8/ Down by the River
The guard at Bootham Bar paid no attention to the boy who hobbled along beside the dung cart. Jasper had hidden in bushes near the Archbishop's palace until he caught his breath and decided where to go. Now outside the city walls, he whispered a prayer of thanksgiving that no one had been waiting for him. He had only to follow the Abbey wall to St. Mary's Tower, and then around to the river. The Riverwoman's house was easy to find. Jasper could force himself to go that far.
But his right arm throbbed, and with every step he fell more heavily on his right leg. Although the rain had dwindled to a drizzle, Jasper was already soaked through. In his terror, he had left his cloak at the minster. He reached St. Mary's Tower and rounded the corner of the Abbey wall, heading down toward the river. The closer he got to the river, the colder he felt. His head hurt and his stomach rumbled. He had not eaten in a day or two; he could not remember exactly how long it had been. That frightened Jasper, to forget when last he'd eaten. He always remembered his food.
The ground became uneven as he passed among the flimsy structures of the vermin city, and Jasper kept stumbling in the rutted mud. Babies cried, brushfires burned smokily in the damp, dogs barked incessantly and sniffed at Jasper as he passed. Icy rainwater puddled everywhere. Jasper looked at no one; he just tried to keep his footing. He was cold enough with his feet so wet; he did not want to fall and get himself even wetter. The wind had picked up and the river was rising. It must be raining or snowing hard up on the moors. Jasper groaned, knowing that meant he probably would have to wade out to Magda's hut, which stood on a muddy rock at the water's edge of the floodplain.
Indeed, when Jasper had battled his way to the edge of the huts, he could see the Riverwoman's strange home rising out of the swelling river. The water surrounding her hut did not look too deep yet, but crossing it would soak Jasper's feet completely. He hesitated, wondering what would happen if she wasn't there. But even as he stood, the water continued to rise. Jasper must cross now or find another refuge, and he could think of none.
He strode in. The water was deeper than he had guessed, soaking him halfway up his calves, and with his injured leg it was hard work keeping upright in the current. By the time he climbed the slope to face the serpent's head above the doorway, Jasper could not stop his teeth from chattering. The sea monster leered at him, and Jasper imagined he saw its tail flicker at the back of the hut. He closed his eyes and stepped up to the door, banging on it so that the Riverwoman would hear him above the wind. No answer. Jasper stepped back and checked the roof. Smoke curled out, so her fire was lit. He knocked again. Still no answer. He pushed on the door, too desperate for the heat of that fire to be polite.
The smoky hut was dark but for the fire in the center. Jasper took a few steps in and closed the door behind him. Something brushed his forehead, giving off a dusty scent. He stood still, letting his eyes adjust. All along the rafters bunches of herbs were hung to dry. A few tables and benches were scattered around the room, and there were two curtained corners where Magda Digby must have beds. Jasper checked them. No one was there. The beds looked inviting. Maybe he would take off his wet clothes and nap until she returned. He pulled a bench close to the fire and laid his clothes along it so they might dry. They were all he had. As he tucked his torn shoes at the edge of the fire circle, he noticed a bowl of broth simmering on a stone. He reached over and stuck a finger in. A green, bitter taste. No meat or fat of any kind in it. Some sort of herbal infusion. Not very appealing. But it was hot, and he was so cold. Jasper took a small bowl from a stack and poured himself a bit of the broth, drinking it down quickly. He shuddered as his tongue discovered its bitter taste. But it warmed him inside, and for that he was
grateful. He dropped down on one of the beds and was asleep in moments.
Severe stomach cramps woke him. Jasper clutched his middle and got out of the bed, not wanting to foul it. He was giddy and could not get his balance. He sat down hard in the rushes and bent double, retching. He crawled away from the mess, but it felt as if fire and knives were ripping his stomach out. Jasper curled up on his side and moaned as his stomach cramped again. He was frightened. People died from pain like this. He tried to pray, but his thoughts would not stay on the prayer. That frightened him even more. If he could not pray, how could he die in a state of grace? He drifted in and out of a dream that he had shrunk to the size of a mouse and was drowning in a bowl of bitter green broth that he must not inhale or drink. In another dream, a brown-robed friar carried Jasper's mother to one of the curtained beds in Magda's hut and told Magda to see to the boy first. "No!" Jasper cried. "Save my mother. Don't let her die again!"
