by Candace Robb
Edric seemed flustered by the news that Lucie would work beside him all day.
‘But should you stand so long, Dame Lucie?’ He blushed a little.
‘No, and that is why I have this high stool.’
He rushed to take it from Kate and carry it to the counter area. ‘Where shall I place it?’
She indicated a spot. ‘You’ll do the reaching, lifting, rushing about and I’ll sit here and talk to the customers,’ she said, easing herself onto the stool and smoothing out her skirt.
‘I’d best hurry back now,’ said Kate. ‘In case Dame Phillippa becomes confused.
Edric hovered above Lucie in his most irritating way.
She smiled and patted him on the forearm. ‘I will enjoy it. Do not worry about me.’
He fussed over her for a while longer, but eventually, after they’d seen to a few customers, he fell into a rhythm, understanding how their partnering would work.
Nicholas Ferriby broke the quiet of the morning, rushing into the shop and then trying to minimise himself while Lucie and Edric dealt with a customer, Dame Barbara. But being a man expansive in his movements, Nicholas could not help but be a presence in the shop, and his slightly asthmatic wheeze was just loud enough for Dame Barbara to turn to him and offer to return later if he had need of something at once.
‘Oh no, I pray you, forget that I am here,’ he said, holding up his hands palms out as if pressing her back.
Dame Barbara turned back to Lucie with an amused glint in her eye, and when the grammar master swept gracefully into a bow as she departed, she choked back a laugh. What rendered Master Nicholas amusing was that he spoke dully but gestured dramatically, as if his arms betrayed his attempt at a dignified demeanour.
He quickly strode to the counter as if he was in danger of being beaten to it.
‘Master Nicholas,’ said Lucie, ‘I do not expect to see you mid-morning on a school day. I hope you have not come about Alisoun.’
His hands rose up in exclamation. ‘My assistant is with my young scholars for a little while. I’d hoped to see Captain Archer, but an elderly woman at the house informed me that he is away?’
Lucie did not blame him for being uncertain whether to credit her aunt’s information, for Phillippa sounded vague these days. But she had been accurate, which cheered Lucie.
‘Yes, he is, for several days. Might I be of help?’
Nicholas shook his head. ‘I am grateful to you for asking, but no. I must speak to the captain.’ He pressed his temples and his eyes flitted side to side as if he were listening in distress to warring factions in his head.
Lucie rose. ‘We might withdraw into the workshop. No one will interrupt us or hear us there.’
‘Thank you, no, Dame Lucie. I apologise for disturbing you. I should not have done so.’ He pressed his hands together in prayer. ‘Sometimes I think too much and create problems where none existed. I have been foolish. Please remind Alisoun to inform me when the captain has returned.’ He bowed out of the shop, opening the door so wide that he jammed it into a snow drift.
Edric assisted him in freeing it.
Lucie did not know whether to laugh or worry.
Hubert’s home sat to one side of a broad clearing that sloped away from where Owen had paused at the edge of the wood. It was a long, low house surrounded by several small outbuildings. A pig was the only creature in sight, eyeing what Owen guessed was the kitchen garden. It was so quiet he could hear its snuffling across the clearing. Smoke trickled out from a central hole in the house’s thatched roof. There was more snow on the ground here than there had been in Wetherby, though not so thick as to cover the underbrush, so it was more like lace than a blanket of snow.
‘What a lonely place,’ said Jasper, keeping his voice low.
‘It is not so far from the town,’ said Owen.
‘It is a humble home for one at St Peter’s School,’ said Gilbert.
Owen realised that he did not know Aubrey de Weston’s status, whether he was merely a tenant farmer or Sir Baldwin’s retainer. It seemed a humble home indeed for a retainer. He considered how best to approach.
‘We’ll ride to that first building, where Jasper and I will dismount and go to the house,’ Owen decided. ‘Gilbert, Rafe, find somewhere to tether the animals where they’ll be protected from the wind, if you can, and then join us.’
A track from the building to the house indicated that someone had been here about an hour ago, judging from the fresh snow on the bare patches. Paired with the smoke Owen judged it a sign that someone was at home. That was soon confirmed as he noticed a boy standing in the doorway holding a bow. Fortunately he held it so inexpertly that Owen had no fear of his hitting them.
