by Candace Robb
‘I can.’
‘I said she stays behind.’
‘Send Rich for me and my horse.’
‘I shall not leave you here alone another night, child.’
‘Someone will steal her.’
‘The nag belonging to a family dead of pestilence? Nay, child. Folk will fear it. And they will fear you, now I think of it.’
The girl squinted up at him. ‘Why don’t you?’
‘You must put on a pleasant face, child, else your aunt will curse me.’
‘So let me stay here.’
‘You have no flesh on you. You’ve not been eating.’
‘I eat.’
‘Not enough.’
‘Whoever has enough?’
‘Aye, you have felt the hunger. Come now. Rich will come for your prize horse in a day or so.’
‘Or so?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘God will smite you if you do not.’
Lame John frowned. She was so small, yet so determined to have her way. And evidently thought God meant her to have it, too. ‘Smite me, will He? Does the Lord oft do your bidding?’
Her head dropped, bony shoulders lifted. A tear worked its way down the muddy face, leaving a pale trail.
‘Nay, He has not, child. He has tested you sorely of late. Come. Let Colet and Lame John give you some good food and company, eh?’
Alisoun met his gaze, her chin jutting forward. ‘Tomorrow? He will come tomorrow?’
‘Aye, child, tomorrow.’
‘You swear?’
‘I swear.’
Ravenser crossed the yard to the infirmary. He wished to express his condolences to Julian Taverner and discuss the need for silence. The morning was chilly though the fog had lifted. Clouds gathered to the north, promising rain. Rain would be a relief, Ravenser thought. It would settle the dust, perhaps wash away some of the pestilential vapours.
As he passed the ugly remains of Warrene’s house, Ravenser paused, remembering the couple. Matilda had been a quiet woman, happiest, it seemed, in her garden. Laurence had been a fussy husband, always reminding her to dress warmly, eat as much as she could. Had they been so when they first married? He wandered back to the ruined garden. A neat row of feathery carrot crowns bobbed in the breeze. Not such a wasteland, then. He would ask Douglas to find someone to tend the garden. It would be a fitting memorial to a gentle woman and would provide the kitchen with fresh vegetables.
In the infirmary, Ravenser found Julian Taverner sitting up in bed, frowning at the opposite wall. His white hair framed his face like a pale lion’s mane, though lopsided. Ravenser realised Julian’s hair must have been singed on one side and the burned ends removed. On his forehead and chin were angry patches of healing flesh and a thick dressing protected the wound on the back of his skull. His hands were awkward with bandages. But even so, Julian did not look like a victim. His dark eyes were fierce in his lined face.
‘What is amiss, Master Taverner?’ Ravenser asked quietly. ‘Do you have a complaint about the care you are receiving?’
The angry eyes moved up, softened. ‘Sir Richard.’ Julian leaned forward, nodded to the stool against the wall. ‘Pray, sit yourself down,’ he said in his loud voice. ‘God bless you for coming.’
Ravenser moved the stool closer to the bed.
‘Nay,’ Julian continued, ‘I cannot complain about the care.’
‘But you looked so angry.’
‘’Twas naught.’
‘Come now. Tell me what angers you.’
The elderly man hesitated. ‘I make much of naught.’
‘You paid a goodly sum to lodge here. You deserve to be heard.’
Julian’s eyes softened more. ‘It is Mistress Catherine’s cough. Do you hear it?’
Ravenser had indeed noticed the incessant coughing down the corridor. ‘It keeps you awake?’
‘I merely asked whether I or Mistress Catherine might be moved so that I might escape the sound. It was a simple request. And Don Cuthbert behaved as if I were demanding my meals were served on golden platters with dancing women for my entertainment.’
‘Ah.’ Ravenser did not wish to become embroiled in such mundane problems. ‘The hospital is very busy at the moment. You must forgive short tempers. I shall see what can be done.’
‘I would be most grateful, Sir Richard.’
Ravenser considered the man’s bandages, noted that they looked clean. ‘With all else you are satisfied?’
‘Aye.’
Thanks be to God his complaint was so slight. ‘I have thought much about Laurence since I learned of his death. I shall miss him.’