Then someone was bending over him, smelling of river and earth and fire. "Jasper, open thine eyes. What hast thou eaten, Jasper? Magda must know. Was it the green broth?"
He nodded weakly and closed his eyes against the light from the oil lamp Magda held up to his face.
"Foolish boy. That was not for thee. That was for the lass who must rid herself of her lord's babe. How much didst thou drink, Jasper?"
"Little bowl." He pointed feebly in what he thought was the direction of the fire. "My mother?"
"Not your mother, poor lad. Just the lass whose physick you sampled," Magda said.
Jasper closed his eyes against the tears that revealed his disappointment.
Magda laid him down gently, went over to the fire and picked up the small bowl lying beside the broth. She sniffed, considered the size of the bowl. He had not been greedy, but it was far more than she would administer. "Oh, Jasper, my pet, thou mayest have killed thyself. Magda must hope thy belly purged itself before the poison
took hold. And now Magda must give thee pain while she sets thy arm and wraps thy leg. Thou art lucky thy leg did not break."
Jasper whimpered as the brown-robed man from his dream bent over him, holding him down.
"Friar Dunstan brought the lass whose physick thou hast sampled, Jasper. He will help thee hold still while Magda straightens thy arm."
When Magda pulled at Jasper's arm, he passed out with the pain.
She was glad of that. The boy had had enough pain for his eight years. She did not like giving him more. When she had splinted his arm, poulticed and wrapped his bruised hip and knee, Magda made up a pallet for Jasper as close to the fire as she dared, piling blankets and hides on top of him to make him sweat. Now she must wait to see whether the poison had been too long inside the boy and had taken hold.
While Jasper slept, Magda saw to the young woman, but her thoughts were with the boy who lay there by the fire so still and pale. She did not want to be responsible for the boy's death. He was a favorite of hers. He had a quick mind and a good heart. Magda had considered taking him in when his mother died, but she had thought better of it. If he could survive on the streets of York, he would be better off. To become associated with the vermin city, as the fine folk of York called the pathetic tumble of huts along the river, was to be doomed to a life of begging or thieving.
The boy cried out, and Magda hurried over to him, cradling his thin body in her arms, splint and all. His breathing was labored, but not a death rattle. Perhaps he was out of danger. He had not fallen into the stupor that led to death. Magda rocked Jasper and hummed softly until the boy slept quietly.
Soon the young woman slept quietly, too. Magda turned to the friar. "And how wilt thou pay Magda, eh, Dunstan?"
"I thought to humble myself before my brother and ask for money," the friar said. "Unless you would accept prayers said for your soul every day until I die?"
Magda snorted. "Prayers of a sinful friar? Even if Magda shared thy faith, she would not count thy prayers worth much. And as for thy brother's money"-- she rolled her eyes--"Magda says thou shalt carry out a task for her. Thou shalt go to the apothecary,
Mistress Lucie Wilton, and ask her if she would take this boy into her house until he is out of danger. All of his present danger--mark thou say est that, Dunstan. She will understand.
"
Ambrose Coats, one of York's Town Waits, or musicians, hurried down Footless Lane with his instruments wrapped in a cloak and held close to his chest, though the overhanging buildings went far to protect him from the rain. He was humming the new piece he'd just rehearsed with his fellow waits and did not notice the bundle in front of his door until he stumbled on it. He grabbed it up, eager to get in the door to a warm fire. Inside, he dumped the bundle near the brazier, then carefully unwrapped his rebec and crowd and two bows and hung them on pegs far enough from the fire that they would not feel an extreme change in temperature. That done, he bent to the bundle, which gave off an unpleasant odor.
Ambrose decided to leave his gloves on until he unwrapped the damp bundle. He was compulsive about protecting his hands from chills that would stiffen them. He had seen many a good musician lose his skill because his fingers stiffened and became clumsy on the strings. Ambrose sat down on a stool and leaned over, unrolling the cloth.
