The Cross Legged Knight (Owen Archer Book 8)

by Candace Robb

  Torment him with questions in his grieving? Thoresby began to decline, thinking it one of his secretary’s crueller ideas, but perhaps he should consider the matter. He knew that the city was abuzz with the rumour that the midwife had been murdered. It was not uncommon for a man to kill his wife, but to do so in Wykeham’s house and then call attention to himself with an attack in the palace kitchen seemed too ridiculous an idea to entertain. Yet the man had broken the peace in Thoresby’s palace, wanting vengeance, no doubt. He must be reprimanded, but also assured that Archer would find the guilty man and that Thoresby would punish him sufficiently.

  ‘Yes, bring him to my hall.’

  ‘What of the meal, Your Grace? The servants are setting up a table for your guests in the great hall. But with the state of the kitchen …’ Michaelo lifted his hands and shook his head.

  ‘Have a servant inform the Fitzbaldrics that Maeve will send for them when the meal is ready.’

  Owen and Jasper slipped from the kitchen by the garden door. Thunder rumbled in the distance and a contrary breeze sent swarms of leaves swirling round them. The swift change in the weather chilled the sweat on Owen’s neck, yet the air felt heavy. They paused at the crossing of two paths, one leading round the palace and off to the minster and the city, one to the rear entrance to Thoresby’s hall.

  ‘Are you sure your mistress is not injured?’ Owen asked.

  ‘I cannot say for certain,’ said Jasper, ‘but her voice sounded strong.’

  ‘God be thanked.’ Owen trusted the lad’s powers of observation. ‘I am grateful to you for coming to warn me.’

  Jasper shrugged. ‘I was too slow.’ He poked at a fallen bird’s nest with his toe. ‘Do you think anyone would miss this?’

  The prisoner and his guards would soon be in the hall.

  ‘Take it and hurry home,’ said Owen.

  Jasper crouched and scooped it up. ‘What will happen to Eudo?’ he asked as he straightened, his hands gently cupping the nest. ‘Is it a bad sign, being summoned by His Grace?’

  ‘In truth, I do not know. Now go. Your mistress will worry until she sees you.’

  Jasper nodded to Owen and set off down the path for home, his long legs covering a good distance in no time. Owen turned and entered the hall.

  Thoresby and Wykeham waited in seats arranged near the hearth. The darkening day brought a gloom to the hall even with the window shutters flung wide.

  ‘Light some lamps and close the shutters,’ Thoresby ordered the servant who was trying to blend into the corner shadows. ‘Have I lost all sense of time? Where is the sun?’

  ‘A storm is gathering,’ Owen said.

  Wykeham sat a little back from Thoresby. In the sputtering lamplight Owen saw that the bishop’s face was set in a frown befitting a judge. ‘Was anyone injured?’ he asked.

  ‘No, My Lord,’ said Owen. ‘At least I hope that Eudo is unharmed.’

  ‘Why such concern?’

  ‘He has suffered enough, My Lord, and will continue to do so. It is the worst loss in a family, that of the mother.’

  ‘Are you condoning his behaviour?’

  ‘Not a whit. But if you punish him, you punish his children as well. My Lord,’ Owen added, not wishing to be responsible for offending the two powerful men who were about to rule on Eudo’s deed.

  ‘Here they are, Your Grace,’ Michaelo said quietly.

  He stood aside to allow Wykeham’s guards to enter. They came forward with Eudo thrust before them. He hung his head and hunched his shoulders as if hoping to protect himself from curious eyes. But it was an open room with no place to hide.

  ‘Lift your head, Master Tawyer,’ Thoresby said. Unlike Wykeham, the archbishop seemed in a gentle mood. Perhaps it was just the lamplight softening the sharp lines of his bony face.

  Eudo hesitated, then lifted his head, blinking in the lamplight. His coarse, jowl-heavy face was made pathetic by the anguish in its lines. ‘Your Grace.’ He tried to bow, but the guards held his upper arms and his hands were bound behind him, so he could do little more than rock slightly forward.

  ‘Unhand him,’ Thoresby said. To Eudo, who made as if to attempt a bow once more, he added, ‘No need. You are in mourning and sick at heart, I know.’

  Wykeham leaned forward and whispered in Thoresby’s ear.

