by Candace Robb
‘I heard that my brother Nicholas was escorted here by you and one of the city bailiffs, Owen.’ Peter was larger and more imposing than either of his brothers, partially due to his quietly elegant attire.
‘He was,’ said Owen. ‘We found Hubert de Weston’s scrip in your brother’s chamber, and a ring that he swears he’s never seen before. He demanded to speak with the archbishop, so we escorted him here.’
Peter looked away with a curse, then back to Owen. ‘You searched my brother’s chamber? Why did you think to do that?’
Owen told him about Nicholas’s inability to explain why Drogo would have given him the Gamyll cross, and William’s admission that he’d told Nicholas where Master John had hidden the scrip.
‘I see.’ Peter dropped his gaze, slowly shaking his head. ‘God help him.’
‘I’m certain he would welcome your company right now,’ said Owen, patting him on the shoulder. ‘I’m going home.’
Wrapped in blankets and sipping spiced wine, Hubert and Aubrey listened to Sir Baldwin’s account of Owen Archer’s visit and the missing cross, as well as the murder of Drogo.
Hubert’s father slumped lower and lower as he listened with dismay to the tale. ‘That cross,’ he cried when Sir Baldwin was finished. ‘Why did you take that, Hubert? What could you want with a birthing cross?’
‘A very good question,’ laughed Osmund as he rose from his comfortable chair by the fire. ‘I regret that I cannot stay to hear your explanation. I pray you, be at ease.’ Despite his lazy expression he seemed in a hurry to depart.
But Hubert was glad to see the back of him. ‘I didn’t know what it was, Da.’ He felt himself blushing. He unhappily repeated how he’d wanted something of his mother’s close to him. It seemed foolish now, and worse, it had not even been hers. He wished he could forget it.
‘That such a simple, innocent act could cause a man’s death. God have mercy on us,’ Aubrey said, crossing himself.
Hubert had expected anger and felt a wave of relief wash over him. Aubrey seemed far more concerned about why Ysenda had taken the cross in the first place. ‘She said nothing about being with child or having lost one,’ he said.
‘Osmund found it odd when I told him about all this earlier,’ said Baldwin.
‘It isn’t right, talking about Ma like this when she’s out there somewhere,’ Hubert blurted out.
A long, uncomfortable silence descended on the room.
‘Drogo,’ Aubrey said, suddenly breaking the spell. ‘The miller and his wife who died in the pestilence had a son called Drogo.’
‘The miller’s son. Sweet Jesu, you are right, Aubrey,’ said Baldwin. ‘I wish I’d remembered that for Captain Archer.’ He glanced at his young wife, who was sitting quietly, her sewing forgotten in her lap. ‘It is a common name in the parish, but uncommon elsewhere.’
She smiled at him. ‘It is a large estate, my lord. How could you remember the names of all the children?’
* * *
As the snow fell without the house, Lucie, Phillippa, Alisoun and the children sat close to the hall fire, listening to Phillippa’s tales of life at Freythorpe. Gwenllian loved to hear about her grandfather, Sir Robert, whom she remembered. Hugh had been too small to remember him well.
Lucie kept watching the door, anxious to tell Owen about all she’d learned from Drogo’s widow. At last he appeared, rosy cheeked from the cold and well dusted with snow – and looking exhausted, the lines in his face etched more deeply than usual. She waited until he’d settled with a cup of ale and appeared to be both warm and comfortable before telling him of Cissy’s visit.
When she described the ring, he sat forward and excitedly asked her to repeat what she’d said. ‘The ring in the scrip,’ he said when she’d done so. He seemed unaware of her for some moments. ‘It does not fit with the rest. But the Gamylls’ miller, yes, that could tie them together.’ He suddenly focused again on Lucie. ‘Tell me everything, what she looks like, what she said, anything you can recall.’
She understood his interest once he told her about finding the scrip in Nicholas’s chamber, with the ring hidden inside.
‘Drogo might have put it there while he had the scrip and forgotten to remove it when he returned it,’ she said. ‘You did not notice it at first.’