‘That is Hubert,’ said Jasper.
‘We are friends, not thieves,’ Owen called, holding up his hands to show that he held no weapon. ‘Tell him who you are, Jasper.’
‘It’s Jasper de Melton, from St Peter’s. This is my Da, Captain Archer.’
Owen patted Jasper on the shoulder, more for the two-letter word than for his execution of the order.
Hubert did not lower the bow. ‘Jasper. Why are you here?’ The boy’s voice was reedy and frightened, his face tight with fear. He took a step backwards.
Owen and Jasper stopped a few feet from Hubert. He looked but a child, with tousled red hair, freckles, chapped lips from licking them in the cold wind. He seemed short for a boy of eleven, as if his limbs were not growing at the right pace.
‘Invite them in, son.’ It was a woman’s voice, gentle and friendly.
Hubert turned to look behind him. ‘Ma, are you certain?’
The woman laughed. ‘Quite certain.’
The boy dropped his gaze and let the bow and arrow hang as he stepped aside to allow Owen and Jasper through the door.
‘I am Ysenda de Weston, Hubert’s mother,’ said a pretty woman standing by the fire circle in the middle of the hall, centred in the light from a hanging lantern. It was a dramatic effect in the dimly lit room. She was a small woman with dark eyes and a smile that welcomed attention. From beneath her white cap dark curls strayed – by design, Owen guessed – and her gown was cut to accentuate her curves despite being made from humble cloth. She was a woman who knew how to catch a man’s eye and hold it. What a desolate place for such a woman. ‘I did not hear your names clearly enough.’
Owen introduced himself and Jasper.
‘You are welcome, but I would know what is the matter of your visit?’
‘There has been a death in York that seemed to have some connection with your son’s losing his scrip,’ said Owen, watching Ysenda uneasily glance towards her son. ‘Archbishop Thoresby and Abbot Campian of St Mary’s have asked for my assistance in discovering how the man died.’ He found himself hesitant to say it concerned a murder – her prettiness, no doubt. ‘I hoped that by finding out what Hubert carried in the scrip we might learn something that would help me.’
As he spoke he’d watched Hubert’s reaction, and he was glad of it, for the lad moved into the shadow and stole glances at his mother to see her reaction. Owen guessed that he had not told his mother of the loss.
‘Your scrip, Hubert?’ she looked puzzled. ‘Did I send you with one?’ She lightly laughed, but it rang false. ‘I must have.’ She stepped out of the light and gestured to the benches near the fire circle. ‘Do sit, Captain, Jasper. I’ll fetch cider to quench your thirst.’
She withdrew, grabbing a wrap from the wall by a door opposite the one through which they’d entered.
‘As we’ve arrived without notice, and there are two others with us, I assure you we do not expect hospitality,’ said Owen.
‘Two others?’
‘I left them to tether the horses out of the wind.’
Ysenda glanced towards the door with a worried look and for a moment Owen thought her face was swollen and bruised on one side. ‘We’ve enough cider to last a good long while,’ she said. ‘I keep it cold behind the house. Hubert,
fetch the bowls.’ She slipped out the door.
The boy set his weapon aside and did as he was told, pulling four bowls from a cabinet against the far wall and setting them down on a stool near the fire. His hands shook.
Ysenda returned, carrying a large jug. Glancing at the bowls, she said, ‘Four? The captain’s men are here. Open the door for them and then bring two more bowls.’
Gilbert and Rafe entered and quietly moved a bench away from the others towards the door and settled there.
Hubert chose a seat in the shadows, but Owen moved one of the hanging lanterns so that the four by the fire could see one another. In this wider light he saw that one side of Ysenda’s fair face was indeed swollen and bruised. She had been careful to keep that side away from them until now. Ysenda de Weston intrigued him.
Noticing his gaze, she lifted a hand to cover her cheek. A strip of cloth on her sleeve hung down, revealing a tear. She did not seem a woman who would delay mending her carefully tailored gown.
‘I shall not ask about your eye if you’ll not ask about my cheek, Captain.’ She spoke in a teasing voice as she bent over to pour the cider.
