The Riddle Of St Leonard's: An Owen Archer Mystery

by Candace Robb

  Unless the dead walked. Alisoun crossed herself. Not that her family had any cause to harm her from the other side of the grave, but to see them once they had passed to the other side … They would be different. She did not like to think of that. It frightened her that they would have been changed by death. Would she know them? Would they know her?

  Alisoun felt her stomach going queer. She forced her mind from such thoughts, peered into the darkness. And then she saw it. A flickering light up in the barn’s loft.

  Whence came the light? Her stomach leapt and tumbled. The spirits of the dead might be wrapped in light. And angels: might they not glow? Like the stars?

  Alisoun shook her head and considered the light. Surely angels, pure beings, would glow with white light. And they would not flicker because they would be perfect. This was a candle or a lantern, no spectre.

  An intruder then. She found that comforting. She could deal with an intruder. Taking a deep breath to steady herself and quiet her stomach, Alisoun strung her bow, readied an arrow, and crept across the yard to the barn. The warped door to the barn was slightly open, so she might slip in without a sound. But would the intruder see her? She paused, considered. She could not call on her memory to predict how the light the intruder carried up there would fall on the floor below. Her father had never taken a light up to the loft because it was much too easy to spark a fire in the barn.

  Alisoun crept close to the opening, peered inside, withdrew her head quickly, her heart pounding. God must be watching over her. Had she crept in without first looking, the intruder would have seen her. He sat at the top of the ladder, his feet resting on the top rung, a lantern dangling from one hand. And he was watching the door. Had he heard her? But she had been as quiet as could be. Adults did not hear that well, unless they had trained themselves to hear. Hunters and soldiers had trained hearing. Alisoun knew he was neither. Or she was fairly certain he wasn’t. But now that she thought of it, she was not sure what he was. Or who. All she knew was that her mother had tried to keep this man’s visits secret.

  It had been almost a fortnight since Alisoun had hailed the fisherman on the river. More than a week since the Riverwoman and the archer had been there. Folk never kept quiet. One of them or all three of them might have spoken of the deaths. Alisoun felt undeniably sick to her stomach now. It must be that he had heard about her family. He might not know she had survived. Or if he did, he would expect her to be with her kin.

  Alisoun imagined him in the house, in the barn, walking round her land. She did not like it. She had never liked him. She did not like that he’d been through the house and barn, that he had touched her things. She hated him.

  She would shoot him. But she couldn’t while he held that lantern in his hands for he might drop it in the hay and set the barn on fire. So she prepared herself for a long wait.

  Waiting was the worst part. The crickets seemed louder, the night sky darker and closer. She must not think about her prey else she might grow angrier and that would make her more likely to miss. She forced herself to think about the two who had come to bury her family. The old hag she had seen before, when her mother had given birth to her brother and sister. What Alisoun remembered about those events was how her mother had suffered. Especially after her brother’s birth. Her mother had said that the Riverwoman was a trustworthy midwife. But her mother had been so weak with her brother’s birth, and he had been such a troublesome, weak baby. Alisoun had decided that the Riverwoman had poisoned her mother, or put a curse on her. Yet when Alisoun had searched the loft after the Riverwoman and the one-eyed soldier had returned the horse and cart, certain that they had gone up there while she was hiding in the wood, she had found naught out of place. So the old woman and the archer were honest.

  A rustle from within. Alisoun checked her bow, slipped into the barn. Her patience was rewarded. The intruder had set the lantern down on a ledge near the nag’s stall and was searching the nag’s hay, his back turned. Nicely illuminated, he presented an easier target than Alisoun’s usual coneys. She shot, hit the back of his leg just below the knee. As he cursed and stumbled, she drew another arrow, waited until he faced her, then shot him in the upper arm. Or had she hit his shoulder? She did not stop to make sure. She ran.

