The Cross Legged Knight (Owen Archer Book 8)

by Candace Robb

  Lucie’s pulse quickened. ‘Do you recognize it?’

  Emma traced the brass pattern with a stubby finger. ‘It looks very like one of a pair of straps Father used to hold rolled documents together. They were made of a fine cordovan leather that had been salvaged from a belt he had worn as a soldier.’

  ‘Who has them now?’

  ‘As Mother has handed over all business to Matthew, he has them. I thought he had used them to strap together the property documents from Wykeham.’

  A fragment of memory teased Lucie, a table with a number of items, including a strap such as this might have been when whole. Tally sticks, too.

  ‘But I cannot recall when I last saw them,’ Emma said. ‘There was something wrapped round the rolls, I’m sure.’ There was an excitement in her voice, but her veil obscured her face as she bent over the belt fragment.

  Now Lucie saw it, the table with John, Ivo and Edgar at one end, Matthew at the other.

  ‘I saw one of the straps the morning I came to your house with the sleep draught.’ Lucie remembered Matthew rising from the table, gathering his work, securing the rolls. ‘He used only one strap that day.’

  As Emma lifted her head she was almost smiling. ‘Are you thinking he might have been in the burning house? With documents?’

  ‘Or he had left documents there and someone else used the strap. We do not know where he was that night.’

  Emma lifted the strap higher, tugged it taut. ‘Used this? What do you mean?’

  Lucie had forgotten that Emma did not know how Cisotta had died. It was difficult to keep track of what people knew, what must be kept secret, who might be after what she knew and to what ends.

  Her silence led Emma to demand, ‘What are you hiding from me?’

  Lucie needed Emma’s insights, her information. It was too late to back away from her now. Already one lie stood between them. Lucie would not tell another. ‘Owen found it round Cisotta’s neck.’

  At first Emma did not seem to understand. Then she dropped the strap on the bed, raised her hands to her neck. ‘She was strangled?’

  Lucie nodded.

  ‘Dear God.’ Emma stared at her upturned palms. ‘I thought him evil, but not so evil as to murder.’

  ‘I cannot make sense of it,’ Lucie said.

  Emma had dropped her hands to her lap and sat contemplating them in a silence that troubled Lucie. It was so quiet she could hear Gwenllian’s laughter in the garden, Kate speaking loudly so that Phillippa could hear her over the splashing water in the laundry tub.

  ‘How long have you known how Cisotta was murdered?’ Emma asked in a voice that echoed the tension of her former silence. Her eyes accused Lucie.

  ‘I have known all along. It is a secret, Emma. I pray you, tell no one of this.’

  ‘Is that why you kept it from me this long?’

  ‘Of course it is. What need had you to know? I have only this moment learned that the strap might belong to your household.’

  ‘My mother’s household.’ Emma slipped from the bed, moved to the window, where she looked without, her back to Lucie. ‘Or do you fear that the rumours are true, that my family had a hand in the fire?’ She did not move, did not turn to regard Lucie.

  ‘I have never thought your family to blame. I told you, no one knows how Cisotta died. Emma, please, you must believe me.’

  Emma did not respond.

  Lucie slipped the strap and the beads into her scrip, pushed back the covers and rose, using the bedpost to steady herself. Her balance felt better than before, but the floorboards were cold. ‘It is time to hang the bed curtains,’ she murmured to herself, dispelling the uncomfortable silence.

  ‘You should keep them up throughout the year,’ Emma said, glancing at the plain rails connecting the posts. ‘Drafts in summer are as dangerous as those in winter.’ She noticed where Lucie was. ‘Standing there in bare feet and just a shift is doubly foolish.’

  ‘I should be grateful for less criticism and your help in dressing.’ Lucie lifted her bandaged hand. ‘This makes the simplest task difficult.’

  Emma gently took the bandaged hand. ‘Are you in pain?’ she asked, avoiding Lucie’s eyes. Her voice was strained.

  ‘Yes. But it matters not whether I lie abed or sit in the garden, and I am not as fond of this chamber as I once was. I’ve spent too much time in it of late. I should enjoy some air.’

  ‘Why did you have all those things on the bed?’

