by Candace Robb
‘Hurry.’ Lucie took Geoffrey’s arm and waved Owen on.
Lucie plucked jars and bandages from the shelves in the workroom behind the shop as Geoffrey stood with eyes closed searching his memory for details about the nature of the injuries. He described Alisoun’s head wound, realized he’d no idea of Dame Euphemia’s injuries, believed Dun might have a sprained or broken ankle, and sundry wounds or bruises. So, Lucie thought, possible broken bones, sprains, bruises, open wounds, and, of course, the terror of the attack. Betony, boneset, comfrey, hawthorn in case the elderly Euphemia’s heart sounded weak, moneywort, red nettle for bleeding, sanicle, walwort, wintergreen, most in mixtures Lucie found efficacious for speeding the healing of wounds, bruises, and broken bones, as well as valerian and poppy to calm. She added a potion Brother Wulfstan had devised to stimulate healing by drawing up the blood, but not in a way that would cause Alisoun’s wound to open. At least Lucie prayed that was so. She was urging Geoffrey to come along when Jasper stepped through the door.
‘Ma! Master Geoffrey! She said you were here, but I didn’t understand—’ Jasper looked at the basket of medicines and bandages. ‘Another attack?’
‘At the Poole home,’ said Lucie. ‘We are fortunate that Geoffrey witnessed it. He fetched us from the feast. Your father is searching for those who fled.’ She paused, belatedly puzzled. ‘Who told you we were here?’
‘Dame Magda. She has been sitting with us, calming Kate, now she’s holding Emma, you know how Emma reaches out to her, always begging for Magda to pick her up.’
‘You said calming Kate – about her sister? Is Tildy—’
‘She will be well, but she lost the babies.’
‘Both?’ Lucie crossed herself at his nod. Tildy might have survived in body, but her spirit … To lose both babies carried all these months …
‘Who’s that for?’ Jasper pointed to the basket.
‘Three were injured,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Dame Euphemia, a manservant, and Alisoun.’
‘Alisoun?’ Jasper frowned at Lucie. ‘You did not say.’
‘You gave me no chance.’ She silently cursed Geoffrey for not thinking to prepare Jasper.
‘I will come with you.’
Lucie put a hand on Jasper’s arm. ‘I need you here with the children. Alisoun will have Magda and me, the best care, but the children have only you.’
‘But—’
‘Only you, son.’
A reluctant nod. ‘Will you bring her here?’
‘We will do what is best for her.’ Lucie touched his cheek. ‘I love her, too. As does Magda. Does Magda know of all that’s happened? The murders? The dogs?’
‘We spoke of it.’
‘Could she see a pattern in the attacks?’
‘If she did, she did not say.’
Which might mean anything.
As they walked into the garden Lucie caught sight of a sweet group on the long bench that ran below the large window in the hall: Gwenllian and Hugh crowding round a small figure with Emma in her arms. Magda’s multi-colored robe glimmered as she rocked Lucie’s youngest.
To come to them this day, in their hour of need, this was no accident. Lucie’s heart steadied. All would be well. There was magic in the woman, she had no doubt.
In the hall, fierce eyes met Lucie’s over Emma’s sleep-tousled hair. ‘So Bird-eye comes to the aid of a city haunted by the wolves of their darkest dreams.’
‘Did you doubt that he would, when the time came?’ Lucie asked.
Magda kissed Emma’s forehead. ‘He protects what he loves.’ She handed Gwenllian her sleeping sister and rose, shaking out her skirts. ‘Come. The king’s man can describe all that he witnessed on the way.’
‘I thought I was “the poet” to you,’ said Geoffrey.
‘Now and then.’
As they moved through the garden and out into Davygate, Geoffrey described what had happened.
‘Euphemia Poole? If she is aware of Magda’s presence, she might curse thee for it. But mayhap she will be too desperate to care about an old pagan healer crossing her threshold.’
As Lucie reached up to knock on the door of the Poole home it opened. A disheveled woman, a servant by her simple gown, welcomed them with such emotion Lucie suggested she sit down.
‘No time. The captain said you would be coming, Mistress Wilton, though he did not mention you, Dame Magda. I am so glad you have come. Your apprentice lies injured, Dun is trying to keep her awake. Come. I will escort you.’