Though Owen was sick to death of explaining how he’d lost the sight in his left eye, he did not wish to agree to her deal; but she had made it so that he would appear rude if he did not. She was clever. He wondered why she needed to be so clever.
‘Agreed,’ he said with a little bow. ‘Before we begin, I wondered whether you would prefer to have your husband present.’
Ysenda looked startled. Hubert almost spilled the bowls he was carrying to Gilbert and Rafe.
‘Perhaps I’m mistaken. I’d heard your husband survived La Rochelle.’
She bowed her head, hand to heart. ‘It is true that Aubrey was no longer there when the Spanish attacked. He is alive. He’s come home.’ She lifted her head, tears in her eyes. ‘And gone again.’
Hubert put an arm around her. ‘He doesn’t deserve your tears, Ma,’ the boy said.
Owen wondered whether that was part of the story behind her injury and the torn sleeve.
‘I beg your pardon for intruding on you like this, without warning,’ he said. ‘We will not stay long. Jasper, tell them of the event that brought us here.’ Coming from a friend of Hubert’s it might seem less threatening, Owen thought. Mother and son seemed on their guard and he did not think they would say much unless he was able to ease their fears.
Jasper cleared his throat and, with an expression of dismay, asked, ‘You mean at the staithe?’
‘Aye, just that, and you might include Master Nicholas’s unfortunate charity.’
‘Father Nicholas our vicar?’ Ysenda asked.
Owen nodded. ‘Jasper?’
With admirable clarity Jasper thoroughly described the events of two nights past. As his son spoke, Owen observed Ysenda fidgeting, and seeming at one point to have difficulty catching her breath. When Jasper had finished his account, Hubert and his mother exchanged looks, hers agitated and his sullen.
‘What could you have carried that a pilot might desire?’ asked Ysenda, reaching for Hubert’s hand. ‘I sent you with nothing of that nature.’
Hubert dropped his head, chin to chest. ‘I wanted something of yours with me at school,’ he said, his voice muffled by his posture.
‘I have nothing of value,’ she said, but her tone subtly changed on the last two words. ‘What did you take, Hubert?’ Her voice was suddenly sharper. ‘Have you brought the scrip, Captain?’
‘No. It is safe in the city,’ said Owen.
The boy looked up at Jasper and Owen. ‘I don’t know why a pilot would want it,’ he said in a child’s whine. ‘It must have slipped out and he didn’t even know he handed back the scrip without it.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Owen, ‘but we still need you to tell us what it was. I’m sure you can see the importance in our knowing.’
Hubert took a deep breath, and still not facing his mother he said, ‘It was a little gold cross.’
Ysenda’s intake of breath at last drew her son’s eyes.
‘I swear by all the saints you’ll have another, Ma.’
‘Oh Hubert, you have no wealth, nothing.’ She dropped his hand and turned away from him with a muttered curse.
He looked shattered.
‘What did you mean to do with it?’ she asked, tight-lipped, forgetting to be charming for her guests.
‘It was like a charm, to give me good fortune, to have something of yours with me.’ The boy had resumed talking to his lap, and did not notice his mother’s hand rise once more. But he felt the slap. Holding his cheek and staring at her with wide eyes, he whimpered, ‘I was so afraid for you when I lost it, that’s why I came home. I was afraid losing it meant you were hurt, or – dead.’
She stared at him as if he’d grown horns. ‘You foolish boy,’ she breathed. ‘Why am I so punished?’ she asked the fire.
‘Was it valuable, Dame Ysenda?’ Owen asked.
She raised her eyes to his, but did not seem to focus on him. ‘Gold is,’ she snapped, then moaned, ‘God help us.’ She brought a hand to her mouth and shook her head, as if arguing with herself, then sighed loudly. ‘What went through his head?’ she whispered as if Hubert were not there. Her features had somehow hardened.
‘Had you ever taken the cross out when you were outside the Clee, Hubert?’ Owen asked.
The boy shook his head, still with hand to cheek, although Owen did not think the slap had been delivered with enough strength to truly injure him, merely his pride and his faith in his mother’s love for him.
‘Did any of the other students know what you kept in the scrip?’ Owen asked.
‘None of them, but Dame Agnes knew. I couldn’t keep it from her.’
