by Candace Robb
‘His wounds were so chilled by the waters of the Ouse that the blood clotted,’ said Brother Henry. ‘We have managed to warm him enough so that it flows again.’
But the murmuring in the crowd was not friendly.
‘A corpse bleeds when the murderer is near,’ a man far back in the crowd shouted.
‘A corpse, perhaps,’ said Henry. ‘Not a living man.’
Abbot Campian put a hand on Henry’s arm. ‘I’ve sent for the bailiffs. I don’t like the temper of the crowd. Such confusion is a sign of trouble.’
‘God help us that the scholars’ charitable intention should turn so foul,’ said Henry.
‘Where is Master Nicholas, my Lord Abbot?’ a man asked much more loudly than necessary. Others echoed the question. There was much jostling, and angry words flew as people’s tempers rose.
Jasper recognised the speaker – he was frequently escorted from the York Tavern for drunkenness.
A bargeman spoke out. ‘The schoolmaster was not on the river when Drogo fell. Brother Henry is right, he was too cold at first for his wounds to bleed.’
Brother Henry knelt and gently cleaned Drogo’s face, then rose and quietly said, ‘My Lord Abbot, I would take him to the infirmary where he will be warmer, and send for Captain Archer to come look at his wounds.’
‘Why is that?’
‘The colour of the skin is not as it should be. I believe he was cut with a poisoned blade.’
The abbot paused for a heartbeat, then turned to Jasper. ‘Can you find the captain for us?’
With a nod, Jasper set out in the direction of the abbey gates, shivering now not only with the cold, but also about the miserable result of his fellows’ actions and the jagged tempers of the people.
* * *
Now Drogo whimpered in pain and cursed his mate for plucking him from the kind waters of the Ouse. He cursed him for bringing back the pain, the threads of fire that radiated ever farther out from his wounds, torturing him for the sins for which he’d already been shriven by God and the river. My girls – God protect my daughters and my wife.
Owen Archer had spent the afternoon in the barracks of Archbishop Thoresby’s guards with Alfred, his second in command. For almost eight years they had worked together protecting the archbishop and keeping the peace in the minster liberty, the north-western section of the city surrounding the archbishop’s palace, York Minster, and the school and residences connected to both. Owen’s duties had often been extended to include protecting other dignitaries who had asked for the archbishop’s protection – as the second most powerful representative of the Church in England and former Lord Chancellor of the realm, John Thoresby was a man of influence.
But even the powerful slow with age, and as Thoresby had been ailing for the past year he no longer travelled to Westminster or King Edward’s court, but rather spent his time now in Yorkshire. Today Owen and Alfred had been discussing the logistics of Thoresby’s imminent move to his palace of Bishopthorpe for Advent. In addition to his other duties, Owen was steward of Bishopthorpe; he had just returned from his monthly visit to the estate and was informing Alfred, who was to lead the half-dozen guards who would attend the archbishop, of changes, projects in progress, and new considerations for guarding the archbishop in his failing health.
Alfred, who had been frowning down at his hands and occasionally nodding, suddenly interrupted Owen’s monologue. ‘I don’t understand why His Grace wishes to bide at Bishopthorpe in this season. There’s such a wheezing in his chest, and that palace sits right on the Ouse, it’s damp and chill.’ Alfred shivered. ‘There will be flood waters soon, mark me. It’s no place for His Grace.’ He took off his cap, his pate shiny where it had once held a shock of straw-coloured hair, and scratched his scalp, leaving trails of reddened skin.
Owen agreed with Alfred; a mere fortnight past Thoresby had returned to the city saying he wished to escape the late autumn rains on the river; but he later confided that he could not bear the isolation of Bishopthorpe for long. ‘His Grace means by returning to Bishopthorpe to appease Dean John. They complain he’s spent too much time in the city of late.’
Although Thoresby was Archbishop of York, the dean and the chapter of canons were the administrators of the great cathedral and its properties, and his chancellor was in charge of the schools. They had become accustomed to little supervision by their archbishops and felt threatened by Thoresby’s frequent and extended residence in the city.
‘But His Grace has spent the better part of the year at Bishopthorpe,’ said Alfred.
