The Cross Legged Knight (Owen Archer Book 8)

by Candace Robb

  Magda told Phillippa to have vinegar and salt ready for afterwards, when they must rub Poins’s temples with the mixture until he woke, for it was important that he not remain long in the deep slumber the dwale would induce, or he might never wake. As Magda brought the mixture to a boil, she asked for a butchering knife or an axe, and a block of wood. Lucie did not want Phillippa handling blades. Asking her aunt to take her place dribbling the brandywine over Poins’s lips, Lucie fetched the butchering knife from the rack on the wall, placed it by Magda, then went out to the garden shed for a block. She wished Owen were here. During his last months as captain of archers, when he was recovering from the terrible wound that cost him the sight in his left eye and the shoulder wound that made it difficult to handle a bow, Owen had helped the old duke’s camp surgeons in Normandy. Surely he had assisted with many amputations. And he was strong. He would have been of more use to Magda. But God had not seen fit to arrange that.

  When Lucie returned to the kitchen, Magda was mixing the wine into the dwale. She glanced up at Lucie. ‘Canst thou hold him once he has drunk his fill?’ she asked. When Lucie hesitated, Magda said, ‘Thou shouldst not be ashamed to admit thou canst not bear his pain.’

  ‘It is not that. I have never assisted with such a surgery. But I believe God will give me the strength.’

  Magda grunted. ‘The strength comes from thee, not thy god. Stand at his head. Dame Phillippa, Magda will call thee when she needs thee.’

  Phillippa rose and retired to the hall without argument.

  ‘She was frightened at first,’ said Lucie, ‘thinking we were back at Freythorpe, at the fire.’ It was more than a year since a group of thieves had attacked the manor, set fire to the gatehouse, but Phillippa often wandered in time.

  ‘Magda has oft seen an alarm sharpen the wits of such as Phillippa.’ She poured some of the mixture into a cup, crouched down by Poins. ‘Thou art ready?’

  Lucie nodded.

  ‘Lift his head now.’

  Slipping one hand beneath the back of the man’s head and the other beneath his shoulders, Lucie lifted him. Magda brought the cup to Poins’s lips, helped him drink a goodly amount, and then again. As he began to swoon, she took the hide she had brought and covered him, slipped the block beneath the burned arm. Poins jerked at her touch, then moaned, a more heart-rending moan than what had gone before, and was still. Lucie remembered her pain after the fall. Her bruised hand had ached, her torn arm had burned and could not support her, but worst of all had been the deep, twisting pain in her womb and groin, for she had known it meant an irreparable loss. Was Poins aware he was about to lose his arm, she wondered.

  Magda had taken three lengths of rope from her pack. With one she was tying Poins’s legs together below the knees. Lucie marvelled at the strength in the small, elderly woman, the calm silence in which she prepared for a terrible surgery. She moved up to Poins’s waist with the second length of rope, lifted his lower back and drew the rope through, tied his good arm down against his side. His eyelids fluttered, he muttered something unintelligible, rocking his head from side to side, then lay still again. Donning a leather apron, Magda took the knife in both hands, nodded to Lucie. ‘Hold his head still.’

  ‘Will I be enough against his strength?’

  ‘Thou seest how little he moves. Magda has given him much of the drink.’

  Her heart pounding against her ribs, Lucie took a deep breath and placed her hands on either side of Poins’s head. Magda knelt down beside the pallet, felt about the upper part of the burned arm, prodding so much that Lucie expected Poins to jerk and cry out, but he merely moaned softly once as he moved the arm. Magda bent close, whispering calming words to him, and smoothing his brow. The muscles in his face relaxed beneath the Riverwoman’s touch. Gently, Magda arranged the arm over the block and tied off his upper arm with the last length of rope, tugging it tight. Lucie shivered and realized she was sweating with fear. Holy Mary, Mother of God, give me strength to help this suffering man.

  Magda moved back to the table, brought another cup of the dwale, set it beside Lucie. ‘If he cries out, get him to drink more.’