"Deusjuva me," Ambrose whispered, staring at a severed human hand.
His first thought was that the neighbor's pig had been digging again and left this behind. But the hand had been wrapped. No, then, not the pig. That damnable creature would have disturbed the wrapping. So whence came this horrible thing? Sweet God in Heaven, what was he to do with it? Ambrose gingerly rolled the thing back up in the cloth. If it hadn't been the pig, then . . .
The hand. Of course--the two murders. Had they ever found the hands? More importantly, had they ever found the murderers? For if not, everyone was suspect, and Ambrose did not care to make himself conspicuous. Not with his companion's questionable connections.
But what to do with this thing? If he buried it in the garden, that damnable pig might come snooping and dig it up. The pig was always on the loose, which was illegal in the city. Ambrose should report his neighbor to the bailiffs. Should have done so long ago.
But he'd refrained because he was afraid his neighbor would retaliate by spreading rumors about him and his friend. Especially his friend. The city folk did not like foreigners.
Ambrose sat glumly by the brazier, pondering his dilemma, all the joy from his rehearsal gone.
Late in the evening Magda heard the scratch and thump of a boat being pulled up onto the rock. She put Jasper down gently and went for her knife. She hoped it was Friar Dunstan bringing Lucie Wilton's reply, but it was best to be prepared for trouble. Magda had not worked so hard over Jasper only to have him murdered. She crouched by the door and waited, holding her breath.
The door opened slowly. Magda gripped the knife.
"Mistress Digby? It's Friar Dunstan with the apothecary and her serving girl."
Magda straightened up. "They have come here?" She tucked the knife back in her belt and lit an oil lamp.
Lucie took off her wet cloak and knelt to look at the boy. "You have purged him?" she asked.
Magda bristled at the question, but calmed herself. The apothecary was brave to come to a strange place at night in a storm to rescue an injured child. "Magda has done all that can be done at present. Come. Sit by the fire and warm thyself."
Magda held the oil lamp up to Lucie's face as the apothecary turned to her. "Thou art much like thy mother, but with a stronger spirit." Magda grinned. "Magda thanks thee for coming."
Lucie motioned to Tildy to come sit by her. "I don't understand. Why did you ask me to take the boy in if you have the skill to take care of him yourself, Mistress Digby?"
"Well might thou ask," Magda said, nodding. "But come. Sit thee down. Drink some of Magda's fine brandywine. Crossing the flood has chilled thee, Magda knows."
Lucie took the cup gratefully.
"Thou art more trusting than thy husband. Bird-eye will not drink with Magda."
Lucie laughed. "He hates that you call him that, you know. As to trust, I know that you assisted my Aunt Philippa at my birth. I have nothing to fear from you."
Magda liked this wife of Bird-eye. "Thou art just the person Magda hoped thee would be. She needs thee to take Jasper into thy house, nurse him, protect him. Canst thou do this?"
Lucie glanced over at her serving girl. "Tildy says she is willing to take on the work of caring for him."
"This young chick?" Magda said, eyeing Tildy.
The girl had been staring down at Jasper with a melancholy look. Now her face lit up. "I've nursed all my brothers and sisters many times. And he reminds me of my brother Alf who was killed up on the moors. I would like to nurse him."
"I know Owen is concerned for the boy," Lucie said, "so I am willing to take him in. But why not keep the boy here? The friar said Jasper made his way to you. He must feel safe with you."
Magda looked down at the boy. "Magda wishes she could keep Jasper by her. But he needs protection, someone to be near him at all times. Magda lives alone. How can she do this?"
"If he is to come home with me, I ought to know what you know about him," Lucie said.
Magda nodded. "Thou'rt right to ask it. So. What does Magda know? His father was a carpenter, like thy St. Joseph. Died when Jasper was six. His mother was an embroiderer. The Mercers' Guild hired her to pretty up their pageant costumes and make a new guild banner. Will Crounce was responsible for approving her work. One thing led to another, and he meant to marry her. To prove his good faith, he planned to sponsor Jasper in the guild. First step was the job Jasper took on, greasing the pageant wagon."