  The moon shone on the quiet village. A barking dog rushed towards Alisoun. For a moment, her heart pounded. But she reminded herself that he knew her, had licked her hand a few days earlier when she had passed through with her uncle. As he reached her, he paused, ceased his barking, sniffed the air. Then he cautiously circled round her, sniffing. And again. And again. His circles grew smaller and smaller, but it took five for him to remember her. Then at last he stood in her path and barked once, his tail wagging, demanding her attention. Alisoun dropped to a crouch and patted him, hoping to quiet him.

  ‘Who goes there?’ a man shouted from a house.

  Alisoun’s head shot up. Could he see her? The moon was behind clouds, so she could not identify the vague form in the doorway. But that was good. If she could hardly pick out the man in the gloom, he could not see her well, either.

  ‘Come, boy, come here,’ the man called.

  The dog hesitated, then ran to him, barking.

  At that moment Alisoun took off. She knew that as soon as the dog reached his master, he would head back to Alisoun, barking for his master to follow.

  She beat the dog to the church, let herself in, shut the door and slumped down against it, exhausted. Sanctuary at last. He could not come for her here. She could safely sleep, and in the morning she would pray God to forgive her for wounding the man. As she began to nod, she felt a chill draft from beneath the door, where it did not quite meet the stone threshold. Though the day had been hot, the stone church was damp and cool. She crawled away to a more sheltered corner and settled once more. Within moments she was fast asleep.

  Twelve

  Delirium

  Alisoun woke with her heart pounding. The stench of pestilence was strong in the air. She looked round in confusion. Moonlight shone dimly through the windows, illuminating the altar. Now she remembered. She was in the village church. She had come seeking sanctuary after injuring the intruder in the barn.

  But the stench. That had not been there when she’d arrived. Shivering with cold and fear, Alisoun probed her armpits, groin, behind her knees, her throat, behind her ears – all the places where pustules had appeared on her family. But she found nothing. Thanks be to God Almighty.

  But whence came the foul odour? Perhaps there had been a burial today and the odour lingered? No, that could not be, not without a change of priests, for Father John would not allow the parishioners to bring the corpses into the church. He said they defiled the house of God.

  Alisoun stood, looked round, but the moonlight did not reach the floor. Slowly, inching down along the north wall, she made her way towards the eastern end of the church. As she moved, the stench lessened. At last she found the air more redolent of damp stone and stale incense than pestilence. She settled back down against the wall to resume her night’s sleep.

  At dawn a curious rat woke her as it sniffed her ankle. She kicked at it, sat up, clutching her pack to her. The stench almost gagged her. Once more she searched her body for signs of pustules, said a prayer of thanksgiving when she found nothing. But whence came such a stench?

  She stood, blinked in the soft dawn light. But it was the buzzing of flies that led her to the west door of the church, the door through which she had entered in the night. A child and an elderly one-armed man lay naked on the stones, dumped unceremoniously, the old man’s nose to the floor, the boy’s arm pinned beneath him. They reeked of pestilence and decay.

  Alisoun backed down the aisle to the altar, carefully, fearful lest she trip on yet another corpse. At the altar she knelt, crossed herself, then rose and searched for the sacristy door. It did not open at her first try, so she beat on it. No one answered, but her energetic hammering at last swung it wide. A high window in the dark room illumi
nated a couple beneath a pile of clothes. The man had opened his eyes.

  ‘Who is there?’ he cried out in a voice thick with sleep. Father John.

  ‘What? Someone is here?’ the woman squeaked, sitting up quickly, exposing her bare breasts.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Alisoun pushed past the pair, both now fumbling for their clothes. She did not care who they were, she wanted only to escape. But the room was so dark. She dropped to her knees and crawled round, seeking a draft from beneath a door. At last she found one.

  A light suddenly flickered. A lantern that had been shuttered had been opened, and Father John, his clerical gown hastily donned, blinked in the raw light and rubbed his eyes. A village woman held the lantern, her gown now pulled up to hide her nakedness.

  Before either of them could focus on her, Alisoun flung open the door and ran out into the dew-drenched cemetery.