  Thoresby nodded. ‘Was it your purpose to do violence in my kitchen?’ he asked Eudo. ‘Did you think to take the law into your own hands?’

  ‘He murdered my wife, Your Grace, orphaned my children.’

  ‘Hm.’ Thoresby seemed to be elsewhere for a moment. Then he said, ‘Let me remind me that your children are not orphaned while you yet breathe. And what makes you cry murder? Who has said your wife was slain by a hand other than God’s?’

  The very question Owen wanted to ask.

  ‘The folk, Your Grace, I heard them in the streets. Why did she not run, they ask, and the answer is plain, I did not see it at first, but she must have been struck down before ever the fire began.’

  ‘Do you so think of anyone who dies in a fire?’ Wykeham asked.

  Eudo glanced at Wykeham, over at Owen, back to Thoresby. ‘You are trying to confuse me.’

  ‘We are trying to reason with you,’ Thoresby said, ‘although reason may be wasted on a man who would launch such an attack on the strength of idle gossip. Are you often befooled in such wise, Master Tawyer?’

  ‘I – then is it not so, Your Grace?’

  Owen did not like this. It was one thing to omit the detail of the strangulation, quite another to toy with Eudo’s wits.

  He stepped forward. ‘What would you like us to do with this man, Your Grace?’ He expected to be sent out of the hall, which would suit him, for he did not know how much longer he could hold his tongue.

  But Thoresby sat back so that he might see Owen’s face, held his gaze a moment, then inclined his head. ‘Indeed.’ He turned back to Eudo. ‘Let me assure you that we are examining all that we can learn of the events leading up to the fire, Master Tawyer, and if we find that it was other than an accident we will hunt down the culprit and judge him with the stern hand of the law.’

  ‘What do you care about my Cisotta?’ Eudo mumbled as his tears began anew.

  ‘We care, Master Tawyer,’ Thoresby said in a gentle voice. ‘Do not doubt that.’ He sat back, rubbed his eyes.

  Eudo hung his head.

  ‘Untie him, men,’ Wykeham said quietly.

  His retainers knelt to the purpose. Once his hands were free, Eudo made good use of both sleeves to mop his face.

  ‘Now,’ Thoresby suddenly said, ‘we have the matter of what to do with you.’ He waited until Eudo raised his head before he continued, ‘I propose that two of my men escort you home and take up a watch at your house, a watch that will be kept until such time as I judge your reason returned. In that time you shall see to your family, your work and your wife’s burial, but no more. My men will escort you on the morrow to St Sampson’s for the services. What do you say, My Lord Bishop?’ He twisted round to face Wykeham.

  The scowl on Wykeham’s face spoke volumes. He was disappointed. ‘He must be given some penance, Your Grace.’

  ‘Penance. Yes. I leave that to you.’ Thoresby turned back to Eudo, who stood most humbly now, his eyes glistening, his great jaw trembling. ‘Do you deserve such trust?’

  ‘God help me, I will do so, Your Grace, My Lord Bishop.’ He bowed to each in turn.

  That vow would stick in Eudo’s throat in a short while, when Owen began to ask more questions about Cisotta’s activities in the past few days, but for now it would get the tawyer home to his frightened children. Owen prayed Eudo did not take his frustration out on them. He bowed to Wykeham and Thoresby, then slipped away.

  Two of his men stood waiting near the doorway to the garden, too damp from the rain to move farther into the hall. Owen had sent the pair to search the stone pile at the minster, thinking that four eyes might find more than his one.

  ‘All we f
ound were these bits of rubbish,’ said one, handing Owen a sack. ‘Nothing of use. We’ll resume our search on the morrow, if it please you, Captain. We cannot do more in the storm.’

  ‘Aye. I’ll walk with you to the barracks.’ Settling his cap, Owen pulled his hood up over it and bent to the tempest. While he walked he invited his anger at the guards who had abandoned Lucie to heat to a boil.

  In the retainers’ hall the fire circle lured him, as it had beckoned the pair he was after. It was plain from the looks on their faces when they recognized the newcomer that they had heard of the incident at Owen’s house. Making straight for them, Owen flung a stool aside that blocked his path to them and kicked over a flagon one had resting by his foot, letting the ale soak the young man’s leggings.