Julian averted his eyes. ‘Oh, aye. There’s none to replace Laurence.’
‘And to happen so soon after Matilda’s passing. You have suffered much sorrow of late.’
Julian said nothing.
‘I should be cheering you.’ But in faith, Ravenser could think of nothing jolly to mention.
The uneasy silence was broken by Julian. ‘I do have one other request, Sir Richard. My niece has proved to be considerate and efficient in this trying time. I should like to change my will. Might your secretary assist me?’
A will? So he had more than what he had paid for his corrody and donated to the hospital? Ravenser wondered whether St Leonard’s was remembered in the will. ‘I shall be happy to send Douglas to you. Do I know your niece?’
‘Bess Merchet. She and her husband run the York Tavern.’
Ravenser closed his eyes to hide his dismay. Bess Merchet. He had forgotten. A woman with her nose in everything in the city.
‘It was my niece who convinced Cuthbert and Erkenwald to examine Laurence before he was buried. She wished them to see the wound on the back of his head. I believe that is what killed him, not the fire.’
Cuthbert had not mentioned Bess Merchet. ‘I trust that Mistress Merchet will not speak of the wounds to anyone.’
Julian’s head jerked up. ‘You think she does not understand the need for silence during an investigation? She is a canny woman, Sir Richard.’
‘Do you have any idea who might have attacked you?’
Julian studied Ravenser’s face. ‘It happened too quickly.’
‘Ah. Of course.’ Ravenser paused, trying to think of a more neutral subject. He must not forget the will. ‘I was thinking about our chess games. A clever strategist, Laurence. And yet cautious. I remember that riddle he posed me one night …’
Julian’s brows met in a bushy frown. ‘Riddle?’
‘“How might one unwittingly commit a sin? If none suffer but the guilty, has a wrong been done?” You dragged him away saying he would make a fool of himself with riddles.’
Julian’s eyes latched on to Ravenser’s with an intensity the latter found uncomfortable.
‘You do remember?’
Julian nodded slowly. ‘Did you— Have you spoken of that to any here in the hospital?’
He thought him a chattering jay like his niece? ‘I had no occasion to. But should I not talk of it?’
Julian leaned back, pressed his bandaged hands to his forehead. ‘’Tis naught, Sir Richard.’
A soft noise in the doorway made Ravenser turn round. A tall, comely woman appeared, carrying a tray of unguents and bandages. ‘God be with you, sir,’ she said, her voice low. Though she wore the dark, plain gown and starched wimple of a lay sister, she commanded attention. Ravenser searched his memory. Anneys. Yes. The widow.
‘Am I in the way?’ Ravenser asked.
‘Forgive me, sir. It is time Master Taverner’s bandages were changed.’
‘Where is Honoria?’ Julian asked. ‘I have not seen her in more than a day.’
Anneys dropped her head, as if uncertain what to say.
‘She is detained by other matters,’ Ravenser said.
Anneys looked grateful. Ravenser instructed her to send for Douglas when Julian was ready to see him, then took his leave.
Outside, the morning had turned misty. Ravenser lifted h
is face to the heavens and let them freshen him. A bell tolled somewhere in the city. Ravenser bowed his head, crossed himself and prayed for another dead of the pestilence. He caught himself. One might die from other causes, even in times of pestilence. Look at Laurence de Warrene.
He made his way slowly through the yard, noting the poorly patched areas in the surrounding wall, dangerous pits in the mud of the yard. In one, a rat swam happily. Ravenser was appalled by how shabby his hospital had become. Their financial situation was not so dire as this.
Coppery hair beneath a starched, beribboned cap caught his eye. He recognised Bess Merchet, chatting with one of the lay sisters. She must be here to see her uncle. He wondered what news she shared with the woman.
‘Mistress Merchet!’ he called in a friendly voice as he approached. ‘God be with you both.’
The sister dropped her eyes and murmured a greeting.
Bess kept her gaze steady. ‘God go with you, Sir Richard. I should like to speak with you by and by.’
Ravenser spread his hands. ‘Will this do?’
‘Oh, not today. Later. And in a less public place.’ Bess glanced at the other woman. ‘’Tis not for distrust of you, but there are too many about.’