  And now she brought the knife. It was large, with a wide, heavy blade suitable for the preparation of meat. Lucie watched Magda’s face as she weighed the knife in one hand, moved it to the other, trying its heft, experimenting with how she might wield it. She saw no emotion, only deep concentration. Suddenly Magda met Lucie’s eyes. ‘Ready.’ She held the knife blade just over the upper arm for a moment, then lifted it with a deep intake of breath and brought it down with great force. Lucie gasped at the sound, and the shudder that went through Poins. He barely stirred. But sharp though the knife was, and powerful as Magda’s cut had seemed, the arm was not severed. She took aim again, struck once more.

  The sickening sound of the bone splintering caused Lucie to cry out, ‘Holy Mother!’

  Magda set the knife beside the arm, took a flask of wine from the table, passed it to Lucie. ‘Drink, just a little, so that thou mayest still hold him while Magda seals the wound with the hot metal.’

  Magda took up the knife and went to the fire.

  Lucie took a cloth, wrapped the severed arm in it, put it aside on the blood-spattered rushes. With another cloth she dabbed at the blood that had splashed on Poins, the bed, the cup and spoon. She set the bloody rag on the wrapped arm and took her place again as Magda returned with the red-hot blade. As the heat touched Poins’s stump he shuddered and cried out.

  ‘Go out now,’ Magda told her. ‘He will be still. Magda will fetch Dame Phillippa, then join thee in the garden.’

  ‘I should take the arm.’

  ‘Magda will see to it. Go without, thou hast need of air.’ She nodded at Lucie. ‘Wipe thy chin.’

  Lucie did so, her hand coming away with blood. She did feel faint. Crossing the rush floor seemed a long journey. The house felt as if it was tilting, righting itself, then tilting the other way. When she reached the door she fumbled with the latch, her hands trembling, her vision still uncertain. At last she felt it slide up. Pushing the door wide, she stumbled out into the night, doubled over and retched.

  Someone guided her to a bench under the stars. A moment later, Magda placed a cup in Lucie’s hands. She sipped, and though the first taste of the brandywine made her cough, she sipped yet again. As Lucie set the cup down, she noticed a man standing beside Magda, pale of hair and wearing the archbishop’s livery. She remembered the strong hands guiding her. ‘What are you doing here, Alfred?’

  ‘The captain sent me. Colin watches on Davygate.’

  ‘Why? What does Owen fear?’

  ‘That Poins might be a witness someone might wish to silence.’

  ‘For a fire?’ Magda said.

  ‘The Bishop of Winchester has many enemies.’ Alfred bowed to Lucie. ‘With your leave, Mistress Wilton.’

  ‘Keep your watch, Alfred. The captain must have his reasons.’

  Magda joined Lucie on the bench and helped herself to some of the brandywine. When she moved, her gown seemed to glimmer in the darkness and when she faced Lucie her eyes reflected what little light there was. ‘Thou art made of strong stock, Lucie Wilton. Thou hast some of thy warrior father in thee.’

  ‘I could not do what you have just done.’

  ‘Magda thought of the healing she was making possible, not the horror of the act. Thou couldst do the same, in time.’

  ‘I count myself fortunate to be an apothecary, not a healer.’

  ‘Thou art taking on the work of a healer with Poins.’

  ‘The most difficult part is done.’

  Magda shook her head. ‘He may die, he may heal slowly, his master may say a one-armed servant is of no use to him. There is much ahead and thou hast taken him in at a difficult time for thee.’

  ‘I am much recovered.’

  ‘Art thou?’

  ‘You know that I am.’

  ‘In body, mayhap, but thou art battling a darkness. Magda sees it. It dr
aws thee down.’

  Lucie glanced over at Alfred, who stood beneath the eaves at the corner of the house with head cocked, one leg before the other, as if ready to pounce.

  ‘He is not listening to women’s talk,’ Magda said. ‘He hath his ears pricked for trouble. Thy husband inspires fast loyalty in his men.’

  Lucie did not wish to be reminded of all she had to be thankful for. It made her troubled state harder to forgive in herself, which pulled her down yet further. This was her terrible sin – that she knew she had no cause to feel this way, that God had showered blessings on her. When she had sought guidance from Archdeacon Jehannes, he had offered comfort, saying that it was much like a crisis of faith, which most priests experienced at least once in their lives, and that prayer was the best cure. But prayer had not helped Lucie. ‘I have not spoken of this with Owen.’

  ‘Thou thinkst he cannot see?’

  ‘Is it so plain?’