It was Geoffrey who led the procession through a narrow passageway to the garden door, providing Lucie an opportunity to speak with the woman, ascertain that her name was Eva, long in service for the family, as was Dun, the man who was now singing hymns out in the garden.
‘My mistress – she will not welcome Dame Magda,’ Eva said as they reached the open doorway.
‘I will see to her, Dame Magda will see to the others,’ said Lucie as she stepped out the door.
And paused, taking in the grim scene. Dame Euphemia lay to her right, crumpled against the house, one leg bent beneath her, her white hair undone, draping over her arms. Ten strides beyond, Alisoun lay with her head cradled on the lap of the singing manservant, her face pale as death. Dun sighed and fell silent when he saw them. A few strides from Lucie a man lay face down, an arrow through his neck.
‘Deus juva me,’ she whispered, crossing herself.
She felt Magda’s hand warm on her shoulder. ‘A troubling sight. Magda will see first to Alisoun. Thou shouldst examine the dead, in case Bird-eye missed a hint of life.’ Magda took the basket from Lucie’s arm.
Crouching down, Lucie felt for a pulse, a breath, but found no sign of life. She peered at what was visible of the dead man’s face. Nothing about it to make him noticeable, no scars, warts, neither handsome nor repulsive. Not familiar. He had the hands of a laborer, clothes made for utility, not show, not too clean. River mud on his shoes. Brown, thick hair beneath a leather hat.
She felt Eva hovering behind her. ‘Did Captain Archer examine him?’
‘Much as you just did,’ said Eva. ‘Then he told us you would be with us soon and went off after the man and the wolf, toward St Andrewgate. Dun told him where to go.’
Lucie joined Magda, who was kneeling beside Alisoun, listening to her heart, using her hand to feel her breath. Suddenly she snapped her fingers close to one ear. Alisoun jerked, a slight movement, but her eyelids did not flicker.
Lucie took that as a bad sign.
‘Master Chaucer ordered me to sing to keep her awake, but I failed,’ the singer said. His voice was going hoarse with the effort.
A tisane of bark oil and horehound later, Lucie thought.
‘Thou art called “Dun”?’ Magda asked.
He nodded.
‘Magda thanks thee for thy care, Dun. Now rest thy voice. Magda will soon relieve thee of thy charge.’ Lucie watched as Magda slipped a bony hand beneath Alisoun’s head to lift it, running her free hand across the blood-soaked area, grimacing at what she felt. Gently she continued, examining Alisoun’s hands, wrists. Looking up at Geoffrey, who had joined them, she asked, ‘No time to break her fall?’
‘She dropped her weapon too late.’
Kneeling down beside Magda, Lucie followed her lead as they cleaned Alisoun’s wound, dressed and bandaged it, saw to her other injuries – bruised hip, grazed elbow – and dribbled into her mouth a tisane that would calm and strengthen her. Now and then her eyelids flickered, but she did not wake.
‘How she fares within … We cannot know until the child wakes.’ Magda’s pale eyes were sad.
Biting her lip, Lucie bowed her head, silently praying that God grant Alisoun her life. She might do much good with her healing skill.
‘Art thou praying?’ Magda asked in a soft voice, pressing Lucie’s hand when she admitted that she was. ‘Magda does as well, in her own way.’
‘She has become dear to me.’
‘To Magda as well.’
L
ucie resolved to keep her mind on her work. Grief must wait. ‘I will see to Dame Euphemia myself.’
‘Nay. Magda will assist thee.’
‘But Euphemia—’
‘Who is to tell her?’ A conspiratorial smile. ‘She is not aware of aught at present.’
Working together, Lucie and Magda examined Euphemia, deciding how she could best be moved without causing further injury. A shoulder out of joint and a swollen ankle already bringing up a bruise appeared to be the worst of what she had suffered, though at her age such an abrupt drop to the ground might well break fragile bones. Geoffrey and Dun, who had been replaced by a thick cushion beneath Alisoun’s shoulders and head, carried Dame Euphemia to her bed, assisted by Lucie. The maid, Eva, fussed over her mistress’s placement. And still Euphemia did not wake. A too-deep sleep?
