The Cross Legged Knight (Owen Archer Book 8)

by Candace Robb

  Magda had a stick twisted in cloth to cut off the blood flow to Lucie’s hand.

  Owen saw the gash as he sat down beside Lucie and took the stick. ‘Who did this?’

  ‘I was trying to catch a thief.’ Lucie tried to smile. ‘I caught his knife with the wrong side of my hand.’

  ‘Where did this happen?’

  ‘In the Shambles.’ She closed her eyes, licked her lips.

  Magda lifted her head and helped her drink something that smelled of honey.

  Owen noticed Lucie’s gown lying on the rushes next to the pallet, rumpled and torn. A sleeve was stiff with dried blood. ‘I thought you were with Eudo and his children.’

  Haltingly, she told him what had happened, while Magda cleaned the wound and then stood by, casting impatient looks at Owen. When he had heard all that Lucie had the breath to tell him, he asked Magda how bad the wound was.

  ‘The bleeding is the worst of it,’ said Magda. ‘She has lost too much blood of late. It will be a long time before she has need of leeches again.’ She drew closer. ‘Begin to ease the pressure now, let Magda see whether the bleeding has stopped.’

  Owen eased the tourniquet and watched, hardly daring to breathe. Droplets appeared, welled and grew no more. ‘God be thanked.’

  ‘Good. Magda will continue.’

  Owen rose to give her his place. One twist at a time she loosened the bandage, pausing after each turn to see whether the bleeding would resume. At last she drew out the stick and began to clean the wound once more. ‘It is seeping a little, but not enough to worry Magda.’

  Owen paced the kitchen while Magda finished cleaning and dressing Lucie’s hand. He kept his silence, for Lucie’s breathing was shallow and he did not want to make her strain to talk to him. He did not know what to think of the incident. Lucie seemed so certain that the gloves were important. Yet nothing in her tale made him so sure. He wondered why she had pushed her way into a rowdy crowd. As with her fall from the stool, she had been injured because of her own carelessness. It was not like Lucie.

  ‘Thou art to stay in bed a week, drinking as much of Magda’s blood tonic and Phillippa’s concoctions as thou canst bear, and thou must have meat once a day.’

  Seeing Magda gathering the bowls and rags, Owen resumed his seat near Lucie, took her uninjured hand and kissed it.

  ‘I must redeem myself,’ Lucie whispered.

  Owen smoothed back the hair from her forehead. ‘You are my redemption.’

  ‘I lost the gloves. I should have brought them home at once. I cannot be trusted.’

  ‘If thou canst not speak without making thy heart race, Magda must forbid talk.’

  Lucie closed her eyes. ‘I am tired.’

  Magda muttered something unintelligible as she took away the tray she had filled, then retreated to the hall.

  The firelight warmed Lucie’s face. ‘Can you forgive me?’ she whispered.

  Owen kissed her hand again. ‘There is nothing to forgive.’

  ‘I lost the gloves.’

  ‘Why are they so important to you?’

  ‘They were important to you. Eudo knows. He must have sent the boy after me. Only he and Emma know of the gloves.’

  Owen smoothed her brow. ‘Eudo cannot leave his house. There is a guard at either door.’

  ‘There is no one else.’

  ‘What makes you so certain the gloves will help me find Cisotta’s murderer?’ Owen asked.

  ‘It is the way she hid them, and swore Anna to secrecy.’

  ‘But that is all in keeping with a surprise for Eudo.’

  ‘Anna thought Cisotta was to get the hides the night of the fire.’ Lucie did not open her eyes. Her voice was faint, her speech slurred.

  ‘It may prove to be nothing but a child’s imagination that connects the gloves with that night,’ he said.

  Lucie fought to open her eyes. ‘I am not a child.’

  ‘I did not mean you.’

  ‘You think I am mad. I see it in the way you look at me.’

  The door opened and Magda came in, followed by Alisoun. ‘Enough talk,’ Magda declared. ‘I must show Alisoun what she must do.’

  Owen pressed Lucie’s hand. ‘Send them away.’

  ‘You’ll see,’ she whispered.