Complaints about her uncle’s care, Ravenser guessed. He would rather not have any such grievances aired in public. ‘Come to my house when you wish to talk.’ He blessed the two women and took his way homeward, hoping that a cool cloth on his forehead might stave off the headache that had not entirely diminished. Clearly he could not count on rest to restore his health.
He was almost to the door when Don Cuthbert stepped into his path. ‘Sir Richard, I beg a word.’
A convenient meeting. ‘I understand Julian Taverner requested to be moved.’
Cuthbert coloured, rose on his toes. ‘He summoned you?’
‘No, I asked what had discomfited him. Is his request impossible to grant?’
‘The infirmary is crowded, Sir Richard, and threatens to become even more so.’
‘Then explain it to him with courtesy, Cuthbert.’
‘Perhaps that will not be necessary. I have thought of a solution that might please everyone – he will escape the noise, the other lay sisters will stop complaining that Honoria and Anneys devote too much time to him, and none of the other patients need be disturbed.’
‘This plan?’
‘Move Taverner to his home. His niece is here every day nursing him. Let her take over completely.’
‘She is here every day?’
Cuthbert bristled. ‘She believes our medicines are inferior, our food does not promote good health.’ He sniffed. ‘She has destroyed the harmony in the infirmary.’
‘Taverner is sufficiently recovered to be left alone?’
‘He is well enough to complain about someone else’s cough.’
Why did Cuthbert make so much of this? ‘If he agrees, let him go home. He has a servant, does he not?’
‘Of course.’
‘Instruct the servant to call for one of the lay sisters if anything seems amiss. Anneys. She seems competent.’
‘Anneys, Sir Richard? But she is our best—’
‘You heard me, Cuthbert. I want Julian Taverner to feel he is getting the best care possible.’
Cuthbert made a submissive gesture. ‘I wished to speak with you about Mistress Staines.’
‘What about her?’
‘She asks to speak with Taverner.’
‘Why?’
‘She will not say.’
‘What is between the two of them, I wonder?’
‘He was once her employer, Sir Richard. Perhaps she seeks his advice.’
Ravenser considered. ‘Move her to the windowed room in the gaol. It is less like a cell.’
‘Yes, Sir Richard.’
‘Let her go about her work by day, return to her cell by night. We may learn something by her movements.’
Cuthbert’s pinched face registered disapproval. ‘As you wish.’ He tucked his hands up his sleeves, bowed to Ravenser.
‘And now, I pray you, leave me in peace.’ Ravenser retreated into the comforting shadows of his own house. But his step was lighter than before. He was proud of his inspiration for easing Honoria de Staine’s defensive silence.
Eleven
The Stones of Sherburne
Alisoun and her Aunt Colet circled round each other warily. Neither felt comfortable turning her back on the other.
‘How did you come to be spared?’ Colet asked the child as soon as she stepped from the cart.
Alisoun turned back to her uncle. ‘I told you I should stay at the farm. She does not want me here.’
‘Do not turn from me when I am speaking to you!’ Colet said in an imperious voice.
Lame John pushed Alisoun forward. ‘Pay your respects to your aunt, child.’
She turned to face Colet. Fair and fat she was, with eyebrows and lashes so blonde they were transparent and made her face look naked. She had large, prominent teeth and a sneer that lingered even on the rare occasions when she smiled. Alisoun thought her disgusting. It was at that moment that she took a vow to remain silent so long as she stayed in her aunt’s house.
Three days of her silence drove Colet mad. ‘I cannot have this impertinence in my house!’
‘What is your complaint, wife? She has obeyed you in everything.’
‘Except to speak. I cannot know her mind if she will not speak.’
‘You did not much like her mind.’
‘’Tis the Devil’s work. No natural child could keep still so long. And what of that longbow? Who taught her to use it?’
‘My brother Duncan. A foolish idea, I admit.’
‘You must take it from her.’
‘If she aims it at one of us, I will do so, wife. But not before.’
‘You are not only lame, but weak, husband.’
‘And a fool for wedding such an ill-natured woman.’