  ‘Who gave you permission to desert your posts, leaving my family unprotected?’

  They interrupted each other trying to explain. Owen dragged one of them up by the collar and reached out to stop the other, who had begun to move sideways on the bench. ‘You will take the first watch at the tawyer’s house.’ In the storm, it would be good for them. ‘And you will not move from your posts until your replacements arrive for the night watch, is that clear?’ He let go of them. ‘You know the house in Patrick Pool? Good. I am going above to talk to Alfred. I do not want to see you here when I return.’

  Being the top-ranking retainer living in the barracks, Alfred enjoyed the privacy of a solar room, though it was only partitioned off by flimsy wooden screens that did not keep out noise. As Owen had expected after Alfred’s watch through the night and into the morning, he was in bed, though sitting up, grinning at the treatment of the renegades. Up here right beneath the roof, the rain thundered.

  ‘They would have been looking forward to a good meal and dry beds.’ Alfred rubbed his face, bringing the blood back to the sallow surface, then raked a hand through his fair, thinning hair.

  ‘They will have their comforts in good time, but I want them miserable first. I need you to organize the watch list. We now have men here at the palace and at Eudo’s house.’

  ‘Aye, Captain. Did Eudo harm anyone in your household?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you want another guard on your house?’

  ‘The men will get little rest if we spread them further. Word will soon be out that Poins is no longer at my house. I shall trust to God and the gossips.’

  Alfred looked uncertain.

  ‘Eudo was looking for Poins and he found him.’ It was now late afternoon and Owen’s head grew heavy as he sat on the edge of Alfred’s bed. ‘I have more folk to see before I rest this day.’

  Alfred’s gaze had strayed to the pouch in Owen’s hands. ‘What is that?’

  ‘Gleanings from the mound of tiles. They say they found nothing of worth, but I’ll be the judge of that.’

  ‘God go with you,’ said Alfred.

  An odd thing for him to say. Owen wondered whether his lack of sleep was showing.

  He departed from the barracks, walking out into the storm, which he was disappointed to see was passing, the rain gentler now. The guards’ punishment would not be as severe as he had wished. He must devise some further unpleasantness for the lazy pair. The earth smelled rich and loamy. Raising his eye to the great minster, he remembered scrambling on the pile of rubble. It seemed so long ago, and so unimportant now. But it was with that incident that Wykeham’s fear had taken root. Perhaps he should not ignore it.

  He paused in the palace kitchen to enquire how Poins had weathered the intrusion. The screen had been righted and the injured man was asleep.

  ‘He understood that Eudo might have killed him,’ said Magda. ‘He stared after the men for a long while and would drink nothing for his pain. But in the end, he cried out for relief.’

  ‘He must fight hard to survive,’ Owen said. ‘Does he have the will?’

  ‘Thou knowest better than to pose Magda such a question. Only time will tell thee what Poins intends.’

  ‘You will spend the night here?’

  ‘Aye. A few nights, perhaps. Then Magda will teach the Fitzbaldrics’ cook to watch over him.’

  Owen had settled on a bench and opened the pouch. Magda joined him. A button, a battered shoe, a crushed tin cup, a penknife.

  ‘Hast thou a use for these?’ Magda was amused.

  Not so Owen. He lifted the penknife towards a lamp, studied the crest carved on the sheath. ‘For this, aye.’ He rose abruptly. ‘Perhaps I do not need Poins’s witness, now I have this.’

  He passed out into the strange half-light of the sun setting beneath the clouds, heading for the masons’ lodge on the south side of the minster.

  Ten

  THE STONEMASONS’

  TALE

  The storm had driven people into their homes, giving Lucie quiet time in the shop. While she poured the cough syrup into pots she kept hearing the tune of a Breton ballad in her mind’s ear. It was the first song Owen had ever sung for her, of love and betrayal. She remembered only some of the words, picked up over time, though the language was unknown to her. It was the tune that haunted her now, filling her with sadness. She could not remember when Owen had last picked up the lute that had been her mother’s. That, too, saddened her. Though the children often clamoured for a song, they grew impatient while Owen plucked and listened, adjusted the tension of the strings and plucked, proof of how seldom the instrument was played.