  Lucie heard concern in Emma’s tone. ‘I thought to learn something from them. I prayed for guidance in how to assist Owen – and God answered me with your identifying the strap. Now I feel impatient to tell Owen, but he may be out all the day. I must do something. I cannot sit here any longer.’

  Emma had already taken the gown Lucie had worn in the morning from a hook on the wall and collected her shoes and linen-lined hose.

  ‘Those are too warm,’ Lucie protested.

  ‘You have lost much blood and your humours are ill-balanced. Warmth is important at such a time. I shall instruct Kate to spice your food.’ Emma still seemed stiff in demeanour.

  Lucie did not wish to argue about her humours at the moment. ‘Owen must talk to Matthew, find out the truth.’

  Emma lifted the gown and helped Lucie pull it down, then began on the buttons. ‘If he murdered Cisotta and has been clever enough to hide his guilt so far, he is not likely to confess.’

  ‘Where does Matthew sleep?’

  ‘With Edgar, the boys’ tutor.’

  ‘I would speak with Edgar.’

  Emma sighed and held out a sleeve for Lucie’s arm, then fumbled with the laces at the shoulders.

  Lucie tried not to complain about Emma’s jerky movements.

  ‘Owen will not be pleased if you go abroad in the city,’ Emma said.

  Nor was Lucie ready today. ‘Then would you speak with Edgar, ask him whether he has noticed anything in Matthew’s behaviour, whether he knows where Matthew was the night of the fire, or at least whether he was out, when he came in?’

  Emma pulled over a low stool and sat on it, wrapping her arms round herself. ‘My stomach aches to think of going home. How can I look upon Matthew?’

  ‘Remember that we have no proof that he is guilty. Faith, we do not even know whether he knew Cisotta.’

  ‘That is so. I cannot imagine how he would have made her acquaintance.’

  ‘Men have a way of finding beautiful women.’

  Emma shook her head. ‘He is chasing wealthier and more powerful prey.’

  ‘Cisotta might have been a past conquest. Or merely a dalliance, a distraction. But at the moment we know nothing to accuse him of.’

  The two women looked at each other, their faces sober.

  ‘Except that she was strangled with a strap very like those in our house,’ Emma said slowly.

  ‘Speak with Edgar.’

  Emma slipped one of the hose up Lucie’s leg and helped her fasten it, then the other. They were warm on Lucie’s chilled feet.

  ‘Mother is meeting with Wykeham on the morrow,’ Emma said as she picked up Lucie’s shoes. ‘Have you heard?’

  ‘No. How did he convince her? Was it the boys’ accident?’

  ‘He sent a messenger asking to meet at our house with John and Ivo in the morning. Mother took it as a sign of trouble, though I thought the bishop took care with his words to sound reassuring.’

  ‘Has she invited him to the house?’

  ‘No. She proposed to meet at the palace.’

  ‘But that is perfect! At what time do they meet?’

  Puzzled, Emma said, ‘Just after midday.’

  ‘I shall come to your home in early afternoon.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To search Matthew’s belongings.’

  ‘Oh – but surely Magda wants you to rest.’

  ‘I cannot rest until we have found Cisotta’s murderer.’

  ‘Lucie.’

  ‘I have been lying in that bed day after day, nig
ht after night, thinking of the child I lost, worrying about God’s purpose, whether he means to take more from me. When I am not fearing for my children I am mourning the friend who nursed me. I cannot bear it, Emma. I must have occupation.’

  She could see in Emma’s eyes that she had touched a chord.

  Eighteen

  PHYSICKS

  Owen sank down against the wall outside the palace kitchen and let the sun soak into him. He felt his failure with Poins in his bones. The man had little more to lose, so there was precious little chance of coercing him into talking more about the fire. To come so close to knowledge only to have it incomplete – Owen’s jaw hurt he clenched his teeth so, and his stomach churned from the stench of Poins’s decaying flesh that seemed to have seeped into his skin. So Owen sat, letting his head, chest, arms and the front of his legs grow warm while those parts of him not directly in the sun stayed chilled.

  His head spun with questions that might never be answered. He needed to work up a sweat, purge the stench, ease his aches. He thought about the practice yard at Kenilworth where he would fight until his head buzzed and afterwards dowse himself with a bucket of cold water, then sit in the sunshine enjoying a tankard of ale with his men. Lief was dead now, Ned exiled. Bertold still led Lancaster’s archers and Gaspare had gone on a mission for Lancaster and never returned. There was no going back.