  ‘To thy husband it must be. Why hast thou not spoken to him of this?’

  ‘He watches me as it is, has Jasper staying close by me. If he knew the thoughts I have he would not leave my side. I thought work would help. Archdeacon Jehannes suggested it. And prayer.’

  Magda sniffed. ‘A priest? What does a priest know of a mother’s mourning?’

  ‘Such despair is sinful. I was afraid for my soul.’

  Magda handed Lucie the cup. ‘If thou didst not mourn, they would call thee unnatural.’

  ‘What if I cannot bear another child?’

  Magda grunted in understanding. ‘Eventually thou shalt cease to bear, aye, and whether it be after two or twenty babes, thou shalt mourn the passing of that part of thy life. But that time has not yet come for thee.’ She bent to reach a twig of rosemary, broke off a piece, pressed it between her hands, slowly rubbed. ‘Thou shouldst do likewise. Thy patient should not smell his blood on thee.’

  Lucie took another sprig from the bush of rosemary.

  ‘Hast thou brought Poins into thy house as a penance for thy despair?’

  Lucie disliked the question, feeling naked to Magda’s probing mind. ‘I thought it was charity, but I do not know myself these days.’ Lucie thought of the man’s suffering and how much worse it would be when he woke to discover the loss of the arm. ‘I should go in to him.’

  ‘Phillippa is there.’

  ‘What of the arm?’

  ‘It is in the shed out here. Someone should bury it on the morrow, before a pig or a dog sniffs it out.’

  Lucie thought of her own partly formed child, baptized by Cisotta and buried so recently. ‘The arm was part of him.’

  ‘Aye, that it was. As thy child was part of thee.’

  ‘Are all my thoughts so plain to you?’

  ‘In this time, mayhap. Magda lost children as well.’

  ‘I mourned Martin when he died of the pestilence, but not like this, not with such hopelessness, as if now all I love are marked for death.’ Martin had been her first-born, her child with her first husband, Nicholas Wilton.

  ‘Each loss is as if the first, and yet ever different.’

  ‘Tell me about your sorrows.’

  Magda tossed the rosemary into the darkness. ‘Those are tales for another day. Let us see whether Phillippa has drawn Poins out of his swoon.’

  While Owen waited to be shown into Thoresby’s parlour, Wykeham’s two clerks descended upon him.

  ‘Why were no guards posted at the townhouse when we know the bishop has enemies?’ Alain demanded, though his attack was diminished by a fit of coughing. The clerk was suffering the result of being near the fire – or in it. And his dark robe was stained with wet ash near the hem, one sleeve hanging damply.

  ‘That omission was at your master’s request,’ said Owen.

  ‘You remember,’ said Guy, who showed no sign of having been near the fire. ‘The bishop did not wish his new tenants to be inconvenienced or unnecessarily concerned.’

  ‘You have breathed too much smoke this evening,’ Owen said to Alain. ‘Word came quickly to the palace, did it?’

  ‘I was about in the city when the alarm was rung.’

  Owen noticed the singular. ‘Where in the city?’

  ‘You have no right to question me.’

  ‘His Grace will wish to know.’

  ‘He is right, Alain,’ Guy told his fellow.

  Alain cleared his throat. ‘I dined at the York Tavern.’

  ‘And what of you?’ Owen asked Guy. ‘Where were you?’

  Guy dropped his gaze. ‘I have spent the evening in prayer,’ he said in a quiet voice.

  Owen leaned back, looked at the two men, considering them. Both seemed devoted to the bishop and protective of him. But at the moment Alain seemed concerned about his own status and Guy anxious to ensure peace. Before Owen could speak again one of Thoresby’s servants announced that His Grace and the bishop were ready to see him.

  Owen bowed to the clerks. ‘I shall want to talk with you later.’

  In the parlour, Wykeham stood clutching the back of a chair. He was not dressed in his clerical robes, but in an embroidered silk houppelande. Thoresby sat near the fire in a deep-blue velvet gown. Their ruddy faces suggested they had drunk and dined well this evening.

  It irritated Owen. ‘You sent for me, Your Grace?’

  ‘I did, Archer.’

  ‘You must find the arsonist, Captain,’ Wykeham said in a tight voice. ‘We must know the enemy.’