Magda shook her head at Lucie’s concern. ‘Her pulse is strong.’
In silence they set Dame Euphemia’s shoulder and wrapped her ankle and her swollen knee. The elderly woman slept the while.
‘When she wakes, if she protests your presence, will we move Alisoun?’ Lucie asked.
‘Not until she rouses. Dame Euphemia may fume in her chamber. Her inner blindness came upon her over many years, as she drew in on herself until she could see no one but her husband and her son.’
After Geoffrey carried Alisoun to the bed Eva had prepared for her in the hall, Lucie saw to the manservant, asking Dun about his own injuries. Sprains, a blossoming black eye and a gash on his cheek – the caked mud had stopped his bleeding, and a hand beginning to spasm. She thanked him for caring for Alisoun despite his discomfort. Then she set to work cleaning his hands and face in order to find the wounds and bandage them, splinting two fingers, wrapping a sprained ankle, backing off when with fear in his eyes he begged her not to sew the wound on his face.
‘It will take longer to heal, and the scar will be more noticeable.’
‘Folk do not see me. And I was never fair to look upon.’
‘You fought with courage today,’ she said. ‘The Pooles should be grateful.’
‘Dame Euphemia has always been a fair mistress.’
‘And her son?’
‘Kinder than his mother, truth be told.’
‘You will need help for a while. But Crispin Poole brought his own servants, did he not?’ She was prying, for they looked like retainers, not house servants.
‘One of them dresses him, assists where he struggles with but one hand. The other,’ Dun leaned in close, ‘he does little but walk about, spying on folk.’
‘They accompanied him today?’
‘No, they have been away. In Galtres, I think, watching the coroner’s property.’
‘Why?’
He shook his head.
‘How kind of him to watch over Bartolf’s house,’ said Lucie, storing that away for Owen. ‘I will speak to your mistress about hiring someone to assist you for a time.’
He pressed her forearm in gratitude.
The hall was a long, high, echoing space with few furnishings or hangings. Not an inviting room. Magda bent over Alisoun, smoothing back her hair, murmuring to her. She claimed to use no charms, but Lucie knew she fashioned bundles of herbs, stones, feathers, and twigs, and had experienced the power of her murmured words, a deep warmth, heavy limbs and eyelids, the silencing of thought.
Sensing Lucie behind her, the healer glanced over her shoulder. ‘Magda will stay with Alisoun until she is well enough to move to thy home or the river house.’
On St Andrewgate, Owen noticed a woman hurrying in his direction, peering back over her shoulder as she tugged her child along behind her. He hailed her and asked whether she had seen a man and a large dog.
The woman lifted her child up in her arms, hugging her tight. ‘I did see them, though the creature was like no dog I’ve ever known. The man clutched the collar of the beast with one hand, dangling a knife from the other. I screamed and scooped up my Jen, and others shouted. He fled into the Bedern.’
‘Can you describe the man you saw, what he wore?’ Owen asked.
She closed her eyes, rocking the child as she conjured the image. ‘Not so tall as you, brown hair, no hat. His clothes – a worker’s garb, leather tabard. Nothing to set him apart.’
Could it be Galbot? He’d worn a leather vest. Owen cursed himself for not asking Paul Braithwaite how long Galbot had worked for him, what he knew of the man’s past. But by then he’d fled, so it would have done little good. At the funeral feast he’d had a moment with Elaine Braithwaite, nothing of note until she said something about Tempest’s death not being the first loss Paul has suffered, his precious dogs. She’d been silenced by John Braithwaite, who said her jealousy regarding the dogs was unbecoming. Owen must speak to Paul.
He thanked the woman.
‘You will protect us, Captain? Protect the city?’
So far he had failed at that, but, seeing her fear, how she pressed the child to her, he did not voice his frustration. ‘I have all the bailiffs’ men on the streets, searching for these men. And I have your keen eyes.’ He forced a reassuring smile. ‘We will find them. What of the dog? You said he was unlike any you’d seen?’
‘He was a great beast, a wolf, I think, all black.’
‘Black?’
‘With fiery eyes and a long red tongue. A devil dog, to be sure.’ She bobbed her head to him and hurried on.
