by Candace Robb
But what was this? The treasury had been straightened and now the account books filled the shelf, as they had yesterday.
‘Who has done this?’ Tildy whispered. ‘The books are all here.’
‘At least one was missing when Mistress Wilton looked in here after the raid,’ Jasper said. ‘Could someone be searching the books for the parchment?’
‘Should we?’ Tildy asked.
‘Which books have been missing?’
Tildy shook her head.
‘Bring that lamp over. We shall check all of them.’
While they paged through the books, Jasper asked whether Alfred and Gilbert knew all Tildy had told him.
‘Yes. They are out on the manor grounds now, looking round.’
‘Come back to York with me, Tildy.’
‘I cannot leave the house. It is my responsibility.’
‘Then I shall just pretend to leave with Alfred and Gilbert.’
‘No! You must go back to York.’
‘I shall send one of them to the archbishop to request more men. We shall discover what is happening here. You must go on as if nothing is wrong.’
‘That will be difficult.’
‘The additional men could be here tomorrow, Tildy.’ Jasper put the last book back, finding nothing.
‘Come,’ Tildy said, ‘Harold will come to check on us if we linger here.’
She locked the treasury, then the buttery. Gilbert startled her, coming out of the gloom by Phillippa’s screened bedchamber.
‘Quietly, before I am discovered in the hall,’ he said. ‘I do not want Nan to hear. Joseph is hiding in an abandoned outbuilding with several other men I do not recognise. There is your problem. Not Harold.’
‘You will not tell Harold about this!’ Tildy said.
‘We have not. But why should he not know?’
Tildy told him about Harold knowing the treasury key was not the same as that of the buttery.
‘I have not trusted him from the beginning,’ Jasper said. ‘And now it seems very little is known about him. He has no proof he is who he says.’
Gilbert grunted at the news. ‘This is a sorry muddle. How do you come to be here, Jasper?’
‘I want to help.’
‘We shall need to watch the outbuilding. You might do that while we talk to Jenkyn the thatcher again.’
‘You will have no time to do that,’ Tildy said. ‘Harold wants you to escort Jasper to York.’
‘I shall only pretend to go,’ Jasper said, telling Gilbert his plan.
‘What of you, Mistress Tildy?’ Gilbert said.
She felt all atremble, but she must think. She closed her eyes. ‘I shall try to go on as usual. But if things get bad, Daimon and I can flee to the chapel. There is but the one window, high up. And the outside door is barred with iron. That is why we hid there the night of the raid.’
Harold had found them. ‘Well, Jasper, did you find what you needed?’
‘I must just check Dame Phillippa’s chamber,’ Jasper said.
‘Hurry back,’ Tildy whispered as she left him.
Twenty-eight
BEDEVILLED
Would he tell Lucie of his temptation? Owen imagined her response. She would be hurt. Angry that he could even think to abandon his children. Doubt he had ever loved her. And how might he ever reassure her? Would his return be the proof? Might he not have returned for other reasons? Merely a sense of guilt? Cowardice? Sweet Jesu, he could not tell her. He was galloping across the countryside, mad with fear for her. But she would not know. She would not believe.
A ford swollen from spring rains required his attention. Owen watched Edmund and Sam cross, saw the spot with the heavy undertow, tried to guide his mount to face into the current. The horse faltered, stumbled, limped to the bank.
Owen dismounted, calmed the horse, examined the hoof on which the beast fell. A shoe was missing.
‘I see smoke ahead,’ Jared called out. ‘We may find a farmer shoes his own horse.’
‘None so rich along this road,’ said the friar. ‘But he will know the nearest smithy.’
‘I shall ride on with the friar on one of your horses,’ Owen told the others, who had returned to see to the matter.
Sam and Tom stayed with the lame horse.
And was it God’s sign Owen must confess all to Lucie? Why else had this happened now, at that moment when he vowed to stay silent? Dear God, help me in the telling. So she understands.
Twenty-nine
ILL NEWS
After hours of pacing in the shop between customers, Lucie at last retreated to the house, hurrying through the garden as rain began to fall. The scent of rain on the dry earth after a warm spell was lovely, but not enough at the moment to make her pause.