  He kissed her on the forehead and withdrew, feeling useless and filled with an anger that had no target. He did question her judgement these days. She seemed to move about in a dream, motivated by her feelings, not her head. Her insistence on the importance of the gloves was a good example – Eudo could not slip past his men. Or could he? Perhaps Owen should not be so certain of that. But even if the tawyer could find a way past the guards, he would be a fool to attack Lucie. It was too obvious. She had shown him the gloves.

  The friar had risen from his seat in the hall. ‘Mistress Merchet’s groom has this moment kindly taken the cart from me to return to its owner. I must leave.’

  ‘God bless you for what you did.’

  The friar bowed his head. ‘The owner of the cart is equally to thank.’

  ‘Would you be willing to show me where the theft occurred?’ Owen asked.

  ‘It is on my way.’ The friar preceded Owen out on to Davygate. ‘It was the Lord who put me in Mistress Wilton’s path when it seemed she could walk no further. There she was, lit up by the sun when I reached the crossing of Little Shambles and Silver Street. God watches over her.’

  Not enough, Owen thought. ‘Did you see what happened?’

  The friar shook his head. ‘I caught sight of Mistress Wilton pushing through the crowd, trying to give chase to the thief. By the whiteness of her face I knew she was in pain. I followed, calling out to her time and again, but she did not hear me.’

  Owen was only half listening, worrying that perhaps Eudo had found a way out. He turned north from Thursday Market so they might pass Eudo’s in Patrick Pool. He was relieved to see the tawyer working beside his apprentice in the shop, a guard sitting nearby.

  As they entered the Shambles, the friar pointed to Harry Flesher’s shopfront at the far side. ‘That is where the argument took place.’ Moving further up the street, the friar finally paused. ‘I believe this is where Mistress Wilton was standing, perhaps a little closer to the shop’s side of the street.’

  Owen noted that it was in fact quite close to the butcher’s shop itself.

  ‘I must leave you now, Captain. May God be with you. Mistress Wilton will be in my prayers and those of all my brethren.’

  Owen thanked him, though Lucie seemed to be in all of York’s prayers by now and it had done little good.

  The shopfront in the Shambles was still open, though all the others were shut. A young man whom Owen recognized as one of Jasper’s friends was raking up blood-spattered rushes. ‘We are closed for business, sir,’ he said without pausing.

  ‘I have not seen you for a long while, Timothy. How do you find your apprenticeship?’

  Now the boy raised his head. ‘Captain!’ He leaned his rake against the door jamb. Glancing back at the shop and seeing they were alone, he said, ‘I think I would rather do anything else. I smell of the slaughterhouse. Dogs follow me in the streets. But my master is kind, and fair.’

  ‘I understand there was much shouting in front of the shop this afternoon.’ The boy was already nodding and, by the light in his eyes, eager to tell the tale. ‘What was it about?’

  ‘My master caught a boy thieving and lifted him up by the neck of his tunic, and a customer took offence, preaching at my master that he should be lenient with the poor. “Poor!” my master shouted. “Half the wealth of the city passes through his hands. Poor indeed.” And they fell to arguing with such intent that the thief got away and the customer dropped a good piece of beef on the ground. Worse, a dog made off with it.’ Timothy laughed, then looked round to make sure he had not been heard and continued more softly, ‘When my master said the customer must pay, that is when the fighting truly began. Such names they called one another!’ Timothy stoppe
d to catch his breath.

  ‘The thief. Could you describe him to me?’

  ‘Weedy, like my little brother, sprung up too fast for his clothes, all wrists and ankles. Long, dark hair tied back in a piece of string, and he’s lacking a bit of one ear.’

  Lucie’s thief had been blond, or so she thought. So there were two at work in the street.

  ‘How did you hear about it?’ Timothy asked.

  Owen told him of Lucie’s loss.

  ‘Faith, you will wish to talk to my master, then, since he knows the cur.’

  ‘Aye, if you could find Master Flesher.’

  Timothy tossed aside his rake and disappeared into the shop. He returned a moment later accompanied by Harry Flesher, a short, muscular man with a bush of white hair. He had his sleeves caught up above his elbows, exhibiting strong forearms. ‘I fear Timothy has given you false hopes, Captain. I’ve seen the thief before, aye, we all know him by sight on the Shambles, filching coin from our customers. But to tell you his name or his abode …’ Harry shook his head.

  ‘Do you know if he works with another lad, short, fair hair?’