‘I don’t believe that,’ said Owen. ‘Geoffrey was quite certain that the scrip was empty, and surely Master John handled the scrip enough to have noticed the ring if it had been in there. Someone put the two together and placed them in Nicholas’s chamber, someone determined to make him look guilty of something far worse than opening a school in the minster liberty.’
Lucie could think of only two people who might wish to do that, and she could not believe they would sink to such depths. ‘It cannot be the chancellor and dean.’
Owen rubbed the scar beneath his patch, a sign of deep weariness. ‘At present I can think of no one else, my love.’
She was incredulous. ‘You think it possible?’
He shrugged.
Lucie found the idea of Churchmen behaving so ignobly, with so little regard to human life, very disturbing. ‘Nicholas could be put to death for such offences.’
‘I know. Someone will be. Someone murdered those two men.’
She moved next to him and took his hand. ‘Owen, do you think Nicholas might be guilty?’
‘Could he be such a fool?’ He leaned his forehead against Lucie’s, and she wished he would gather her up and take her upstairs, though as she followed the thought she realised it would not be quite as romantic as her spontaneous thought. ‘I don’t know, Lucie, I think him a stubborn fool for challenging St Peter’s School, but that does not make him a murderer.’
She moved a little so she could kiss Owen on the lips. She would never tire of him.
‘No, that does not make him a murderer,’ she agreed, ‘just a foolish man. I suppose you’ll return to the palace after supper?’
Owen sighed, then pulled her to him and gave her a lingering kiss. ‘Yes, I must trudge through the snow to ask more questions. It is my duty, though I curse the need to leave you.’ His quiet evening with Lucie was not to be.
Ten
SNOW AND ASHES
Owen could not believe his good fortune in Lucie’s long talk with Drogo’s widow. He did not know how long Nicholas had been the pastor in Weston, and he did not want to wait until morning to ask him whether he remembered Drogo. As soon as he’d eaten enough to quiet his hunger pangs he was out the door and turning up High Petergate towards the archbishop’s palace.
Brother Michaelo expressed no surprise at finding him at the door, merely flaring his elegant nose and pursing his lips, then nodding back towards the dinner table. ‘Master Nicholas is amusing, so awed by His Grace’s presence that he cannot make conversation. He will find no peace here. I pray you have interesting news, Captain.’
‘I do. And I hope that Master Nicholas will be able to fill in some of Drogo’s past.’
‘Do you? Hmm. I shall keep my doubts to myself.’ Michaelo hummed as he escorted Owen to the table where the three had been dining. A servant brought a chair for Owen, and poured him wine.
Master Nicholas’s greeting was surprisingly friendly, Owen thought, as if he was relieved by his presence. Only hours ago he’d accused Owen of persecuting him.
Archbishop Thoresby inquired whether Owen was hungry. The meat looked too tempting to refuse. Michaelo graciously led some idle talk about the snowfall until Owen had eaten a little, by which point Thoresby would wait no longer and interrupted his secretary.
‘What is amiss, Archer? You are not in the habit of dining here without being ordered to attend me.’ Thoresby studied Owen’s face as he sipped his wine.
‘I would have a word with Master Nicholas,’ Owen said, ‘and it is as well to do it over a fine supper as with just a cup of wine before the fire. Unfortunately, the topic is not pleasant, so I ask your leave to pursue it at your table, Your Grace.’
Thores
by gestured for him to go ahead.
Owen faced Nicholas with hope rather than suspicion for once. ‘Today Drogo’s widow spoke with my wife. Apparently the ring we found in the scrip belonged to Drogo’s family, and that family ran a mill on the Gamyll estate until the parents died in the first coming of the pestilence. Drogo grew up on the estate.’
Nicholas inhaled sharply and then, tightly clasping his hands together on the table before him he focused his gaze on them as if to will them to lie still. ‘I know what you are about to ask, Captain, and I wish that I could help you, but I must instead disappoint you. I received the living of Weston only nine years ago.’
Owen bit back a curse.
Now that he’d begun, Nicholas seemed eager to talk. ‘In my time the mill has been run by someone else. I’ve never heard mention of Drogo there. But it might explain how he knew to whom the cross belonged, why he brought it to me. I am the subject of enough gossip that he might have heard I had the parish of Weston.’