Kate and the children were in the kitchen, working on a cake, the children adding fruits and nuts one by one as Kate mixed. ‘I thought it best to keep them occupied,’ she said quietly.
‘Bless you, Kate.’ Lucie was fortunate in both of the sisters, Kate and Tildy. ‘Where is my aunt?’
‘Going through your books about the garden. She says she is looking for a drawing you told her of, that marks a spell for clover. Then she was going to ask you to read of it.’
‘She is clear-headed?’
‘Aye. She says because you have given her nothing to calm her today.’
Lucie sighed. She wished it were that simple.
Phillippa sat at the table in the hall surrounded by Nicholas’s books and even older ones that had been his father’s. In their journals they had recorded all the new plants, seeds, specimens and all the lore of the apothecary garden that they had collected. Letters from many lands were tucked between the pages. At the moment, Phillippa sat with her hands in her lap, staring out of the window to the garden. A journal lay open before her on the table. Her wimple was tidy, her eyes alert as she turned and noticed Lucie.
‘Do you know, I thought to keep myself occupied and out of trouble.’ She smiled and beckoned Lucie to join her.
The extent of Lucie’s relief made her feel guilty. Her aunt’s confusion had become just another one of her troubles. She slipped on to the bench beside Phillippa and looked at the cover of the journal that lay open. ‘The notes for Nicholas’s masterwork. This is the heart of the garden.’
‘There are letters in many hands. I do not think I respected him sufficiently,’ said Phillippa.
‘You respected him enough to encourage our marriage.’
‘But I ever thought you were better than he. What is blood, I wonder? Why do we respect it so? It is what we do with God’s gifts that matters in the end.’
‘All these thoughts from looking at the journals?’
‘And thinking of my husband. A good family, excellent blood. Your grandfather relented and allowed our marriage because of Douglas’s courage in battle. But he still could not manage his lands. He was worse than his father. And then the bitterness set in. “Why do others have and I have not?” he would say, never, “What might I do to improve the land?” I am so ashamed.’ Phillippa shook her head. ‘At the same time that your father-in-law, Paul Wilton, was working hard to become an apothecary, learning all this, Douglas and Henry offered themselves as couriers between the fearful people and the Bruce’s men. They took advantage of people’s needs. Paul Wilton’s work was of more worth. And more lasting. I can see that afterwards Nicholas improved on what his father had done.’
‘You cannot read these journals.’
‘I can see the care that went into making each letter, Lucie, my love. These were good men, hard-working. God must have welcomed them with a choir of angels.’
‘As a courier, was your Douglas not helping the people?’
Phillippa patted Lucie’s hand. ‘You do not understand. They skimmed off the top of the tribute they carried – a jewel here, a gold piece there.’
‘I wonder at the Bruce’s men, then. Did they not miss those things?’
‘Douglas said it was expected that
couriers did that. That was bad enough. It tortures me to wonder if he was also a murderer.’
‘I doubt we shall ever know, Aunt Phillippa. But he did come home to you when you needed him.’ She looked away, thinking of Owen, suddenly hot with anger.
‘Come,’ Phillippa said, ‘let us search for clover.’
John Thoresby considered Brother Michaelo, wet and bedraggled, but worse than that, quite pale. That should not be, after but two days journeying. Still, he had made the trip much more quickly than expected.
‘Terrible news, Your Grace.’
‘I can see that by the looks on both your faces. How is your back, Brother Michaelo?’
The monk shook his head slightly. ‘Harold Galfrey was not steward.’
‘I am not surprised. Go on with you. To your room. I shall send for Brother Henry.’
‘There is no need, Your Grace.’
‘I say that there is. Go. Take off the wet robes, get beneath enough covers to boil you. I shall send a servant up with a brazier, ale, something warm to eat.’ He waved him off. ‘Master Moreton can tell me all I need to know.’
He faced the other bedraggled traveller. ‘I am certain my servants can find something for you to wear while they dry your clothes in the kitchen,’ Thoresby said. He could not bear the odour of human and horse sweat, mud and wet clothing.