‘Aye. It’s his frequent returns to the city they don’t like, no matter how brief. They claim folk are gossiping about how he distrusts them, though I’ve heard no such talk.’
‘Can’t they see he’s ill!’
‘Of course they see. Perhaps it’s just as well. In truth, he’s glad to escape the controversy over Master Nicholas Ferriby’s grammar school. Chancellor Thomas has threatened Nicholas with excommunication, Dean John supports the threat, and Nicholas’s brother Canon William has voiced his support – now they cannot understand why His Grace will not.’ Owen was glad of Thoresby’s stance, for his children’s nurse, Alisoun, was thriving in Ferriby’s school.
‘And no wonder His Grace won’t support their complaint,’ said Alfred, ‘excommunication for competing with the minster school? It’s daft. His brother William has no backbone.’
‘William’s reacting to the early rumours that he was protecting Nicholas,’ said Owen. ‘Their enemies said the Ferriby brothers were building power, that they meant to have Peter mayor and William dean.’ Owen and Lucie were close friends of Peter and Emma Ferriby, so they had heard much of the rumours when they were first spread about. Both Peter and William had tried to distance themselves from their brother Nicholas once it was clear he intended to stay in the liberty. The dean and chapter felt that over the years the chapter’s influence in the city had been chipped away by the mayor, council, and bailiffs, and the existence of competing schools in the city threatened the income from students’ fees that covered the upkeep of St Peter’s School and the master’s expenses. Although neither Peter nor William had high ambitions in the city they did not want to risk losing what comfortable success they enjoyed – Peter was a successful and prominent member of the Mercers Guild and William, as keeper of the minster fabric, held great responsibility for the upkeep of the magnificent cathedral and claustral buildings.
As for the archbishop’s support, Owen understood why the dean and chancellor might have assumed Thoresby’s cooperation. Five years earlier he had censored the opening of song schools in the city, but their purpose was ecclesiastical, not practical like a grammar school, and Thoresby now insisted the difference was everything. To Dean John and Chancellor Thomas it was another sign of the rising power of the York laity.
‘In the long run it would be far more comfortable for everyone, particularly Master Nicholas, if he moved his school out of the minster liberty,’ Owen said. ‘Surely –’
A banging on the door interrupted him. He opened it with such a jerk that Jasper almost fell into the room.
‘What is it, lad?’ Owen asked as his foster son slumped down onto a bench and fought to catch his breath. ‘Alfred, is there anything to drink?’
Alfred picked up a jug on a windowsill and shook it. ‘Aye, though it’s only well water,’ he said as he poured a cup.
Jasper took it with thanks and drank it down.
‘A bargeman fell into the river and almost drowned.’ Jasper paused to burp. ‘They took him to the Virgin at the abbey gate. As Master Nicholas approached him he began to bleed, and people are saying he’s a murderer, though Drogo – the bargeman – isn’t dead. Brother Henry would have you look at the wounds because he thinks they are poisoned.’
‘Whose wounds?’ Owen asked.
‘Drogo’s,’ said Jasper.
‘Who went in the water?’ Alfred asked as he refilled Jasper’s cup.
‘Drogo, th
e pilot, the one we were looking for.’ Jasper drank down the second cup.
‘Are his wounds mortal?’ Owen asked.
Jasper shook his head. ‘Slits on his face, neck and hands. They didn’t look deep. But if the blade was poisoned …’ he raised his eyebrows.
That would make all the difference. Owen nodded, and was about to remind Jasper that he’d promised not to participate in the battles between the scholars and the bargemen – the latter being a rough lot – but he decided to hold his tongue until he heard more. ‘Why were you looking for him?’ he asked.
Jasper pressed his hands to his eyes and shook his head slowly, as if wondering that himself. ‘We wanted to recover a scrip that Hubert de Weston lost a fortnight ago. This Drogo had grabbed it and then refused to return it.’
A bargeman teaching a boy a lesson. It seemed innocent enough. ‘That’s all?’
‘Aye. But none of us would attack him with a poisoned blade.’
No, Owen did not think that likely. ‘How was Master Nicholas involved?’ he asked.
