The Guilt of Innocents (Owen Archer Book 9)

by Candace Robb

  Nicholas threw up his hands. ‘Drogo came to me once, a few months past, to inquire about the fees for the school, having heard that I accepted girls as well as boys. He has two daughters. My fees were more than he could afford, but he said his circumstances might improve over the winter and he might see his way to sending one of his daughters. He was courteous and seemed a loving father. So we were not entirely strangers, but that is the extent of it.’

  Owen tried to calm himself. He needed answers. He needed to ask and listen. ‘Did he say how it came to be in his possession?’

  Nicholas shook his head. ‘Well, yes, he made up a tale about a buyer trying to trick him. But I knew what it was, having handled it in my parish so often, I know the imperfections, the wear on it – and that it’s been missing for months.’

  ‘Why did he come to you?’

  Nicholas shook his head. ‘He would not tell me. I asked, believe me, for it was a great puzzlement to me and he seemed frightened. He said he did not want it found on him. How he knew it belonged in my parish I don’t know, but why else would he entrust it to me?’

  ‘He did not want it found on him? He said that?’

  Nicholas nodded.

  ‘He said nothing of Hubert’s scrip when he brought the cross to you?’

  Nicholas sagged against the wall, his head in his hands for a moment. ‘He did not mention the scrip.’

  ‘Are you ill, Master Nicholas?’

  ‘No. Merely – oh, this is why I said nothing to you. After that horrible moment when Drogo began to bleed as he lay before the Virgin I knew I would be suspect if I came forth with this.’ He pulled the chain over his head and held it out to Owen. ‘When he died, and then a goldsmith’s journeyman, I feared I was next, that someone was tracking the cross.’

  ‘Do you know whether Drogo showed it to Nigel?’

  ‘No – how could I? But when I heard about the man’s death, the goldsmith’s journeyman, well, I connected the two deaths.’

  ‘Have you shown it to anyone?’

  ‘No!’ Nicholas’s colour had returned with a vengeance. ‘Oh, you see, you see, I knew I was cursed by accepting it from Drogo. God’s blood, what am I to do?’

  ‘I’m sitting down,’ Owen muttered. He tucked the cross into the small pouch he wore on his belt.

  Nicholas gestured towards several short benches.

  Owen settled on one. ‘Tell me what you know about Hubert de Weston’s family.’

  ‘What?’ Nicholas blinked at the abrupt change in topic.

  ‘Sir Baldwin told me that Aubrey de Weston yearned for his wife all the while he was away, but shortly after returning home he’d disappeared, apparently in a temper. Is that surprising?’

  Nicholas shook his head. ‘Ysenda seems to be poison for Aubrey, and he for her. Their fights are legendary in the parish. He is a soldier at heart, a man who is quick to anger, quick to attack. I believe they love each other in their own tortured way, and I think them both good people, though she has little faith, it seems to me. In fact I worried about her that she did not know how to ask for Divine guidance in her grief when I told her that her husband might be dead at La Rochelle. I’d thought of asking Osmund Gamyll to restore her post as housekeeper in his family hall. She’d been sent away when Sir Baldwin remarried, despite his not bringing his young wife to the house until he should return.’

  This was a new twist. ‘Ysenda de Weston saw to Sir Baldwin’s home?’ Owen wondered why Baldwin had said nothing about this. Keeping his mistress close at hand?

  ‘She took care of the house after his first wife died, and before he wed Lady Janet. There was gossip about Ysenda and Sir Baldwin, with Hubert having the Gamyll hair, but he was born before she worked at the house. Gossips are often slack about their facts.’ Nicholas nodded at the sounds growing in the hall beyond the door. ‘The afternoon begins, Captain.’ He rose. ‘I pray I can depend upon you to protect my good name, knowing that I have told you this in confidence.’

  Owen rose with a little bow and said, ‘You have been most helpful, Master Nicholas. I am going to set a guard on the school. He’ll be in His Grace’s livery.’

  ‘To watch me or to protect me?’ Nicholas asked in a testy voice as he saw Owen to the alley door.

  ‘To protect you, of course,’ said Owen. He made certain the door did not latch tightly, and then headed towards the deanery.