  ‘Well, they oft work in pairs, eh? I would have wondered about the customer who caused all the trouble, whether he was working with the lad and the dog, curse him, but the man was well dressed, with clean hands and hair. A thief could not scrub all the filth from his hands for one jest.’

  ‘He was a stranger to you?’

  Harry nodded. ‘It is not so rare as you might be thinking. York is a big city.’

  Owen thanked him. As Harry withdrew, he remarked that Timothy was slow in cleaning up the rushes. The lad took up his rake again.

  ‘Is Jasper much in the shop these days?’ he asked when his master had shut the door behind him.

  ‘Aye, he has been busy of late.’

  ‘He is lucky, working with sweet-smelling potions.’

  ‘He measures out pig’s bladders, blood and dung as well as lavender and mint.’

  ‘At least he never stinks of it.’

  ‘What did you think of the man who spoke up for the thief?’

  Timothy leaned on his rake and studied the rushes. ‘I did not take him for a charitable man.’ He made a face. ‘I have not been of much use. If I hear anything, I shall come to you right away.’

  ‘Aye, keep your ears pricked, Timothy. God go with you.’

  Owen walked slowly up the Shambles, glancing into the shadows, but all was quiet. He walked a little way down a narrow alley that might have been a continuation of St Saviourgate to the west of St Crux, but had been overbuilt so much a cart could not fit down it. Wattle fences alternated with stone walls of all heights and condition, and a few doorways opened on to the alley. He saw a woman suckling a babe in a small garden, an elderly man cleaning a fish in his doorway, two children kicking a ball back and forth in a yard. If a thief had run down here a few hours ago, he had left no worried souls in his wake. Nor had he dropped Lucie’s scrip. Retracing his steps, Owen slipped into St Crux Church, but it yielded no clues and he finally admitted to himself that he had no idea what he was looking for. Thefts happened all the day and folk accepted it as a part of living in the city. Which brought him back to the significance Lucie placed in the gloves.

  He found Emma Ferriby in her courtyard. She was holding pieces of silk up to the dying light but her expression was anxious as she greeted him. ‘Have you spoken to the bishop?’

  ‘Aye, and the archbishop, who is satisfied that it was an accident.’

  ‘God is merciful.’ She crossed herself. ‘Thank you. My mind is much eased.’

  ‘I’ve come about another matter.’ He told her about the theft of the gloves.

  She crushed the silk in her hand. ‘I cannot believe it. Her mother’s gloves, something so precious to her.’

  Owen prayed that his face did not betray his surprise.

  Emma tucked the silk squares into her girdle and held out her hands to grasp his. ‘Such a loss is hard to bear.’ He saw sincere concern in Emma’s face and was glad Lucie had such a friend. ‘And her hand. It is too much, all she has been given to bear this autumn.’

  ‘Your family has also had sorrow.’

  Emma squeezed his hands and bowed her head. ‘Yes.’ A world of sorrow echoed in that one word.

  ‘I hoped you might help me. I have never seen the gloves, or I made no note of them if I have – that is what I fear. Could you describe them to me?’ He thought by Emma’s frown that she saw through his ruse.

  But then she laughed. ‘Peter is the same. Even though he sells the silks and wools with which my gowns are made, he will express surprise again and again at the same garment.’ She closed her eyes and described the gloves in such detail it was as if she could see them inside her eyelids. ‘Do you mean to catch the thief before he can sell them?’ She had opened her eyes and now studied his face so intently he felt himself blush.

  ‘Would they be worth selling?’ he asked.

  ‘They were a little worn, but a dubber might pay tuppence, perhaps more. The jet beads alone are worth something. You are angry – is Lucie badly injured?’

  ‘She is wounded, that is enough, and weak –’ He turned away, uncomfortable under her keen regard. ‘She has lost so much blood of late.’

  ‘Mother would say that is good.’

  ‘Magda thinks it too much. She says Lucie must stay abed for a week.’

  ‘I shall come to her tomorrow, Owen.’

  ‘I cannot imagine why anyone would steal them.’ Except Eudo, but how? ‘Still, might anyone have seen her showing you the gloves?’