‘Did she talk to you about it?’ Owen asked, although he could not imagine a more unlikely culprit.
‘It was a small thing,’ Ysenda interposed, indicating something in length less than two joints of her smallest finger and one joint wide. ‘My husband gave it to me when he knew he was leaving. I do not know where he bought something so fine, or with what. But I did not dare ask.’
‘Had you worn it?’ Owen asked.
She shook her head, and to Hubert she said, ‘You are a sly one,’ in a cold voice.
‘I didn’t want to leave you,’ Hubert cried. ‘I told you I didn’t want to. I worried about you all alone.’
‘And I told you that it wasn’t your place to worry about me.’ Ysenda looked away from her son, making an impatient, angry sound in her throat.
‘Do you think your husband will return soon?’ Owen asked.
Ysenda turned her pretty face – once more seeming gentle – towards him, tilting the injured side towards the light. ‘I doubt that even Aubrey can predict that, Captain.’ She rose. ‘I am sorry that I cannot offer you beds for the night – in case he should return and accuse me …’ Her voice trembled and she looked away.
Perhaps it was this that made mother and son uneasy, that they both feared the father’s return.
‘Was he drunk?’
It was Hubert who answered. ‘It wouldn’t have mattered if he’d been sober, Captain. He’s a beast to Ma.’
‘It wouldn’t be the cross he was angry about?’
Hubert shook his head. ‘Ma didn’t know it was gone till you came. He doesn’t need a reason.’
‘Enough, son,’ said Ysenda in a sweet voice. She moved behind him and put her hands on Hubert’s shoulders. ‘If my husband finds out about the cross I don’t know what he’ll do. I’ll never tell him that Hubert lost it.’ She bent to kiss the top of his head.
Hubert wiped away tears with his sleeve.
‘Will Hubert be returning to St Peter’s?’ Owen asked.
The boy twisted round to see his mother’s face, shaking his head.
‘But he must,’ she said, ignoring Hubert. ‘St Mary’s Abbey has been so generous to sponsor him.’ She took a deep breath, patted her son’s shoulders. ‘That is where he belongs now,
where he will learn about the world.’
‘Ma,’ Hubert began to rise.
But she held him down as she shook her head at his imploring expression. ‘It has always been my dream for you, as soon as I saw how quickly you learned.’
‘He is well thought of at school,’ said Jasper, ‘and well liked by all of us.’
Ysenda smiled at Jasper. ‘You are a kind boy. God bless you. There, Hubert, you’ve made me proud. You are doing well in school.’
Hubert had given up trying to implore her and sat with his chin on his chest. By his uneven breath Owen knew the boy was trying hard not to embarrass himself by crying in front of them. Poor lad.
‘Why did you boys go to the staithe?’ Ysenda asked Jasper, her tone sharp, disapproving. ‘What lured you?’
Jasper took a moment to respond. ‘I can tell you why I did. I don’t like to feel left behind, to listen to the others talking about some fun I didn’t share with them. I would never go there otherwise, except if something special were being unloaded. Or the king’s barge were expected.’
Hubert had lifted his head as Jasper spoke. He tried to smile. ‘He’s right,’ Hubert said. He turned to his mother. ‘I never thought I would lose it. Never.’
‘He kept the scrip with him all the time,’ said Jasper.
Ysenda forced a smile for Jasper, but her eyes were dark with what Owen could only guess was fear. ‘I can see my son has a true friend in you. I am more determined than ever that he should return to school.’ She turned to Owen. ‘I would ask a favour, that you take him with you?’ It was a soft, breathless query, as if she feared refusal.
‘I would, gladly.’
‘No!’ cried Hubert. ‘You’ve – what if Father comes back? Who will protect you, Ma?’
It might mean nothing, but the boy hesitated before saying ‘father’, and it seemed odd that he used the informal ‘ma’ but the more formal ‘father’. Perhaps Owen was merely sensitive to that at the moment. Jasper had called him ‘da’. He smiled to himself.
‘The days are so short now, you cannot ride far before nightfall, Captain,’ said Ysenda. ‘Is it possible – I would not ask such a favour but that you are here – if you are biding in Weston tonight, would you return for Hubert in the morning? As you can see, I must convince him that this is best for both of us.’