Jasper shook his head. ‘He wasn’t. Drogo was warm at last and the bleeding started again. But the people wanted to blame him. Is it such a terrible thing he did, to open a school in the minster liberty?’
‘No it is not,’ said Owen, ‘and I can’t think why most folk would care one whit about Nicholas Ferriby. Unless there’s a rumour I’ve not heard. I don’t know that I’d risk my soul’s salvation for the prestige of teaching in the liberty. If they say he’s up to something more than education …’
‘Has someone gone for the bailiffs?’ Alfred asked.
Jasper nodded. ‘And Abbot Campian told Master Nicholas to go into the abbey grounds to escape the crowd. They’ve taken Drogo to the abbey infirmary.’
Owen nodded. ‘The abbot is a sensible man. You look half-frozen yourself, Jasper. Go straight home. Tell your mistress what has happened and where I am.’ He shook his head as he saw the argument form in Jasper’s eyes. ‘You’ll hear all that I learn. Now go. I am off to Brother Henry.’
Shrugging his disappointment, Jasper slumped out of the barracks.
Lucie and Owen’s house sat on the corner of St Helen’s Square and Davygate, next to Wilton’s Apothecary, the shop Lucie carried on from her first husband, Nicholas. When he was alive and then when she and Owen were first wed the building that housed the shop had also been her home. Her father, whose manor of Freythorpe Hadden was in the countryside south of York, had purchased the large house across the garden so that he might spend more time in the city with his grandchildren, and on his death he’d left the town house as well as the manor to Lucie. It was a beautiful home in which to raise her children and provide a comfortable home for her aged aunt, Phillippa, who’d been crippled in body and mind by a palsy. Joining the gardens had allowed Lucie to grow a greater variety of materia medica for the apothecary. All in all she felt very blessed in her marriage, her children, her career, her life – and especially this healthy pregnancy.
The afternoon light faded quickly at this time of year in the North, and though the hall boasted casement windows looking out onto the extensive garden Lucie was glad of the light from the hall fire and several wall sconces. Phillippa napped by the fire near the table at which Lucie was working on the shop accounts. Alisoun Ffulford, the children’s nursemaid, had just risen from her seat across the way and lit an oil lamp, placing it beside Lucie – unasked for.
‘Bless you, Alisoun,’ said Lucie, trying to keep the surprise out of her voice, for she knew the young woman would take it as a subtle criticism.
It had taken some time, but Lucie had ceased fretting over the volatility of Alisoun’s moods, having witnessed how the young woman struggled to smooth them out. Certainly Jasper seemed immune to Alisoun’s moods except when she snapped at him – for he greatly admired her. Lucie suspected that Alisoun felt likewise about Jasper. She was consistent with the children, firm but kind and always ready to sing or read to them. It was in the idle moments, especially after Gwenllian and Hugh were abed, that Alisoun fought her devils, her resentment of the kin who were her guardians and her frustration with Magda Digby’s elusiveness. She’d wished to apprentice to Magda, but so far she’d had little opportunity to work beside the midwife and healer.
Lucie had never expected Alisoun to be so long a part of her household – she’d been Gwenllian and Hugh’s nurse for more than a year. Her understanding had been that the girl was temporarily assisting her after she’d fallen and miscarried and suddenly needed more help in the house. Indeed, at the moment Lucie shared some of Alisoun’s impatience with Magda. When Lucie had realised she was again with child she’d told Magda that it was time to replace Alisoun with a wet nurse. Magda had assured her she had already begun to look for one, and more recently that she had someone in mind. Yet not a word of Alisoun’s replacement had come in many a week. Lucie was quite satisfied with Alisoun most of the time, but she agreed with Owen that even if a wet nurse was not required, Alisoun was still too inexperienced to take on the care of a newborn in addition to Hugh and Gwenllian. Now, with only a month until she delivered, Lucie was growing anxious about the arrangements.
But it was not her wont to complain these days, so happy was she that she’d conceived again. The loss of the baby she’d carried the previous year had sent her into such a sinful despair that she had feared her penance would be to bear no more children. Then just as she’d set her mind to being content with Gwenllian and Hugh, her courses had stopped. Still she had feared saying anything to Owen or to Magda. It was Owen who had coaxed her to talk of it, noticing with delight her swelling breasts.