‘This ring,’ said Thoresby. ‘Surely Drogo had not placed the ring in the scrip only to forget it when he handed it to the lad?’
Owen shook his head. ‘Either the lads or Master John would have noticed the ring had it been in there. Drogo’s widow was robbed, and that is most likely when it disappeared from her home.’
‘She is not certain?’ asked Thoresby.
‘No. She seldom wore it.’ Owen could see that Thoresby was not convinced. He wondered whether it was he who was jumping to conclusions.
‘When did this happen?’ asked Michaelo.
‘During the funeral mass for her husband,’ Owen said. ‘She returned home to find that someone had searched the house. Some pennies were also taken.’
‘Poor woman,’ said Nicholas. ‘She has suffered much.’
‘I believe you can dismiss Master Nicholas from suspicion for the theft,’ said Brother Michaelo. ‘I can vouch for his presence at the service. You are cheated of an answer once more.’ He spread his hands and tilted his head mocking sympathy.
‘Of course I attended,’ said Nicholas, ‘despite the gossips’ eyes on me. Drogo had reached out to me, and, though I did not know why he had done so, I felt a responsibility to pray for his soul.’
Owen tried not to wonder how the priest might have used that to his advantage. It was time to listen.
Thoresby drummed his fingers on the table. ‘This is impossible. Someone stole the ring and the scrip, and murdered the two men, but all the evidence seems to steer us in circles.’
It was time for Owen to propose the journey he wished he did not need to make. ‘Your Grace, I believe the answers lie in Weston. I propose that I take Alfred and ride hard at dawn.’
‘Are you growing fond of riding through snow?’ Brother Michaelo asked.
Owen was accustomed to Michaelo’s sarcasm. He suspected that the monk envied him for his more active service.
Thoresby sighed. ‘I pray that you resolve this long before Dame Lucie is brought to bed. Do what you think best, Archer. My stables and guards are at your disposal.’
‘Might I be of use to you, Captain?’ asked Nicholas.
‘I doubt it,’ said Owen. ‘If someone is trying to convince us that you are the guilty one, I’d rather have you safely hidden in this palace.’
‘Oh.’ Nicholas sounded forlorn.
Michaelo smirked. Owen remembered what he’d said about Nicholas being awestruck in Thoresby’s presence.
In the wee hours Hubert woke from a sad dream about a dog he’d once had. He’d been awakened by a rustling sound – the pallet that he shared with Aubrey near the hall fire was stuffed with straw – and he rolled over to discover his father with shoes in hand sneaking away. Hubert grabbed his own shoes and followed his father across the hall, taking his cloak from a hook just as Aubrey reached for his.
As his pale blue eyes caught the firelight’s glow he looked blind. ‘Go back to bed, lad, it’s just dawn. You need your sleep.’
‘You’re going to the ruins, aren’t you?’
‘I won’t lie to you, son. I want to see what there is to see. I’ll tell you what I find.’
‘I want to go with you.’
‘It’s snowing. You can go out later.’
‘It might be snowing later today as well.’
Aubrey bowed his head for a moment, then nodded. ‘You’re old enough to have the sense to turn back if it’s too cold for you, eh? You’d do that, wouldn’t you?’
Hubert nodded.
His breath was ghostly in the pale light, and the snow seemed to whisper all about them. He followed his father’s footprints, trying to keep his strides long and manly. What if they found his mother’s bones – would he cry or would he be angry that she’d wasted herself? He did not know, and the uncertainty frightened him. He’d always lived for his mother, worshipped her, did everything with a thought to how she would react when he told her about it. If he no longer cared about her, his life was utterly changed. He wondered whether he was still really Hubert.
The dark hedge that separated his parents’ farm from the manor grounds loomed up before him, stark against the whiteness, though softened above where pillows of snow rested precariously. He’d never liked the hedge, imagining horrors caught in its ancient prickly branches, the corpses of birds, bugs enshrouded in forgotten webs, lost kittens half-eaten by vermin. He could not remember why the hedge had been so populated in his imagination, but even this morning, trying as he was to be a grown man, he held his breath and hurried through the archway, shivering as he made it past.
