by Candace Robb
It was Cisotta’s new girdle, but only part of it, the edges charred, crumbling as Lucie touched them. She sank to her knees, running her fingertips over the glass beads.
Cisotta had been wearing it yesterday. Lucie could see it clearly, on the young midwife’s blue dress.
Lucie had come through the beaded curtain from the back workshop to find Jasper ducking his head and laughing in the self-conscious manner he had of late when a pretty woman was around. But there seemed to be no one in the shop. ‘Jasper?’
‘Lucie?’ Cisotta’s voice had risen from somewhere in front of the counter.
Jasper had blushed. ‘She is fetching a jar for this.’ He had pennyroyal measured out on a piece of parchment. ‘Her basket is on the floor.’
A brightly veiled head rose then, blue eyes, blonde hair in braided rolls on either side of a lovely face. Cisotta’s gown matched her eyes and the beaded girdle called attention to her narrow waist, how the gown was cut to cling at her hips. The effect had not been lost on Jasper. Lucie had mixed feelings about her presence. Though thankful for the care Cisotta had given her, seeing her touched wounds still raw. She had felt ungrateful – after all, the midwife had baptized her stillborn child.
Cisotta stood with jars in hand, studying Lucie. ‘You still lack some spark. Is the Riverwoman satisfied with your improvement?’
‘She does not say.’
‘Then she is not. Jasper might help you more. And Dame Phillippa.’ She set the jars on the counter.
‘You have been a stranger,’ Lucie had said. ‘I thought you might have deserted us for another apothecary.’
Cisotta’s face had dimpled in a brief smile. ‘I should be a fool to do so, my friend.’ She glanced behind, checked that they were indeed alone. ‘I have been busy trying to feed my family, spreading the word among women about the births I have attended, particularly among merchant’s wives – they pay the best.’
Lucie had heard why Cisotta needed work. The cordwainers were angry with her husband, Eudo, for making shoes of tawyed leather for a neighbour. He had been reprimanded by his guild and had lost the business of most of the guilds in the city, a loss he could not afford, for he offended so many who came into the shop with his silence, rarely sparing a moment for a civil word, that many left without buying. Cisotta complained of it often.
It was not Magda’s custom to gossip, but she distrusted Cisotta, saying she did not have the soul of a healer. Though she had been relieved to see Cisotta at Lucie’s bedside when she returned from the countryside and heard of the fall, the miscarriage, she had lost no time in sending the younger woman on her way. ‘She depends too much on charms,’ Magda had said.
But Cisotta had been good to Lucie, so she had tried to comfort her. ‘Eudo is skilled with hides. The glovers will return to him when the tawyed leather they buy elsewhere stretches and tears as they work it.’
‘You are kind to say so.’ Cisotta crouched to place the filled jars in her basket.
‘I could carry that for you,’ Jasper had said.
‘Stay here to help your mistress. My daughter is sitting without, we shall share the handle.’
Lucie had wondered about that. Eight-year-old Anna was a wraithlike child who had been racked by illnesses from birth.
‘Eudo is so harsh with her,’ Cisotta had said as she lifted the basket, leaning back a little to cope with the weight. ‘He calls her lazy, expects her to fetch and carry. He needs another apprentice, but he has no one to back him in the guild. I look forward to the day when my boys are big enough to help him. God forgive me for complaining, he is as good a husband as most, all in all. God go with you, Lucie, Jasper.’ She had headed for the door, her beaded leather girdle jingling as she walked unevenly with the load.
Lucie pressed the scrap of girdle to her heart. Owen’s scrip dropped to the floor, spilling the rest of the contents.
The bed creaked. ‘Lucie?’
‘You said you did not know her.’
Owen sat up. ‘Who?’
‘The beaded girdle. It was in the fire. Was it on the woman they took from the undercroft?’
‘One of the men found it on the ground. He thought it had fallen from her when they carried her from the fire. Do you recognize it?’