‘I fear to speak such hope,’ she’d whispered in the darkness of the night.
‘Hope, my love?’ Owen had said. ‘You are much farther along than hope might bring you. Would you not like to make a special offering in the minster for your safe delivery?’
Owen had known just what to say. Lucie did not think any woman could have a better husband.
This evening Alisoun’s woes concerned her grammar master. She was sitting at the hall table practising her letters on a slate while Lucie worked on the shop accounts. Kate, the cook and housemaid, had Gwenllian and Hugh in the kitchen feeding them an early supper.
‘If it were only Master Nicholas’s school being in the minster liberty I would not worry so,’ Alisoun said, sitting stiffly straight as was her habit of late, ‘but I’m certain that some of the students will gossip about the beliefs he holds that border on heresy.’
‘Heresy? Master Nicholas?’ This was the first Lucie had heard of heretical teachings. Word of this could get him stripped of his parish of Weston as well as his little school here in York.
It had been Owen’s inspiration to send Alisoun to Master Nicholas’s school. He’d noticed how closely she watched Lucie writing up the shop accounts and how eagerly she asked Jasper about his lessons. Owen’s guilt over his insistence that she leave her post when the baby was born was assuaged by her obvious appreciation of the gift. She was careful to fit her school work in around her duties in the household. She would be horribly disappointed if her grammar master brought ruin upon himself by insisting on keeping his school where it was – or, even worse, teaching heresy to his students. York had few good schools that accepted girls. How awful if Alisoun lost both her job and her school at the same time.
What a wealth of worry because of the girl’s chatter, Lucie thought, and in her condition she was a consummate worrier. She wished Alisoun would quietly work at her letters or at least take up a happier topic. Or that Aunt Phillippa would wake from her doze by the fire and join them. Lucie looked forward to the end of the children’s meal when Kate handed them over to Alisoun and she would be busy once more.
Relief came from an unexpected quarter. Lucie’s good friend Bess Merchet, mistress of the York Tavern just beyond the apothecary, knocked on the street door and then opened it to announce herself. She entered the hall before Lucie was on her feet. Her ample curve
s and the pale red hair that escaped her cap belied her age. She breathed life into a room merely by entering it.
‘Sit, my friend,’ Bess said as she hugged Lucie, always the hostess even in another’s house. The ribbons on her cap quivered as she glanced around the room. ‘Where are your men?’
‘Owen and Jasper are not yet home,’ said Lucie. ‘Edric is in the shop.’
‘Pity.’ Bess eased herself down across from Alisoun. To Lucie, at the head of the table, she said, ‘Your new apprentice is a comely lad.’
Lucie laughed. ‘Trust you to notice, Bess.’
‘Edric is no lad,’ Alisoun blurted. ‘He’s eighteen.’
Her outburst and its accompanying deep blush surprised Lucie. Edric had not seemed to her a young man who would catch a young woman’s interest. But considering him now, she realised he was comely in a delicate way, though part of that impression might be his shy demeanour. Still, she’d thought Alisoun preferred Jasper.
Bess leaned forward on her strong forearms to peer at what Alisoun was doing. ‘I see you are practising your letters. What a fortunate day it was for you when you joined this household, eh? And when Nicholas Ferriby opened his school. Let us pray that the dean and chancellor hear nothing of your grammar master’s peculiar ideas about the bible being translated into the common language or, even worse, how unacceptably wealthy the canons of York Minster are.’
So these were his heretical ideas. He sounded like a follower of John Wycliff, an English priest both famous and infamous. Lucie’s stomach burned, and she took a slow, deep breath for the baby. With the dean and chapter already feeling threatened by the laity they would certainly pounce on the heretical idea of lay people bypassing their priests by reading and interpreting the bible for themselves.
‘Master Nicholas’s ideas are tavern talk?’ Alisoun asked in amazement.
‘On dull evenings,’ Bess said with a wink. ‘But tonight people have something of more substance on their minds – or less, depending on your taste. Have you heard that Drogo the steersman almost drowned today?’