But a worse horror lay before him, down in the hollow, the smouldering remains of the house in which he’d been born and lived all his life. Smoke still rose from the centre of the pile. Some of the outer parts were blanketed with snow. His home had been reduced to scattered piles of charcoal.
Aubrey put an arm round his shoulder.
‘We thank thee, O Lord, that we have each other. What we have lost is but a shell against the weather.’
‘And Ma?’ Hubert whispered, unwilling to say it louder.
‘I still hope that she was away, son. It is most likely that she escaped.’
In the quiet morning a shifting piece of wood echoed loudly as a figure rose from the edge of the rubble.
‘Who’s that?’ Hubert pointed to him.
‘That cursed Osmund,’ Aubrey said, withdrawing his arm and striding forward through the drifts.
Hubert tried to keep up with him, but quickly fell behind. He shared Aubrey’s irritation about Osmund beating them to the ruins. He had no right. She was theirs. God forgive me for not telling Da about Osmund’s visits. I swear if Ma isn’t in the ruins I’ll tell him today. Bargaining with the Almighty might not be the most respectful approach, but Hubert thought that if man had truly been made in God’s likeness, the Lord would not be adverse to making a deal.
The blackened grass was encased in brittle ice that slowed Hubert even more. His father was already shouting at Osmund, who continued picking up bits of wood and crockery, dropping them, and then moving on.
‘What right have you? Leave us. Do you hear me? Leave us!’
Aubrey finally grabbed Osmund by the elbow and caught him off balance. The young man flapped his arms trying to right himself. Aubrey grabbed his shoulders and turned him so that they were nose to nose.
‘How dare you accost me!’ Osmund growled, shrugging him off.
‘Don’t play lord with me, young sir. Get out of my personal belongings.’
Osmund glanced around. ‘Belongings? Hah! You are welcome to what’s left of them, Master Aubrey.’
For a few moments the two men stood facing each other. Hubert tried to neither breathe nor move.
‘You’re a fool, Master Aubrey,’ said Osmund, beginning to pick his way out of the ruins. ‘She’s probably run away with a new lover.’
Aubrey cursed and threw a piece of debris that caused Osmund to jump as it landed at his feet.
After he left, father and so
n sifted through the blackened remains. They found no trace of Ysenda. Hubert was grateful.
Trudging back to the hall, Aubrey asked Hubert if he had any idea what Osmund might have been looking for.
Hubert just shrugged, distracted by a sudden disturbing memory. Why, it’s Ysenda’s lad. What treasures have you stolen from her hoard, boy? Drogo’s question had frightened him. That’s why he’d run away from him. He’d told no one what the pilot had said. He hadn’t remembered. He hadn’t wanted to remember his mother’s darker side.
In the courtyard Sir Baldwin was organising servants and tenants into search parties. Lady Gamyll greeted Hubert and Aubrey at the door with hot cider and concern.
‘Did you find anything?’
‘We found no sign of Ysenda, my lady,’ said Aubrey. ‘You are kind to ask. God grant that I shall see her again in this life.’ He broke off at that and strode briskly towards the fire.
Hubert realised that his father had hurried away so that Lady Gamyll would not see him weep.
‘Go comfort your father,’ said Lady Gamyll. ‘I’ll bring bread, cheese and some broth to warm you.’
Hubert joined Aubrey. ‘We’ll find her, Da. We will.’
Yesterday’s high wind had scoured the sky, making room last night for billowing clouds and snow to rush in from the North Sea. This morning the heavy, wet snow delighted Gwenllian and Hugh. They were rolling it into small balls and having raucous battles in the garden. Lucie and Alisoun sat at the window watching them.
Alisoun sighed for the hundredth time. ‘How long will the school be shut? What fool believes that Master Nicholas is a murderer and a thief?’
‘The evidence is against him, Alisoun,’ Lucie said quietly as she smiled at Hugh’s desperate efforts to form a snowball as firm as his sister’s. Contradictory feelings were a matter of course during pregnancy.
But Alisoun took offence. ‘Do I amuse you, Dame Lucie?’ Her face was pinched with resentment. Her hair tucked into a white cap, Alisoun looked more vulnerable than usual with her exceedingly thin neck exposed.