  ‘My Lord, a fire such as this –’ Owen stopped as Thoresby shook his head in warning.

  ‘The bishop is understandably concerned,’ Thoresby said, emphasizing the last two words. ‘What do you think? Was the fire set?’

  ‘It seems likely.’ Owen wondered what Thoresby knew.

  Wykeham pressed his hands together as if in prayer and bowed his head, but as Owen described what he had discovered, drawing the belt from his scrip, and the piece of girdle, the bishop leaned forward, muttering something to himself.

  ‘God have mercy,’ Thoresby murmured.

  Owen noticed the stench of death on the pieces of leather. He wondered whether Wykeham and Thoresby smelled it, too.

  ‘Who has seen these?’ Wykeham asked, not touching them.

  ‘The girdle was handed to me by one of the men who carried the woman from the fire. The other, only me.’

  ‘Then it is not widely known she was murdered?’ said Thoresby.

  ‘I may be the only one who knows, besides the murderer. And possibly the servant Poins, if he is not the guilty one.’

  ‘Where is this servant?’

  ‘At my house.’

  Thoresby nodded. ‘If he talks, it will be to a member of your household. You can trust your servants?’

  ‘Aye, Your Grace.’ Owen was more uneasy than ever about taking Poins in.

  ‘Where have the Fitzbaldrics gone?’ Wykeham asked, as if only now remembering that his townhouse had been occupied.

  ‘To the home of a goldsmith on Stonegate, Robert Dale and his wife Julia.’

  ‘Such charity might not be long extended once the gossips spread fear in the city,’ Thoresby said.

  ‘It was aimed at me, it is plain,’ Wykeham said with a catch in his throat.

  Thoresby’s expression was cold as he glanced at the bishop. ‘You must work quickly, Archer,’ he said. ‘The good bishop’s name must not be dragged through the mire.’

  It is too late to prevent that, Owen thought as he departed. And the bishop’s reputation should suffer if that was the extent of his concerns. What of the dead? What of the family now homeless?

  Owen fought to put the two clerics out of his mind as he walked through the now quiet city to his home. In the dim kitchen he found Magda nodding in a chair beside Poins. Seeing the stump where the injured arm had been, Owen felt sick at the thought of Lucie assisting in the amputation. He would have spared her if he could. He took a flagon and two cups up to their chamber.

  She had fallen asleep waiting for him, lying atop the cover
s, still in her clothes though she had removed her cap and her long hair fanned out on the pillows. A lamp burned brightly beside the bed. As Owen began to undress, Lucie turned, asked sleepily, ‘Is the fire out?’

  ‘Aye.’ He bent to her, kissed her cheek. ‘I saw your night’s work below. You held him down?’

  Lucie sat up, blinking. ‘It took little effort. Magda’s dwale mixture is potent.’

  What a beautiful woman, this wife of his, Owen thought, despite a softening to her jaw, silver strands in her warm brown hair. Carrying a child took a toll on a woman and with each child a little more, it seemed. It was a brave thing, to bear a child, and to bear the loss. He tried to remember whether those signs of ageing had appeared before her fall.

  ‘Help me with my sleeves?’

  He sat down on the bed, untied her sleeves from the bodice of her gown, kissed her neck.

  She reached back and held his head there a moment. ‘Your hair smells of smoke.’

  Thank God that was all she smelled. Though he had stripped down to his leggings Owen still smelled death on himself.

  Lucie stood to step out of her gown. He noticed how she held on to the corner of the bed to steady herself. She had not done that before the accident. ‘Did His Grace send for you?’ she asked.

  ‘He did.’

  She looked so weary and so thin – he had not realized how much weight she had lost this past month. Or was it the loss of the child, the bloom of carrying the baby shattered? He would save the worst news for the morrow. ‘I brought wine.’

  She had crawled beneath the covers. ‘Why did you post a guard on our house?’

  ‘You saw them?’

  ‘Magda and I saw Alfred in the garden. He said that Colin watched, too, out in Davygate. Why?’

  ‘I thought it best to protect Poins, in case he is a witness. Has he said anything?’

  ‘Nothing. Was the bishop of help?’

  ‘He fears that the fire was set because the house belongs to him. He glances over his shoulder at the slightest sound.’

  ‘Do you think he’s right?’