Alisoun listened to the argument as she sat just outside the doorway, keeping an eye on her two young cousins while she stirred a sickening mixture of honey, oats and milk for her aunt’s complexion. Aunt Colet had sneered at what she called Alisoun’s mother’s airs, but what farmer’s wife pampered herself so with plasters to whiten and soften the skin? Did she ready herself for court? And while she lay napping in the late afternoon with the concoction on her face, Alisoun must sit and fan away the flies that fancied the honey.
Her little cousins began to shriek as they pulled each other’s hair. Alisoun put the bowl aside and yanked the two apart. A shooting pain travelled up her right arm. Her hand was sore from stirring the thickening mixture. And who could blame the children for fighting? They were sweaty and irritable from playing in the sun. Even Alisoun, sitting in the shade of a spindly tree, felt light-headed from the heat. And queasy from the sweet scent of her aunt’s concoction. She drew the two girls over by the house and allowed them each to dip one fingertip into the mixture. That would quiet them for a while.
Alisoun settled back on the bench, shaded her eyes, stared off into the distance. But no clouds of dust heralded her cousin’s approach. Three days she had been here, and there had been no sign of her cousin. That morning Lame John had read the anxiety in her furtive glances out of the door and had assured her that Rich would be back from market this day: he had been delayed, but surely by mid-morning he would appear, and he would fetch her horse as soon as he returned. It was now past midday and still there was no sign of him. Alisoun did not think it at all likely that he would agree to turn round on arrival and go to her farm for the horse.
So she planned to leave as soon as the sun set. It would be easy then. Her bed was in an outlying shed. No one would miss her till morning.
On the road to Bishopthorpe, Alfred, one of the archbishop’s retainers, compensated for his sullen captain’s silence by babbling statistics about the dead and dying in York. Owen did not listen long enough to be bothered by it. He knew that Alfred was nervous about a r
ash under his arm that he was certain foretold pestilence, despite Lucie’s assurances that it was a heat rash. Alfred had seen a star falling from the sky the night before the rash had appeared, and that was enough to convince him that he was doomed. In the circumstances, Owen thought it best to let Alfred chatter and jaw if it eased his mind, though he could not imagine how talk of the plague comforted him.
As they rode through the gates of Bishopthorpe, Alfred pointed towards a figure standing by the door to the hall.
Owen was amazed. ‘Brother Michaelo. Out in the yard, sitting in the sunlight? How unlike him.’ The archbishop’s secretary was not fond of fresh air.
As grooms helped Owen and Alfred from their horses, Brother Michaelo rose and approached them slowly, his usually inexpressive face a mask of grief.
‘Benedicte, Brother Michaelo,’ Owen said. ‘I pray all are well in the house?’
‘Benedicte, Captain Archer, Alfred.’ Michaelo bowed his head towards each in turn. ‘I am sad to say Death has visited the household. Maeve, the cook, has this morning lost her youngest daughter to the pestilence.’
Alfred crossed himself and coughed nervously.
‘May God grant her eternal rest,’ Owen murmured. ‘I hope that everyone else in the household is well?’ He was not in the mood to linger on the death of a child. Their maid, Kate, had that morning learned of the death of her youngest brother, another victim of the pestilence. Her grief was hard to bear. Kate’s sister, Tildy, at Freythorpe Hadden with Gwenllian and Hugh, had yet to hear the sad news.
‘So far God has taken no others,’ Michaelo said, ‘but two of the gardener’s children are ailing.’ He crossed himself. ‘His Grace hopes you can concoct something from our stores to calm Maeve. She will let no one comfort her.’
‘A few cups of His Grace’s brandywine should suffice. A scattering of balm leaves in the cup will lighten her heart. And if you have any valerian root, a pinch would hasten drowsiness. Sleep is the best remedy for grief.’
Michaelo glanced at the pouch Alfred held to his nose. ‘I see that you carry the scented bags. We have been using balls of ambergris. Which do you recommend, Captain?’
Even in his grief, Michaelo’s obsession with his own well-being remained strong. For once Owen found it refreshing. ‘I cannot in all honesty swear to any of the remedies or preventatives, Michaelo. We worry about being in crowds. But what crowd would Maeve’s child have been in out here?’