‘You do not?’
‘No. Tell me.’
‘You saw this every day after my accident.’
Owen was shaking his head. He had the look on his face she had come to know all too well of late. He would speak softly to her now, trying not to anger her, attempting to reason with her.
‘It is Cisotta’s girdle,’ she said, speaking before he had the chance, ‘the one Eudo made for her.’
‘Cisotta?’
She watched him take it in, realize what it meant to her. He threw aside the bedding and hurried to her, kneeling as she knelt. He reached to pull her into his arms.
She resisted. She did not want comfort. ‘Did you see her?’
‘Lucie, I am so sorry. But I did not know. I could not –’ he stopped himself.
He need not have. She heard the rest of it – it echoed in the room as loudly as if he had shouted it. ‘She is that badly burned?’
‘Aye,’ he whispered, looking down at his hands. ‘But it is worse than that.’
‘Did you not recognize the bright blue of her dress?’
‘What was not burned was smeared with mud and ashes. I swear I have never seen the beaded girdle.’
Lucie looked down at the belt that had fallen from the scrip. It, too, had been in the fire, but it was not familiar. She reached down.
‘Do not touch that.’ Owen did not use the gentle voice meant to soothe her. He sounded edgy and hoarse from the fire and lack of sleep.
‘What did you mean, worse than that?’ She joined him on the bed, shook her head at the wine he proffered. ‘What did you keep from me last night? What happened to Cisotta?’
‘I have told only Thoresby, Wykeham, and Magda. You must speak of this to no one else, not Jasper, not Phillippa –’
‘You have never hesitated to tell me anything before.’
He said nothing.
‘I swear I shall tell no one.’
‘She was murdered, Lucie. The belt on the floor – it had been tightened round her neck, the buckle pressed into her throat.’
Lucie touched her own neck as she looked down at the belt that had fallen from the scrip. She took the wine now, let it course down her throat. It burned. She shivered. ‘Then she did not die in the fire.’
‘I do not think she could have yet been breathing.’
She did not know which would be the more terrifying way to die, to have such a thing cut off the air, to feel the belt tightening, or to choke on smoke, feel the searing pain of the heat on the skin. The wine soured in her stomach. Holding her hand to her mouth, she rushed to the window, pushed open the shutters and leaned out, breathing in the damp, chilly air.
Owen followed, put his arms round her, drawing her from the window.
Meddling man, could he not see she needed air? She turned in his arms. ‘That man in our kitchen, the man I nursed last night – do you think he did that to Cisotta?’
‘I do not know.’
‘You describe her burns as much worse than his.’
‘He lay by the door.’
‘Who, then?’
‘That is what we must discover. Come back to bed. It is cold here by the window.’
He was shivering, standing there naked, his hair tousled. There was a time when they would not have stood there long, but would have tumbled back into bed for lovemaking.
‘Go back to bed, then.’
‘It is early yet. You fall asleep so quickly at night, but every morning you are up long before me. What wakes you? Are you still in pain?’
‘No.’ For a little while she had forgotten her petty anguish. What was her sorrow compared with what Eudo would feel, and his young family. He was left with four children, Anna, the eldest, only eight years old, and th
ree boys, one not long from his mother’s breast.
Owen sat down on the chest and reached for her hand.
‘Do you mean to keep this a secret?’ she asked. ‘How can you? What of Eudo? You cannot keep it from him.’
‘Even from him, for now.’
‘But he is her husband.’
‘No, Lucie.’
‘Do you suspect him?’
‘Is it impossible? You have told me there was much discord in that house.’
‘Eudo loved her too much to harm her.’ Lucie knelt to pick up the girdle. ‘Who will tell him of her death?’
‘I shall send a priest.’
‘I could go –’
‘No!’
‘I shall attend the funeral.’
‘That is a different matter.’
They both looked up as someone banged on the door down below.