  * * *

  Chancellor Thomas appeared behind the servant who answered the door. Recognising Owen, the chancellor thanked the servant and sent him away.

  ‘Why do you wish to speak with Canon William?’ he asked in a wary tone, his eyes searching Owen’s face.

  ‘I am here on the business of His Grace the Archbishop,’ said Owen.

  The chancellor was a distinguished scholar and considered himself a figure of authority, but he was not Owen’s authority. It was moments like this that made his connection with the archbishop worth all the aggravation of the old man’s self-interest. God forgive him but Owen enjoyed discomfiting men like the chancellor who wished to command him but could not.

  ‘Might I know the nature of the business?’ Thomas predictably asked.

  Owen pressed his shoulders up to his ears and rubbed his hands together. ‘I am in danger of freezing on your doorstep.’

  ‘Of course,’ the chancellor said down his nose and stepped aside to allow Owen into the hall, then snapped at a servant that Canon William might be found in the minster choir and to fetch him here.

  Relieved to hear that, Owen said, ‘There is no need for Canon William to come here. I’d as lief attend him in the minster.’ Owen bowed to Farnilaw and thanked him, having remembered that in another circumstance he’d admired the man, and then departed.

  The choir was fragrant with beeswax and incense, though only a few candles and lamps were lit at present. Canon William’s sandals whispered on the tiles as he came to greet Owen.

  ‘How might I be of assistance, Captain Archer?’ he asked with courteous puzzlement. ‘I pray this does not concern my imperilled brother.’

  ‘I’ve a few questions to ask you, and this might take some time,’ said Owen. ‘Might we sit?’

  Gesturing to a gracefully curved bench towards the entrance, William gave a worried shake of his head as he settled down beside Owen. Turning so that he might see Owen’s face he asked, ‘Is this about my brother?’

  ‘In part. Master John of St Peter’s School told me that you were with him when he put Hubert de Weston’s scrip away in the schoolroom.’

  William frowned at the floor for a moment, then nodded. ‘Yes, I was.’

  ‘Have you told anyone of seeing the scrip?’

  Lifting his eyes to Owen, William frowned, apparently understanding the significance of the question. ‘Let me think, Captain. I’d no idea it would signify.’ He joined his hands as if praying, then lifted them, pressing his fingertips to his forehead. After a few breaths he dropped his hands and nodded. ‘Perhaps I did.’ He grimaced with embarrassment.

  Owen tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. ‘Is there anyone in particular you might have mentioned it to?’

  ‘God help me, but it would have been Dean John and Chancellor Thomas. I had a small group to dinner – it might have been that same day – and they were among my guests.’

  ‘Do you recall why you spoke of it? Did either of them ask about it?’

  William shook his head. ‘No, neither asked about it. I mentioned it because they’d expressed an interest in this tragedy – they are the only ones. The indifference of my fellows has been most disturbing. They were our students who rushed the barges. It is our student who is missing. It goes hand in hand with this ridiculous idea of excommunicating my brother because of where he situated his school. They all think they are superior, more than human.’ By the end of his little speech William was talking loudly, and now he pressed a hand to his mouth and crossed himself with the other.

  ‘You will be glad to hear that I found the boy Hubert
at home in Weston,’ said Owen.

  ‘Thank the Lord for that.’

  ‘I’ll return to this matter, but, before I forget, His Grace mentioned that a landholder in your brother’s parish questioned Nicholas’s choice of the minster liberty for his school, but you’d not identified the man.’

  William smiled a little, relieved. ‘Pray make my apologies to His Grace for neglecting to name him. It was Osmund Gamyll, at such time when he feared that his father was lost and he was about to take his place as lord of the manor.’

  ‘How did you come to meet with him?’

  ‘I was out walking in the city and we met on the street. He seemed vaguely familiar – I was embarrassed to have forgotten his name. He was brief, and attempted to be pleasant, though he was plainly concerned about my brother’s judgement and the state of the parish.’

  ‘Strange that he should ask you, Nicholas’s brother.’