  She cursed all men – thieves, liars and fornicators – as she stumbled across the mounds and out on to the common fields surrounding the village. A dog barked, perhaps the same one as last night, but she kept´ running. She must retrieve her horse and leave this curséd place. But where could she go? Where might one find sanctuary if not in a church?

  Alisoun sank down in the grass and stared at the empty field. She had searched everywhere – the barn, the surrounding area. She had called and called. But the nag had been stolen. And she knew who had taken her. And the saddle. She should go after him, hunt him down, finish the work she had begun.

  But for now all she could do was stare at the empty field and wonder why God so punished her.

  Dame Constance escorted Honoria into the waiting area of the infirmary. The young woman had been scrubbing floors, and her veil was tucked into the neckline of her gown, her sleeves rolled up revealing slender forearms. She gave Owen a quizzical look as she curtsied respectfully. He had forgotten how lovely she was. The rumours about her had tarnished his memory.

  ‘Captain Archer wishes to speak with you, Honoria,’ Dame Constance said. ‘He represents His Grace the Archbishop. Look you show him respect.’

  Two lay brothers bustled through the waiting room, eyeing the three with curiosity.

  ‘Is there a more private place we might talk?’ Owen asked.

  Dame Constance pressed her hands together, glanced aside, thinking. ‘There is the gaol. You might speak in Honoria’s cell with a guard outside the door.’

  ‘You think she might escape me, Dame Constance?’

  The nun coloured. ‘Her reputation, Captain Archer. I would not leave His Holiness the Pope alone in a room with her.’

  Owen bit back a smile, nodded to Honoria to lead the way. Even the notorious Alice Perrers was trusted in a room alone with a man. What powers did they think Honoria possessed?

  In her room, Honoria offered Owen the seat by the window. She perched on the edge of her bed, pushed her sleeves down, folded her hands primly in her lap, but her gaze was frankly curious, studying the scarred side of Owen’s face.

  ‘They say a jongleur’s leman did that to you.’

  ‘Aye, that she did. They say that you own clothing and goblets far too valuable for you to afford.’ Barker, the gatekeeper, had told him about the silks.

  A grimace, but the eyes remained level. ‘You are quick-witted, Captain Archer.’

  ‘I try not to be so entertained by my wit that I forget my purpose.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘To discover the truth about the recent thefts and deaths at St Leonard’s.’

  Honoria tilted her head, smiled slightly. ‘You think I hold a key to these troubles?’

  Too sly, Owen thought. ‘Why did you hide the goblets?’

  A surprised laugh. ‘Is it not obvious, Captain? You see what has happened – precisely what I feared if someone saw them.’

  ‘You might have confided in Don Cuthbert. He has championed you before.’

  Now she dropped her head, sighed. ‘You are right, of course. But I recognised my folly too late – after Dame Constance had asked us whether we had noticed anything unusual, and I said nothing.’

  ‘Your silence was no lie.’

  She met his eye. ‘You heard what Dame Constance thinks of me. It is so with all the nuns here. In faith, they think all lay sisters base, with our partial vows and no education. But me …’ She shook her head sadly.

  ‘Don Cuthbert thinks differently.’

  ‘He did. I fear he does not now.’

  ‘You might have approached him. I should think it preferable to your present circumstance.’

  ‘I did not wish to make trouble for someone who has always treated me fairly. Don Cuthbert is not fond of Master Taverner.’

  ‘Taverner?’

  ‘It was he who gave me the goblets. Long before the ones in the guesthouse disappeared. You may ask him if that is not so.’

  If she had meant to surprise Owen, she had certainly succeeded. ‘Julian Taverner gave you the goblets?’

  ‘Four years ago. As a wedding present.’

  If Owen had ever known she was married, he had forgotten. ‘You are widowed, then?’

  ‘A year after we married my husband went off to be a soldier. Whether or no I am a widow I cannot say.’

  ‘You have heard nothing?’

  Honoria shook her head. ‘I believe he lives. I believe that I would know if he were dead. And so I wait.’

  ‘As a lay sister?’