Six
INTRUSIONS
Lucie dropped Cisotta’s ruined girdle on the bed and hurried out of the room. Owen grabbed his clothes, fumbled through dressing and followed her downstairs. The trestle table was set up in the hall and Kate was feeding the children there rather than in the kitchen. Gwenllian sat, straight-backed and solemn, watching the door that led out to the kitchen as she chewed a piece of bread. Hugh sat in Kate’s lap.
‘I thought to keep them out of the way,’ the maid said.
‘You will have your kitchen back soon, Kate. It was a mistake to bring Poins here.’ Owen kissed both of the children.
Gwenllian wrapped her arms round his neck and whispered, ‘Aunt Phillippa says you walked into the burning house and saved a woman. Is it true, Papa?’
‘Aye, my little love. But the fire was down below. I was in no danger.’ It was one of Phillippa’s most annoying intrusions into their lives, to tell the children about incidents that Owen and Lucie chose to keep from them. ‘Where is your mother?’
‘She took that man to the kitchen.’
He looked up at Kate.
‘Master Fitzbaldric, Captain.’
Here was another reason to find some other place for Poins – the house would have no peace while he was here.
‘You will not go back into his house?’ Gwenllian asked, touching Owen’s cheek with the back of her hand, so gently, just as her mother would do.
‘Not until carpenters shore it up. Now you must not frighten Hugh with tales of fires.’
Gwenllian nodded and let him go.
The warmth of the kitchen intensified the odours of blood, sweat and Magda’s remedies. Owen was grateful Kate had the sense to keep the children out of the room. Lucie stood beside Magda, holding the bowl of foul-smelling lotion Magda had made during the night. Poins still lay naked on his stomach, his eyelids trembling as Magda anointed his blisters, smoothing in the ointment with her knobby fingers.
Fitzbaldric held back from the trio, eyeing them uneasily. ‘Good-day to you, Captain,’ he said in a quiet voice, as if unwilling to call attention to himself. He looked freshly scrubbed, reminding Owen how filthy he yet felt. Fitzbaldric wore borrowed clothing, a tunic that fitted him ill, short in the sleeves and exposing too much of a pair of faded leggings. ‘I must speak with you, Captain.’
‘Then let us retire to the hall.’ Owen had just caught sight of what was in the covered dish that had smelled of rotten meat – Magda was about to apply maggots to the worst of the burns, to clean away the dead flesh.
Kate scooped up the children and took them upstairs as Owen invited Fitzbaldric to sit at the table in the hall.
The merchant slumped down into a chair, propped his elbows on the table and covered his face with his hands. Owen stood uncertainly, wondering whether he should return to the kitchen, where Magda and Lucie were talking in loud, angry voices. He had never heard them argue before.
Fitzbaldric lifted his head. ‘Forgive me, I am not accustomed to a sickroom. His arm – was it necessary to remove it?’
‘If he is to live.’ The voices quieted. Deciding it was best to leave Magda and Lucie alone, Owen sat down opposite Fitzbaldric.
‘I cannot imagine his agony.’ The merchant was growing pale.
‘Do you need something to drink?’
Fitzbaldric shook his head. ‘Who is she – that woman in there working on Poins?’
‘Magda is the best healer in all York, perhaps in all the shire.’
‘In truth?’ Relief returned some of the colour to the merchant’s face, but in a moment he was frowning, pressing a cloth to his forehead. ‘We have lost all the household goods, I fear, and much of my merchandise. I do not know how I shall afford the best healer in the city.’
Magda often worked for nothing – but the Fitzbaldrics were not so needy. ‘You might speak with the bishop. He may feel duty bound to assist you. If you like, when I go to the palace today I could mention your situation.’ While Fitzbaldric considered the offer, Owen added, ‘I must tell you, I mean to find another place for Poins. It is too much for my household, having him here.’