‘If Your Grace will forgive me, I would rather hurry home, stop at Mistress Wilton’s …’
‘It is early evening. You may do that later. Your man is without?’
Moreton nodded. ‘He awaits me.’
‘He will be given a seat close to the fire and fed well. Come now, my servant will take you to the guest chamber.’
When Moreton was out of the hall, Thoresby rose slowly – the return of the rain had made his joints ache – and made his way to Michaelo’s chamber.
A servant was there, making a fire. Michaelo lay in bed, on his stomach.
‘I do not need this fuss.’
‘I think that you do. I am pleased to see you obeyed,’ Thoresby said, withdrawing.
Moreton was already down in the hall when Thoresby returned, wearing a fustian tunic and leggings. He looked like a gardener.
‘I am grateful for the dry clothing, Your Grace.’ His teeth seemed to be clenching.
Thoresby nodded to the warmed wine on the table. A servant came forward and poured for both of them.
‘Come, sit and tell me what you learned.’
‘Harold Galfrey had no such surname when he worked for the Godwins, nor was he steward. He acted as sub-treasurer, a post he abused by acting a most helpful and agreeable courier but keeping much of the funds himself. His thefts were discovered, but he and Joseph, the groom, fled before he could be brought to justice. Joseph is the son of the cook at Freythorpe, a vengeful man who was sent away after causing trouble at both manors.’
It would be difficult to imagine a worse combination in the circumstances, save that one or both were murderers. ‘You received this from a reliable source?’
‘Mistress Godwin herself, Your Grace.’ Moreton produced a sealed letter. ‘She was good enough to dictate this to her secretary.’
Thoresby studied the seal. He would read it after he had sent Moreton on his way. No need to show the man how much light he needed and how far away he must hold a document these days. ‘It would appear that Mistress Wilton is the victim of your good intentions.’
Moreton dropped his eyes. ‘Yes, Your Grace.’
‘And Jasper de Melton, who took it upon himself to ride to the manor.’
He looked up, dismay staining his cheeks. ‘Alone?’
‘I have sent men after him, but yes, alone.’
Moreton buried his head in his hands. Thoresby drummed his fingers on the arms of his chair, thinking what more he might do. The High Sheriff must be told of this development.
Lucie and Phillippa had their heads together looking through the books when a knock came at the hall door. Lucie rose to answer it, waved Kate back into the kitchen.
Her heart dropped to see Alfred, wet and muddy from riding through the rain, stinking of horse sweat.
‘Mistress Wilton.’
‘Come in, Alfred. We have some wine at the table.’
‘I cannot, Mistress Wilton. I must hie to His Grace. But I wanted you to know that I had seen Jasper. He arrived at Freythorpe just after midday. He found nothing missing in the treasury. Harold Galfrey asked Gilbert and me to escort him home to you. I fear he used the courtesy to his own purpose.’ He paused for air.
‘Jasper is here?’
Alfred shook his head. ‘He and Gilbert turned back as soon as they were out of sight of the manor. Jasper wished to slip back to Tildy, help her prove Harold is the source of the troubles. I rode on for more men. I met four of our fellows on the road just beyond the city, bound for Freythorpe Hadden.’
‘You were good to come.’
‘Being so near the city when I met the men, I thought to inform you that Jasper will be safe and tell His Grace what has happened.’
Lucie’s stomach knotted. ‘What has Harold done?’
Alfred told her how the maze path had been dug up, the treasury had been searched, swords were missing and Joseph was about, with additional men.
‘Holy Mother of God,’ Phillippa whispered. ‘What is happening?’
‘What of Tildy?’ Lucie asked.
‘She was going to lock herself in the chapel with Daimon.’
‘You said swords, young man?’ Phillippa asked.
Alfred nodded. ‘Aye, three of Sir Robert’s collection of swords no longer hang in the hall.’
Lucie noticed with an inward groan that Dame Phillippa had a faraway look. ‘What is it, Aunt?’