  ‘Come with me to the garden. I shall show you where we sat.’ Emma led him out of the courtyard and into an alley bordered on one side by the warehouse, on the other by another multi-storey house – Hosier Lane was an affluent street, as was Pavement beyond, despite the presence of the city stocks.

  As Emma opened the gate in the garden wall Owen noted a lock on the iron grille, which seemed a good caution. ‘When do you lock the gate?’

  ‘At night, or when we are all away. But as you will see, no one could have entered the garden without one of us seeing them this afternoon.’ She led him to a bench that did indeed have a complete view of the small garden. ‘Sit down.’

  He found himself grateful to rest his legs, but the sun was setting and the damp was rising. It would not long be pleasant to sit here. ‘Do you know Lucie’s mind in this? Why she showed the gloves to you today?’

  ‘She thought it might cheer her to have a pair made like them. She asked whether I recognized the glover’s work, which I did not, and whether Peter might have such hides.’ Emma drew the silk squares from her girdle. ‘It grows too dark. I was going to ask your opinion.’

  ‘Might Peter have the hide to make the gloves?’

  ‘I asked when I borrowed these from the shop. He has no hides at present.’ She turned fully towards him. ‘Do you think to have a new pair made for her?’

  She looked so delighted at the thought of a conspiracy that would please Lucie that Owen was caught up in the idea. ‘I fear she thought of that first.’

  ‘But I could help you. I remember them so clearly.’

  He noticed Emma’s son John standing in the doorway to the hall, anxious about Owen’s presence, he had no doubt. In the shadow of the house the details of the boy’s clothing were indistinct, but Owen and Emma, sitting in the late-afternoon sun, would be clearer. ‘What of someone observing you from the house as you talked?’

  ‘Do you truly think the thief wanted the gloves?’

  Owen inclined his head towards John, who withdrew at once.

  ‘Peter has forbidden them to step outside the gate.’ Emma rose. ‘Perhaps we should leave them to what little land they are permitted to walk on.’ There was disapproval in her tone.

  Owen’s legs felt stiff as they walked to the gate. ‘So no one interrupted your conversation with Lucie?’

  ‘My mother’s steward, Matthew.’ A sharpness entered Emma�
��s tone as she paused to open the gate. ‘But he stayed near the doorway to the hall.’

  ‘Were the gloves visible to him?’

  He felt her eyes on him, though it was now grown too dark near the alley to read her expression clearly.

  ‘I am not certain.’ She said it softly, as if to herself.

  He made his way home in the gathering darkness, alert to every footfall, every shadow. He found a quiet household, the children listening to one of Phillippa’s long tales before bedtime, Alisoun assisting Kate in the kitchen.

  Lucie was sitting up and reached her arms out to him as he approached her. ‘Forgive me for my temper,’ she said.

  He bent down and tried to embrace her, awkward in his attempt to avoid her bandaged hand. He thanked God for Magda’s skill and her timely presence. ‘You had been frightened.’ The change in her mood made him uneasy.

  ‘Did you speak to Emma?’

  ‘Aye, and glad I was that I did not say more than a few words before she mentioned a different tale of the gloves and who had worn them.’

  ‘Sweet heaven, I had not thought to tell you. Does she know of my lie?’

  ‘No. And I reassured her that Thoresby is relieved that the tile was not meant as a threat to Wykeham.’

  ‘Meaning Wykeham is not so comforted.’

  Owen shrugged. He touched the bandage, saw no stain. ‘Are you in much pain?’

  Lucie shook her head. ‘And the shivering has passed, so I feel more easy in myself. I want to sleep in my own bed tonight, Owen. Could you help me up the stairs?’

  Owen caught Alisoun’s look of concern. He was not about to let the children’s nurse rule their household and, if it cheered Lucie, it would be done. ‘I’ll not stop at helping you, I’ll carry you. But first you must eat, and I’ll take my meal with you.’

  They did not speak of the theft and their separate investigations until they were alone in their chamber, and by that time Lucie was fighting sleep, though she tormented herself so about the loss of the gloves that he wondered how well she would rest.

  ‘For all we know the thief has searched the scrip, taken the few coins, perhaps the knife, and left the gloves and scrip where someone may find them. With your initials and the apothecary rose burned into the scrip’s flap, it might be returned to you. And perhaps the gloves with it. Or the finder could show us where they are.’