sort who joins up with someone like Sebastian.’

  ‘I suppose I’m not.’

  ‘What will you do after this?’

  ‘If I find Stefan, my life will go on as it was. But without Stefan’ – Edmund wiped his mouth on his sleeve – ‘I’ll go back to building ships, I suppose.’

  ‘You were a shipwright? Really?’

  Edmund nodded. ‘I was young, an apprentice in Whitby, working on a ship for Sebastian. Met Stefan, listened to his stories … It sounded like a man’s life – fighting, wenching, drinking, sailing, more fighting.’ He smiled sadly at his fist, scarred knuckles. ‘But the taste for all that weakens with experience. I’d like a wife, children … a home.’ He shrugged. ‘Still a dreamer, you see.’

  ‘But if Stefan wishes to continue in this life, you will do so?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Why?’

  Edmund pounded the table lightly with his fist, then opened his hand, pressed it palm down on the table, fingers splayed. He took out his dagger and began the dangerous game of stabbing the table in between each finger, going back and forth on the hand, faster and faster. When the dagger grazed a finger, he stopped, lifted his hand, wiggled the bleeding finger. ‘Your friend Ned is far better with a dagger than I am, eh? So is Stefan. He never misses. Ever.’

  Owen did not see, ‘And that is why you would stay in this life? Because you admire your friend’s skill with the dagger?’

  Edmund shook his head. ‘Because as a shipwright I shall not meet such a man again. Not likely. I shall meet only cautious men, out to make money and keep their families fed and housed. I can always go back to that. I could not find another Stefan.’ Edmund sucked on the finger. ‘Or you. It’s been interesting meeting you. You looked such a rogue. I was sure one of us had to kill the other. And you decided to trust me.’

  Owen shook his head. ‘It was you decided to trust me, to bargain with me.’

  ‘A shipwright never needs to make such choices.’

  ‘Nor does he have to watch his back.’

  ‘That is your fault, Captain Archer. I had Jack cornered. He would have been dead if you had left me to it.’

  Owen did not need to be reminded of that.

  At dawn the town was cool and full of intriguing shadows. Owen walked to St Mary’s graveyard with Ravenser, Edmund, and Alfred, expecting nothing to come of this deed. But he must try it, must put to rest the feeling that there was more in that grave than Ravenser and Louth had noticed.

  Old Dan was already at the site, digging, his son with him. The grave was at the edge of the yard, shaded by a tree. Owen looked up at the buildings facing the grave. Sides and backs of houses at a slight distance, no main street nearby. Unless a neighbour had been out relieving himself in the dark, a burial at night might be accomplished here unheeded.

  ‘There he is, just as we left him,’ said Old Dan, stepping back.

  Owen stepped forward, covering his lower face against the sick
eningly sweet smell of rotting flesh, and looked down at the huge, decomposing body. The man had been taller than average and fat, with a barrel-shaped torso and muscular legs. The face was decomposing. It was damp here between the Beck and the Walkerbeck. The bodies would go quickly. The head was at an unnatural angle. ‘Jaro?’ Owen asked, glancing at Edmund.

  Edmund nodded. ‘Jaro indeed. I told you he was a good cook.’

  Owen averted his head and took a deep breath, then crouched down at the top of the grave, motioning for Alfred and Edmund to go to the feet. ‘He will be heavy. Let’s lift him out by the shroud if we can, if it’s not rotten yet.’

  Old Dan knelt down beside Owen, gasping at the stench. ‘With four it’ll be easier.’

  They heaved, the shroud held, they lowered and got better grips, then heaved and swung the body to the side of the grave. It landed with a moist thud.

  ‘Sweet Heaven,’ Ravenser said. Beneath Jaro was a bloodstained shroud, spread open, empty. But round the top edge curled fingers, torn and bloody. The outline of a man’s head and torso was plain beneath the sheet.

  Owen lifted the sheet from the side, avoiding the hands. It was a man, his face distorted in terror, mouth wide open – tongueless, eyes bulging, torso arched upward in the middle. The man had only one leg. ‘I think we have found Joanna’s nightmare. The man buried alive – Will Longford.’ He turned aside, took a deep breath.

  ‘Deus juva me,’ Edmund whispered, falling to his knees beside Owen.

  ‘Whoever did it used Jaro’s bulk to weigh Longford down,’ Owen said. ‘And he was not alone.’

  Ravenser made the sign of the cross and said a prayer.

  ‘Now what?’ Edmund asked.

  Owen stood up, dusted his knees. ‘Now I am most anxious to return to York and find out how Joanna knew of this.’

  Scaffolds and tents of stonemasons and other artisans cluttered the front and south side of Beverley Minster. Owen walked past the foundations of the front towers and into the nave. It was high and long, filled with summer light.