‘Something.’ Phillippa shook her head. ‘Gone. Something about the swords.’
Lucie prayed that she was not falling back into her confusion. She needed her clear-headed, for she had to be able to leave Phillippa and go to Freythorpe. ‘Are you returning to the manor?’ she asked Alfred.
‘In the morning, aye. I am going now to speak to His Grace. It is raining hard. I would not venture back out on to the road tonight. Break my horse’s leg in a puddle. Now I must hasten. God be with you, Mistress Wilton. Do not worry.’
‘God watch over you, Alfred. I am grateful.’
Alfred left a trail of rainwater in his wake as he crossed the hall to Thoresby’s comfortable chair by the fire. The archbishop was about to send him away, steaming and stinking as he was, but a closer inspection of the man’s eyes made him ask instead, ‘What has happened at Freythorpe Hadden?’ As he listened, Thoresby shook his head in dismay. Worse and worse. And the lad not returned. ‘You will stay here the night and in the morning you will tell your tale to the High Sheriff before you ride back to Freythorpe.’
‘But Your Grace, if he is not there I shall never –’
‘Fear not. Two of my men will be despatched this evening to inform the High Sheriff that the Archbishop of York commands his presence at his palace in the morning. I do not think John Chamont will keep you waiting.’
The rain came down heavily now. A puddle formed on the wood floor in the corner of the children’s room. Gwenllian demanded to know where Jasper was. Lucie left that for Kate to answer. Someone was knocking on the door. As Lucie hurried down the steps she made a mental note that the tiles in the corner of the roof must need repair. She did not want to follow her fears about who this might be.
When Roger gave her his news about Harold, she gasped, feeling the air pushed from her. ‘For what is God punishing me?’ she said in a voice she did not recognise. ‘What have I done?’
‘You?’ Roger rose, came to her side of the table and sat down beside her. ‘Sweet friend, it is my fault. My horrible error. I cannot believe I did such a thing to you.’
‘Tomorrow you will go with me to Freythorpe,’ Lucie said angrily. ‘We must confront Harold.’
‘Whatever you wish.’ His eyes were full of remorse.
<
br /> *
‘Lucie, are you awake?’
Lucie pulled herself into a sitting position. ‘What is it, Aunt. Do you need something?’
‘I have remembered! Sweet Jesu, I have remembered. When Robert brought those swords, he also brought a reliquary. The hand of St Paula – you remember – for me, a widow.’
‘It is in the chapel, yes. He brought it back from the Holy Land.’ He had thought to give it to Clementhorpe Nunnery, where Lucie lived, but gave them a jewelled cup instead, saving the relic for Phillippa. The sisters had been most disappointed.
‘That is where I hid the parchment,’ Phillippa said. ‘In the reliquary. I knew none would open it. Robert forbade anyone to touch it.’
Thirty
THE MAZE
Lucie and Roger rode out through Micklegate Bar into the grey, humid morning. The rain had stopped, but the clouds hugged the land and the river. The air smelled of rotting fish. The usually loquacious Roger was quiet this morning. Lucie had not slept and her thoughts shifted nervously from worry to worry.
What would Owen have done differently? He would not have hired Harold Galfrey, that is certain. But he could not have prevented the raid on the manor. How would he have dealt with it? What had she done wrong? She had not asked enough questions. Oft-times she had chided Owen for his distrust of everyone and everything until sufficiently known. Never again. Roger Moreton felt he was the culprit, but Lucie shared the blame. With Tildy and Daimon locked in the chapel – pray God they were there – the reliquary was safe. Unless Harold and Joseph had already found the parchment. What if they were already gone?
Halfway to Freythorpe they heard a rider pounding up from behind and moved to one side to let him pass. But he slowed, growled an oath. Alfred.
‘You have departed at leisure,’ Roger said.
‘I met with John Chamont, the High Sheriff. He has agreed to send additional men today.’ Alfred doffed his cap to Lucie. ‘Faith, Mistress Wilton, you should not be on the road.’
‘Do you think I can stay in the city when Jasper and Tildy are in danger? And my home?’