Fitzbaldric kneaded the back of his neck, then dropped his hand to the table as if it were too heavy to hold up. ‘Adeline and I need to move as well.’
‘Your welcome is already stale at Robert Dale’s house?’
‘That is what I came to tell you. They say that such disruption and threat to the household is intolerable – an intruder in the night, a desperate husband pounding on the door at dawn. Dear God, why is this happening to us?’ Fitzbaldric dropped his head on to his hands once more.
Owen remembered Alfred’s fears. ‘Did someone break into Robert Dale’s house?’
Fitzbaldric straightened. ‘We were not long in bed when the cook began to shout – someone had slipped into the kitchen, then ran when he found the cooks of both our households sleeping in there, as well as a kitchen maid. The Dales’ cook cried out. My cook took up the chase, but he was too slow, awakened out of a sound sleep. It is a house with many locks, Captain, being a goldsmith’s, the kitchen the only vulnerable chamber. But it is understandable that the Dales are afraid for their livelihood. Such valuable materials.’
‘They are certain the person broke in because of your presence?’
‘It happened last night, the first night we spent under their roof – what else could they think? I must speak with my guild master.’
‘He will surely be able to help, or Bishop Wykeham. But you said this morning someone came to the Dales’ house?’
‘A tawyer, pounding on the door, demanding to know whether his wife had been at the house – the bishop’s house – last night. He was drunk, quite red in the face and impossible to calm. She had not come home.’
‘Eudo the tawyer?’
‘The very man.’ Fitzbaldric looked surprised. ‘How did you guess?’
‘Where is he now?’
‘I escorted him to the shed where the woman lies. He bent over her ruined body, searching …’ Fitzbaldric put a hand to his stomach. ‘It sobered him and he said that he wished to be alone with her.’
‘So he was able to recognize her.’
‘He believed it to be her, though she is so disfigured.’ Fitzbaldric crossed himself. ‘I honoured the man’s wish for solitude, though I told the people in whose shed his wife lies of his presence. They said they would send for Father Linus of St Michael-le-Belfrey, the priest who gave the woman the last rites.’
Owen was glad of that. He had worried that Eudo might do himself or others harm – he was a passionate, sometimes violent man, if Cisotta’s stories were true.
‘When I returned, Julia Dale was telling Adeline about the man’s wife. She was a weaver of charms, Julia said.’
‘She was a midwife.’ Owen was disappointed that the man looked baffled.
‘Adeline and I knew her not, nor her husband. But you have not told me how you guessed who he was.’
‘I brought a piece of clothing from the fire. My wife knew it.’ Owen nodded towards Lucie as she came through the door from the kitchen.
‘Mistress Wilto
n.’ Fitzbaldric bobbed his head.
Lucie smiled warmly at him. Owen wished he knew what Magda had said to her.
‘Poins is covered now, if you wish to see him,’ Lucie said.
Fitzbaldric looked uncertain.
‘I shall tell the bishop of your plight,’ said Owen.
‘Do not trouble yourself. I shall speak with him.’ Fitzbaldric bowed to Lucie, to Owen and, with the posture of a man facing an onerous task, headed for the kitchen, letting the door bang shut behind him.
The smile faded from Lucie’s face. So it had been a mere courtesy.
Owen took her arm. He wanted to make sure of her state of mind before he went on to his business of the day and he wanted to reassure her that Poins would be out of their house as soon as another place had been found for him.
Lucie tried to pull her arm away. ‘You need sleep,’ she said.
‘And what of you? I can feel how you are trembling.’
‘It is not just Cisotta, but the fire. I imagine it happening to us. What if we could not get the children out in time? What if no one thought to go up to the solar for them? It almost happened to the Fitzbaldrics’ maidservant.’
‘But it did not happen to us.’
‘No.’ Lucie did not look comforted. ‘Yours is a rough touch for one who claims to be concerned for my welfare. What is this about?’
‘What did you tell Fitzbaldric before I arrived?’