  ‘He said he’d heard that I was trying to remain impartial. I assured him that he had no cause for concern, that Nicholas is a worthy priest most devoted to his calling, and that his enthusiasm for educating the children of York was misunderstood by the chancellor.’

  ‘How did he receive that?’

  ‘Indifferently. To be frank, Captain, in the end I was not impressed by his demeanour. I felt that once he’d had his say he cared not a whit for what I had to say. He’s a man who should study the sumptuary laws and give some of the wealth he spends on his finery to the Church. That would go a long way towards helping his parish.’ As William spoke he’d straightened and begun tapping one foot in agitation.

  But his description of Osmund Gamyll suited many eldest sons eager to take their seats at the high table.

  ‘Since that meeting have you remembered whether you and Osmund Gamyll had been previously introduced? How he knew you?’

  William nodded. ‘It had been at Nicholas’s table – oh – there was another occasion in which the company discussed the sad incident at the barges. Nicholas and I were in his chamber and Osmund Gamyll came to ask whether the lad had been found. Is his interest important, Captain?’

  ‘It might be. When I was in Weston, I learned that although the scrip was empty when Drogo handed it to Geoffrey that night on the barge, Hubert had kept it close to him because within he had a birthing cross that belonged to the Gamylls.’

  William looked startled. ‘Now that is a peculiar connection, isn’t it?’

  ‘What was Osmund like on this occasion?’

  ‘Oh, still a peacock of a young squire, but he spoke well, and amused us with tales of the countryside. I quite liked him that time, though it was clear my brother was ill at ease.’ William sighed. ‘But to the point, I fear I might have mentioned the scrip’s being safely tucked away for the lad in the schoolroom at St Peter’s. Why?’

  He’d been so specific. Owen almost groaned with frustration. ‘It is no longer where Master John hid it.’

  William blushed. ‘Dear God, I’ve done Nicholas no good, have I? My poor brother. But I tell you I cannot believe he would take it.’

  ‘I did not say he did. Apparently the dean, the chancellor, and Osmund Gamyll also knew where the scrip was,’ said Owen, ‘as well as yourself.’

  William moved his mouth as if trying to speak, but nothing came out. His face flowed in and out of emotions as if he could not settle on one.

  Owen rose. ‘You have been most helpful. I pray you, keep this conversation between us.’

  Finally catching his voice, William agreed. ‘But I must ask, what did the boy want with a birthing cross?’

  Owen explained Hubert’s unhappiness about leaving his mother alone.

  William looked sympathetic. ‘They feel so much at that age.’ He was beginning to move away when he turned suddenly, ‘A gold cross, Captain? Might that then be connected with the death of the goldsmith’s journeyman?’

  Owen put a finger to his lips. ‘That is what I mean to discover.’ He thanked William, and then, before moving on, knelt in the choir for a moment to pray for Lucie and the child in her womb.

  Hubert’s hood would not stay up and he did not care. He let the wind rip through his hair as he screamed out his anger and hurt up on a hill near his home. Birds startled from the underbrush. A man stopped his cart to stare up at him for a while, eventually moving on with a shake of his head.

  ‘I hate her,’ Hubert shouted. ‘I hate both of them. I hate all three of them. Damn them. Damn her. I hate her. I hate me.’ The litany expanded, contracted, curved back on itself, but the emotion remained steady – Hubert hated himself, his parents and Osmund Gamyll with all his heart.

  After his mother had nearly burned down the house the previous night she’d slept until late this morning, almost midday. When she woke, she asked Hubert why he was so quiet. In her eyes there was a touch of fear – or perhaps it was doubt.

  ‘How can you ask me that after last night?’ he’d asked, irritated that she could be so changeable. ‘You don’t love me.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Hubert?’ He could see her fear deepen.

  As did his. Could she not remember? Was she possessed?

  She tried to smile prettily but her face was swollen, her hair uncombed and she smelled rank with sweat. ‘Be a good lad and fetch me water, then stoke the fire. I’m not well today. How silly to think I don’t love you. Now smile for your mother, won’t you?’