"That was the day his mother took sick?" Lucie asked.
Magda nodded. " 'Twas Will's child Kristine de Melton carried. But the gods took the child in the womb. It often happens that such a thing poisons the mother." Magda shrugged. "There is little else. Thou know'st the boy witnessed Crounce's murder and went into hiding. He has survived attacks before, and come to Magda for care. It is the second time he has broken that same arm. Poor lad. Magda can do so little to protect him."
Lucie looked down at the sleeping boy. "How old is he?"
"Almost nine."
"Do you have any idea from whom he's hiding?"
Magda shook her head. "The boy thinks to protect Magda by
saying naught. Canst thou imagine?" Her laugh was more like a bark.
"Do you think it's the same person who keeps finding him?"
Magda thought about it. Shrugged. "Magda thinks this is the first time Jasper has faced his attacker. Something has changed. Perhaps the attacker is more desperate. That is not good."
"Should we take him tonight?" Lucie asked.
Magda nodded. "It is best."
Magda and Lucie woke the boy and explained where he was going, but he did not seem to comprehend. He whimpered as they wrapped him in blankets and clung to Lucie when Dunstan tried to lift him.
"I will carry him to the boat," Lucie said. "It is not far."
Lucie and Tildy held the boy on their laps in the boat while Friar Dunstan rowed the short distance. The wind blew bitterly, and Lucie hugged the boy to her to protect him. Friar Dunstan carried Jasper up the muddy bank despite the boy's protests. Up there, one of Tildy's brothers waited with Bess's donkey and cart.
The city gates were already closed for the night, but the gate warden at Bootham Bar had agreed to let them back through. With Jasper moaning and shivering in the cart, Lucie felt the warden took an eternity to answer their ringing, but he finally came. It was very late when they got to the apothecary.
"Do you need a bed for the night?" Lucie asked the friar.
"Bless you, but no, the friary is not so far from here," he said.
"This is a hard night's work," Lucie said. "Why have you done this? Do you know the boy?"
Dunstan bowed his head. "No. I do this in payment for Mistress Digby's night's work."
Lucie frowned. "Her night's-- The young woman in the curtained bed, you mean?"
The friar nodded.
"It was your child she carried?"
"My sweet Lord, have mercy on this sinner," Dunstan said, striking his breast. "I will leave you now. God's blessing on this house." He
went out the kitchen door.
Lucie found herself smiling at Magda Digby's exacting penance for payment. There was a comfortable logic to the Riverwoman that appealed to Lucie.
9/ Tonics and Waits
Owen had just come downstairs to the warm fire, his mind still muddled with sleep, when Alfred and Colin burst into the hall with a bedraggled traveler in tow. Blast, Owen thought, Paul Scorby is the last person I want to see this morning. Anna Scorby had cried out with fever dreams in the night, and Owen had worked over her, bringing down the fever. Cecilia had been too drugged with the valerian to rouse. She was with her daughter now, having come to check on Anna in the early morning when the root wore off. It would be the Devil's timing for Scorby to arrive now.
"Captain Archer, this lad says he comes with messages from your wife," Alfred said as he roughly pulled back the captive's hood.
"John!" Owen said.
"Aye, Captain Archer. Tis only me, not a Highlander."
"You know him?" Alfred asked.
Owen slammed his cup down on the table. "Where did the Archbishop find you men? Do you attack anyone who comes to the gate?"
" 'Tis early in the day for an honest traveler to arrive," Colin said in a whining voice that irritated Owen even more.
"Early in the day?" Owen repeated angrily. "Is there an ordinance against arriving at certain hours, then?"
Colin shrugged.
"I rode hard, Captain," John said. And he did look it, wet and spattered with mud, his nose red and his eyes bloodshot.
"Surely you didn't ride through the night?"
"Nay, I don't know the countryside well enough for that. I found an empty hut."
"Didn't Mistress Wilton give you coin for an inn?"
"Oh, aye, Captain, but I'd as lief stay away from other travelers."
The Lady Chapel Page 10