  ‘I was sent home to my father and his young wife, who did not like my presence.’

  ‘What is Julian Taverner to you?’

  ‘I was a servant in his household when he was still in the city. He said I was much like his daughter. He was kind to me.’

  How kind did she mean, Owen wondered.

  ‘Are you wondering whether he bedded me, Captain?’

  Owen deserved the discomfort he now felt. ‘You are considerate of his reputation.’

  ‘As I have said, he has been good to me.’

  ‘And yet now you deliver him up to me.’

  ‘You are a friend to Master Taverner’s niece. I thought I might trust you.’

  Owen thought her response much too tidy. ‘You are so comfortable in gaol?’

  ‘You do not believe me.’

  ‘You are said to be a woman who likes her comforts.’

  ‘I cannot also be loyal?’

  ‘I shall consider that, Mistress Staines.’

  Bess dropped her apron on the counter and hurried after the messenger. Her uncle was ill. Very ill. He had summoned her. Damn the selfish canons. They must have released him from his bed in the infirmary too soon. It was just the sort of neglect John Cooper had hinted about.

  She found Julian in his bed, soaked in sweat, complaining of a raging thirst and yet pushing away the bowl of water his elderly servant Nate tried to hold to his lips. ‘Find Anneys!’ Bess shouted to the messenger, who had accompanied her to her uncle’s.

  ‘I sent for her,’ Nate said. ‘She was busy with a sick child.’

  ‘Then Honoria.’

  ‘I could not find her.’

  ‘Sweet Jesu. Then tell Anneys Master Taverner is dying. That should stir her.’

  The messenger hurried out.

  ‘I have been—’

  ‘Save what little breath God has left you, uncle. I said that to get her here. Now try to drink some water.’

  She told Nate to fetch Brother Wulfstan from St Mary’s Abbey.

  ‘You see, uncle? I would not summon such help if I believed you to be dying.’ Though she feared she was doing just that.

  What frightened Bess as she held a cup of watered wine to her uncle’s lips was the thundering of his heartbeat. It was as loud as if she had her ear pressed to his chest. ‘Uncle, you must try to lie back, calm yourself. Your heart.’

  He blinked and wiped at his eyes as if the sweat blinded him. ‘Bess?’

  ‘I am here.’

  ‘Does he—’ He shook his head, gasping for air. ‘Does he live?’


  ‘Who?’

  Julian blinked, reached his bandaged hands to his eyes. As Bess was about to restrain him, he dropped his hands to his sides. ‘They died for him. Was that not enough?’ He could manage only a whisper, but he seemed more coherent.

  ‘Who died? For whom?’

  Julian jerked his head up, blinking. ‘Bess?’ His bloodshot eyes did not seem to be focused on her.

  ‘Can you not see me, uncle?’

  He turned towards her voice, frowning fiercely. ‘Beware.’

  ‘Of whom?’

  His bandaged right hand shot up, beat against Bess’s shoulder. She grabbed him by the wrist and held him still so that he would not injure his burned hand.

  ‘Or is it her?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I have been poisoned, can you not see that?’ Julian broke out of her grasp and tried to rise from the bed, but he was so weak she was able to push him down on the pillows. The effort had exhausted him. He lay still, his breath ragged and shallow.

  Bess had long ago discounted the popular notion that someone was inflicting the pestilence on enemies by poisoning wells. Not all who drank from the same well sickened; nor did she think that one person could hate so many and not be consumed by his own hatred. ‘Rest, uncle. I doubt you have been poisoned. I am here to help you.’ She filled a bowl with vinegar and now and then dipped her hands in it to keep her uncle’s diseased sweat from seeping through her pores. But as she worked along his body she found no pustules. Neither did he cough. He burned with fever, his skin was flushed and dry, his eyes seemed to be failing and he went in and out of senselessness and panic, but only the fever seemed familiar to the pestilence. Might she be wrong about his ailment? ‘What happened, uncle?’ she asked gently. ‘Why do you speak of poison?’