He had encountered wolves on campaign across the Channel, but never black ones, though he knew no reason why one could not exist – but fiery eyes? Unless she meant the expression. A long red tongue? Might someone describe a dog’s tongue thus? What had Magda said? What do folk see when they see a wolf, Bird-eye? The animal? Think again. Their darkest fears?
Whoever the man was, it sounded as if he had tight control of the animal.
The bailiff’s man who’d gone on to Monk Bar to question the gatekeeper returned, shaking his head. ‘No one’s come through with a large dog today, Captain.’
Owen told him what he’d learned.
‘The Bedern. Bad luck for us. If he’s a churchman we’ll never draw him out, the devil piss on him.’
‘I very much doubt we seek a cleric,’ said Owen. ‘But we are not the law in the Bedern, that is true.’
The Bedern was part of the minster liberty, set aside to house the vicars choral, who said masses in the chantry chapels in the minster, and Owen would need the dean’s or the archbishop’s permission to search there. The bailiffs had no jurisdiction in there either. Damn Thoresby for dying. Damn him. Owen would waste precious time convincing the dean …
‘Might have ducked in and out the far side,’ said Hempe’s man. ‘Headed for the river. They’ll spit him out when they see he’s not one of theirs.’
‘Pass the word along the watch to keep an eye out for this man, and a dog, likely a large one.’ Owen said nothing of the woman’s description of the dog. He began to suspect that what Magda had meant was that folk saw not what was there, but the beast from their nightmares. ‘I’m going to take a stroll in the Bedern.’
A surprised laugh. ‘You’re not one for rules, Captain? Can we expect that when you’re our captain?’
Owen slapped the man on the shoulder. ‘If I captain your bailiffs, they’ll keep to my rules.’ He grinned, though he felt no cheer.
While in the kitchen fetching some brandywine for Magda, Lucie heard an unfamiliar voice out in the garden. Geoffrey had sent Dun to fetch a priest to say prayers over the dead man. Had the priest arrived? She should speak with him. She handed Magda the brandywine and headed out.
On her way she thought to check on Euphemia. She found her still asleep in the bedchamber whose walls were covered with small tapestries. Unfinished, Lucie realized, looking round, all religious scenes in vibrant colors, delicate, beautiful work.
‘She had great skill,’ said Eva.
‘They caught my eye as I came to check on your mistress.’
‘I am grateful for your care.’ The maid
reached up to straighten one of the hangings.
‘You are devoted to her.’
‘She has been good to me, in her way.’
‘And her son? Is he difficult?’
‘He is a fair man. But—’ She looked down at her hands. ‘I should not speak of the master and mistress of this house.’
‘Even if it might help us catch the men who attacked your mistress?’
Eva toed something on the floor. ‘He cannot forgive Dame Euphemia for what she did. But she did it so that he might come home. If that poacher had not been hanged for the girl’s murder …’
Trying to sound as if she knew something of what the woman spoke, Lucie asked, ‘What was your mistress’s part in it?’
‘If the master had kept the boy’s secret, she would not have done it. And how people know that the mistress pushed him to name Warin as the girl’s murderer – I don’t know who told them.’
A thread of memory. A young woman’s drowning, the girls at St Clements’ whispering. ‘This Warin was not the murderer?’
‘No. He helped Master Crispin save her from drowning. Then the young master went away. No one knows why. Folk thought he might have done it, Master Crispin. Maybe he hid for a few days, made certain she was dead before she went in the Ouse this time, and then ran off to be a soldier.’
‘They thought Crispin saved the young woman, then murdered her?’
‘I don’t know that folk knew of the first drowning. But what if he hadn’t been trying to save her? What if Warin saw that?’ She met Lucie’s eyes, questioning. Unsure even now.
If this woman who had known him so well was unsure of his innocence … Was it this long-ago tragedy that haunted them now?
‘And he knows what his mother did?’
A nod. ‘I should not have told you, but—’
‘No, I am grateful, Eva. You have helped me see.’ Lucie might have gone on, but hearing once more the unfamiliar voice in the garden she remembered her mission. ‘The priest is here. Do you think Dame Euphemia would like him to bless her after he’s given the man the last rites?’