  Always before he’d come around, forgiving all, certain that he could prevent future outbreaks, that with his love he could keep her from drinking. But this morning he could not smile for her. Nor could he bear her presence. Pretending he’d gone to do her bidding he’d climbed the hill, trying to flee his feelings, but of course he could not outrun them.

  ‘Hubert!’

  He had not heard Aubrey’s approach.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Hubert shouted. ‘Sir Baldwin’s servants have searched everywhere for you.’

  ‘You’ll sicken up here in the wind and cold,’ Aubrey said. He wore a close-fitting hat and a heavy cloak, and even so his face was ruddy with cold. Hubert realised that he was cold. Aubrey firmly grasped his hand and despite his protests – Hubert could not imagine what he wanted – led him down the other side of the hill, across a frozen stream, through a wood and into an outbuilding they’d used for livestock when they had enough to require grazing in the far fields. A fire circle brought welcome warmth. Hubert approached it with his hands out.

  ‘Sir Baldwin’s servants didn’t find me because they never search on our land,’ said Aubrey, sounding weary. ‘Now what was all that about, son?’

  Hubert shrugged. ‘So you come here a lot?’

  ‘Yes. I know I need not go far, neither of you will come searching for me.’

  ‘She never told me to.’

  ‘You might have come on your own, son.’

  ‘Don’t call me that. You know it’s not true.’ Hubert flung himself down on a pallet near the fire. Everything stank of damp and animals long gone. ‘It’s all lies.’

  Aubrey squatted down beside him. ‘God’s blood. She told you that? Is that why you’re angry?’

  Hubert said nothing, uncertain how much he wished to say.

  Aubrey squeezed his shoulder. ‘I’m glad you’re disappointed that you’re not of my flesh. But you are my son. I like to think that I’ve made that plain.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me.’

  ‘Where’s the lie in that, I ask you?’ Hubert felt him settle down beside him.

  ‘All your foul moods, like coming out here, leaving us, they’re all because Rob and Bess died and I didn’t. The only one not yours lived.’

  ‘She told you that?’

  Hubert nodded.

  ‘Satan’s daughter she is, I swear I don’t know what I did that God cursed me with loving her.’

  ‘I hate her.’ It came out half sob, half growl. Hubert buried his face in the hay, not wanting Aubrey to see his tears.

  Aubrey gently rubbed his back. ‘I thought she was
good to you, wanted you innocent of her evil so you would adore her. Something must be wrong for her to turn on you like that. She liked it that you thought I was the cause of all the suffering in the house. She even told you once that I’d brought back the pestilence from the market in York. That it was my fault your brother and sister died.’

  Hubert had forgotten that. He struggled to sit up on the lumpy pallet. Aubrey sat with his knees up, arms propped on them, staring at the fire. He looked worn, like he had not been sleeping or eating.

  ‘How did you find out I wasn’t yours?’ Hubert asked. ‘Were you angry?’

  Aubrey shook his head. ‘I knew from the first, I knew she was with child. Sir Baldwin had a wife, so he told me her condition, knowing how I cared for her. I was only too happy to take the chance.’

  ‘Sir Baldwin?’ Hubert touched his hair – red, like his lord’s. He’d thought maybe Osmund, but not Sir Baldwin. He felt a little better – at least he wasn’t Osmund’s son. ‘I’m Sir Baldwin’s son?’

  ‘Aye. Even if he’d not been wed he’d never have taken Ysenda to wife, a bastard herself, child of the former vicar. My parents advised me to look elsewhere, to find a woman of honest birth with a good family, a bit of land for a dowry. But her beauty blinded me. I pray you are never so foolish, so stubborn, my son.’

  Hubert was only half-listening, absorbing his new identity. ‘I’m Osmund Gamyll’s half-brother?’ He spit into the fire.

  ‘Your father is an honourable man, Hubert. He’s been good to me.’ Aubrey patted Hubert’s leg. ‘Your half-brother will change when he is lord. They all do.’

  Hubert was digesting the fact that his mother had slept with Sir Baldwin and now was bedding his son.

  ‘I hate her,’ he hissed. ‘How can you love her?’

  ‘You know how – you’ve loved her all your young life. My guess is that she drank too much last night and turned on you. Am I right?’

  Hubert nodded.