  The best he could do now to work up a sweat was to split wood or do the garden chores that required a strong back, neither as satisfying as the practice yard. Magda’s voice drifted from the kitchen. He should speak with her. But he found himself walking in the opposite direction, into the palace garden.

  With Emma steadying her at the elbow, Lucie walked the paths of her garden and thought about her new piece of information. It was God’s gift to her, of that she was certain, for had Emma not walked in when the strap was lying on the bed Lucie doubted she would have shown it to her at all, and would never have known its use. That the Lord had answered Lucie’s prayer with such clarity and speed had cast out her devils for the moment. Gwenllian and Hugh had seemed much comforted by her smiling face. Alisoun had said Magda might have erred in giving Lucie such a strong tonic, for she seemed far better without it. Lucie fought to hide her unsteadiness. Slowly though she was walking, still her heart pounded and her legs felt as if they might buckle beneath her with each step. But it was worth the effort.

  A strap for documents. It changed the way she imagined the scene on the night of the fire. And that gave her an idea. ‘Emma, I would see Bess Merchet. Would you fetch my scrip and walk with me to the tavern?’

  Pulled from her own thoughts, Emma at first agreed, then took a good look at Lucie. ‘Your colour is much better for being out in the air. But do you have the strength to go so far?’

  ‘It is not so far, just past our garden wall,’ Lucie said.

  In a short time they were crossing the yard at the York Tavern. Lucie tried not to lean too much on Emma, though her balance was unsure and her hand was throbbing. She should have supported it in some way, but she disliked the encumbrance of binding up her arm. Once within the tavern, she sank down on a bench and let Emma search for the innkeeper.

  Bess’s ruddy face darkened as she saw Lucie. ‘I heard what happened in the Shambles.’ She stood back and studied Lucie, shaking her head at what she saw. ‘You are not so feeble as I feared, but your face boasts of its bones and I can see your veins through your skin.’ She sat down on the bench opposite Lucie. ‘I am making a pottage with meat for you. You need your strength. And Tom will bring a cask of ale to put some flesh on you.’

  Bess’s mothering of Lucie was one of the reasons she did not know as much as Emma did about the past few months. Lucie wearied of advice. She did not wish to hear more about what she should be eating and, seeing that Emma was about to voice her own opinions on that, Lucie took out the strap and laid it before Bess, pre-empting a lecture.

  ‘I’ve seen that,’ Bess said, ‘and I know why you are so keen to know who wore it. I’ve already told Owen that I see so many belts, I cannot say whose it might be.’

  ‘But what of a strap round rolls of parchment?’ Lucie asked.

  Arms crossed before her as if to restrain herself from touching it, Bess bent close to the buckle, then leaned back to gaze round the room.

  Emma moved to speak, but Lucie silenced her with a touch and a shake of her head. She could see by the movement of Bess’s eyes that she was reviewing her memories. Suddenly Bess rose, crossed to the door of the tavern, paused with an ear cocked as if listening, frowned and shook her head, then crossed to the kitchen door and looked around.

  With a great sigh she returned to the table, where she propped up her elbows and rested her forehead on her hands. ‘There is something, but –’ Her head snapped up and she pointed to a corner table. ‘Aye, there was a man that evening, before the fire, an hour or two before, so he was an early customer. I’d seen him before, and since, and know to say naught to him, for he will not speak to the likes of me except to demand service. He had a leather strap like this round three or four rolls, perhaps two straps now I think of it, though I cannot be certain. He tapped on a buckle to his own tune – I thought him strange to fight the rhythm of the man who was singing in exchange for supper.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’ Emma asked.

  ‘A proud bearing, cold eyes and a mouth that I’ve never seen smiling, light-brown hair that lies straight beneath his cap, dressed in the colours of earth, nothing to draw attention, but of good cut and cloth. Who is he, then?’

  ‘My mother’s steward.’

  ‘Is he the murderer?’ Bess crossed herself.

  ‘We do not know,’ Lucie said.

  ‘But if he is …’ Bess glanced at Emma.