  Her fingers must have moved with the memory and the pot she was filling began to slip in her hand. She jerked to catch it, regretting the sharp movement as her shoulder twinged, her groin ached.

  She thought about the last time Owen had played the lute. She had been lying abed a few days after her fall. He had played to cheer her, but succeeded only in making her weep. Cisotta’s effort to explain to Owen how the memory of joy might sadden Lucie had irritated him, as he took it to imply that he did not know his own wife. He had kissed Lucie and withdrawn.

  Setting the pots aside, she sought the open door to St Helen’s Square and breathed in the damp, rain-fresh air. The storm had passed but for a fine mist. In St Helen’s churchyard the stones glistened in the brightening sky. Lucie spied Jasper at the end of Stonegate talking to a neighbour. Seeing her, he waved and came running through the churchyard, his clothes clinging to him damply, his face aglow. He began at once to tell how Eudo had been captured in the palace kitchen.

  Hearing how close the tawyer had come to attacking Poins, Lucie crossed herself and said a prayer of thanks that he had been stopped. Had he succeeded, Thoresby would not have shown mercy in dealing with him. But there was yet hope.

  Standing on the rush-strewn floor, dripping and steaming, Jasper became aware of his surroundings, noticed Lucie’s progress on the electuary – and also her tear-streaked face. His expression changed to one of concern – or perhaps embarrassment, for he did not ask Lucie what had made her cry, but instead offered to take over the sealing of the pots.

  ‘Yes, do,’ Lucie said, wishing he would ask about her tears, but understanding that a fourteen-year-old boy did not discuss such things. ‘While you are busy with that, I shall explain the working of dwale to you, as I promised, how it is that the briony purges the patient of the dangerous hemlock and henbane, leaving the quiet sleep of poppy.’ It was a safe topic for both of them.

  *

  The stonemasons’ tale gave Owen no joy. As he left the lodge and headed back into the city he had no appetite for what he must do. But he was determined that when he stepped across his own threshold for the night he would know whether or not the falling tile had been an accident.

  Walter, the assistant to the master mason, had come forth from the lodge to enquire what Owen wanted, intent on preventing him from intruding. But when Owen had shown him the penknife and explained the significance of where it had been found, Walter had escorted him into the shelter. Luke, the mason who had co-operated with Owen on his search of the pile, glanced up from the rough stone along which he had been guiding a y
oung man’s hand. Two other masons paused in their discussion of a corbel.

  Walter’s tone and expression were grim. ‘The captain is here on the archbishop’s business.’ He nodded to Owen. ‘Go on, then. Ask them what you must.’

  Six eyes avoided Owen’s. ‘You know of last night’s tragedy at the house of the Bishop of Winchester,’ he began. Two nodded, one shrugged. ‘It was the second threat to the bishop this week. The first was the falling tile.’ Owen glanced round at the masons, caught Luke’s eye, watched the colour spread up his face. ‘You may have heard of the enmity between the bishop and the family of the late Sir Ranulf Pagnell.’ Bert and Will studied the packed earth floor. ‘I have evidence that someone in the Pagnell household was recently atop the mound of tiles.’

  Luke started. ‘But it was –’ He covered his mouth.

  The others glared at him.

  ‘Go on,’ Owen said.

  But Luke ducked his head and would not go on.

  ‘They cannot have had aught to do with the fire last night,’ said Will.

  ‘I have worried about our silence, though,’ said Bert.

  ‘They’re just boys,’ said Will.

  ‘The new master is not like his father,’ said Bert. ‘He has a temper.’

  ‘It takes more than temper to set a house afire,’ Luke said.

  ‘But what if we might have prevented the death of the midwife and the serving man’s injuries?’ Bert looked to Owen. ‘They say he lost an arm.’

  ‘Aye, and his burns have him in agony,’ said Owen.

  Bert prevailed and the three told Owen what they knew, a tale that had now brought Owen to Hosier Lane. Too quickly. He felt unprepared. Emma was Lucie’s good friend, Jasper was fond of the boys. Dear Lord, guide my speech, my bearing, so that I say what is needed, no more.

  Peter Ferriby opened the door with an absent air. ‘I still do not think it wise,’ he called to someone over his shoulder before he turned to see whom the evening had brought to his door. ‘Well, Captain Archer. Come in, tell us the news.’