  ‘You wonder whether the fire was my family’s vengeance after all.’ Emma shook her head. ‘If Matthew did this, he acted on his own, for his own purposes.’

  ‘I am glad to hear that,’ Bess said, but there was doubt in her voice.

  Lucie and Emma departed in an uncomfortable silence, nodding to passers-by in St Helen’s Square, returning to the house rather than the garden. The hall was deserted, everyone still outside. Lucie took refuge in a well-padded chair, resting her head against the high back and closing her eyes.

  ‘Shall I help you up the stairs?’ Emma asked. ‘You should lie down.’

  ‘What if Matthew lit the fire to gain your mother’s gratitude?’

  Emma sank down near Lucie. ‘I have thought of that, don’t think that I haven’t.’

  ‘If he is guilty …’ Lucie sat up, took Emma’s hand. ‘A man who could kill so ruthlessly might do so again to hide his guilt. Your household – all of you are in danger.’

  ‘He had no cause to murder Cisotta,’ Emma said. ‘That is the sticking point.’

  ‘Such a crime committed in Wykeham’s house –’

  ‘The blame would more naturally fall on the tenants.’

  Emma was right. Lucie’s thoughts were growing muddled.

  ‘I have poisoned your judgement with my distrust of Matthew,’ Emma said.

  Lucie was searching for what felt wrong to her. It was the timing. ‘On the night on which your family was dining with Stephen, who is now Matthew’s lord, Matthew dined or at least drank at the York Tavern, carrying with him rolls of parchment. Why?’

  Emma did not respond at once. ‘I don’t know,’ she finally admitted.

  ‘You must ask Edgar what he recalls about Matthew that night. And I must speak with Owen.’

  Emma crossed herself.

  Owen found no solace in the palace garden, partly because his conscience kept pushing him back towards Magda Digby. In order to heal Poins she must understand his state of mind as well as his body. He returned to the kitchen.

  ‘Here again?’ Maeve said. ‘Has the crone cast a spell on you now?’

  ‘She casts no spells, Maeve.’

  ‘That is what you all pretend. But I trust my own eyes and ears.�
�

  Magda greeted Owen from the small entrance between screens.

  Maeve said a ‘Hail Mary’ as she bent back to her work.

  Safely out of Maeve’s sight – and hearing, Owen hoped – he told Magda of Poins’s reaction to his questions.

  She seemed impressed. ‘Thou hast coaxed much from him. Magda has heard so little of his voice she would be unable to pick it out among the voices of others.’

  ‘He sleeps a great deal?’

  ‘Aye. He escapes his pain by retreating from his ruined body. Nor does he have aught he wishes to say to Magda.’

  ‘Will he survive?’

  ‘Not if he continues to despair. It is the great destroyer. Already one of the burns that had begun to heal is oozing bad humours.’

  ‘Is that what causes the stench?’

  ‘Aye, as well as some of the healing burns.’

  Owen left the palace feeling responsible for Poins’s failure to thrive. His presence as an inquisitor – surely that caused Poins despair as well as the wounds. Or it could be a guilty conscience. He was tired of questions and ready to work in the garden, touch the earth, get soil beneath his fingernails, but his conscience nagged that Jasper had been left in charge of the apothecary by himself too much of late.

  The hall was quiet. Lucie sat on a bench, her back resting against the wall beneath the garden windows, playing string games with Gwenllian and Hugh. Through the window he could see Phillippa and Kate spreading laundry on the lavender hedge to dry.

  He had expected Lucie to be abed. ‘Why are you watching the children? Where is Alisoun?’

  Lucie smiled to see him. ‘How pleasant to see you here in mid-afternoon.’ The children hurried to him, demanding hugs. Lucie rose, her movements stiff. ‘Alisoun is helping Jasper modify Magda’s tonic to allow me more waking hours. I am merely sitting here playing with Gwenllian and Hugh until she returns. It is not tiring.’

  ‘Magda ordered bed rest. You will undo yourself.’

  ‘Put that aside. I have news. The fragment of belt that you found – it was not a belt but a strap, one that keeps rolled parchments together. Matthew had been using a pair of them to hold the documents Wykeham’s clerks brought to Lady Pagnell, but now has only one. Bess …’