The Nun's Tale: An Owen Archer Mystery

by Candace Robb

‘He had a customer for the relic. And he thought he knew where Hugh was. And Longford said he could not keep me in Beverley. Folk would know he was hiding a nun.’

  ‘Did Stefan find Hugh for you?’

  Joanna turned to look out of the window. ‘He did not really want to,’ she said in a small voice.

  What did that mean? Lucie wished there were some way she might write all this down as she heard it. By the time she was home, would she remember all the twists and turns? ‘Was it Stefan’s idea, your death and burial?’

  Joanna shook her head. ‘Longford’s.’

  ‘So why did Stefan get involved?’

  Joanna pressed her arms down impatiently. ‘I told you. He could sell the relic. And he thought he could find Hugh. And Longford didn’t want me staying there too long.’

  ‘Because Stefan was a relic dealer? Or Longford?’

  Joanna shrugged.

  ‘What made you think Will Longford was a relic dealer?’

  Joanna looked down at her hem, then up at Lucie. ‘What happens to those who play God?’

  Lucie breathed deep and prayed for patience. ‘Is that an answer?’

  Joanna looked towards the bed. ‘I am tired.’

  So was Lucie – yet she had a day of work ahead of her. Perhaps it was best to stop here for now. She rose. ‘I can see you do not wish to talk to me.’

  Joanna grabbed Lucie’s arm. ‘Please. I – I knew. Hugh had taken me on the way to my aunt’s seven years ago. Six?’ She shook her head, uncertain. ‘I knew Longford sold relics.’

  Lucie faced Joanna, but did not sit. ‘Your brother Hugh also dealt in relics?’

  Joanna shook her head. ‘Just once. Just to get some money to start his own life. He was to take vows. But he knew he was meant to be a soldier.’

  ‘Where did he get the relic?’

  ‘From my father. Only part of it. My father will never know. He would never think to open the reliquary.’

  Lucie sat back down. ‘So you went to Will Longford, and he went to Stefan?’

  Joanna nodded.

  ‘How had you intended to leave Beverley?’

  ‘I thought I would just walk away. Towards Scarborough.’

  ‘That’s where you thought to find Hugh?’

  Joanna closed her eyes. ‘He talked of Scarborough. I thought he hoped to become a guard at Scarborough Castle, but Longford said it was more likely that he had sailed from Scarborough harbour to join the Free Companies.’

  Thoresby would be keen to hear this. ‘Why would Longford think that?’

  Joanna shrugged.

  ‘So he convinced you that Hugh must be on the continent?’

  ‘It sounded very likely.’ Joanna’s voice sagged.

  ‘You were disappointed?’

  Joanna bit her lower lip. ‘It all seemed hopeless. I said I ought just to go back to St Clement’s.’

  ‘And what did Longford say to that?’

  ‘He would not have it. They had a customer for the relic by then. They had it all planned out. I would leave with Stefan, wearing my habit, to convince the buyer that the convent was selling the relic through him.’

  ‘Clever.’

  ‘When we got to the manor it was noisy with soldiers and foreigners.’

  ‘This is the manor of the customer for the relic?’

  Joanna looked confused.

  ‘Where was this manor?’

  ‘Near Scarborough. On the North Sea.’

  ‘Noisy with soldiers?’

  Joanna shrugged. ‘Archers, they looked like. So I stayed at a cottage with Stefan.’

  ‘This is where you lived while you were away from St Clement’s?’

  ‘Mostly.’

  ‘But the relic had not come there with you,’ Lucie said, more to herself than to Joanna.

  The stricken look on Joanna’s face made it clear she had heard. ‘He lied to me. From the beginning he lied to me.’

  ‘You mean Stefan?’

  Joanna bit her lip and frowned.

  ‘Perhaps he just wanted you with him, Joanna.’

  She remained silent.

  ‘Tell me about the manor.’

  Joanna took a deep breath. ‘Soldiers all over, all the time. Some of them I could not understand. They spoke in tongues. I sometimes thought they were devils, carrying off all those beautiful young men and dropping them off the edge of the earth.’

  It was the same story Joanna had told at Nunburton. ‘The young men would disappear?’

  Joanna nodded. ‘I would meet someone and he would sail away.’ She shook her head. ‘No one returned.’

  ‘Were they going to join the Free Companies?’

  Joanna closed her eyes. ‘I am cursed.’ Her teeth were clenched, sweat beaded on her upper lip.

  Lucie studied the face, wondering whether these shifts were purposeful. ‘When you lived at the manor, did you live there as Stefan’s leman?’

  Joanna hesitated slightly before nodding her head.

  ‘So you are no longer a virgin.’

  Joanna bit her bottom lip.

  ‘Do you see why we wonder whether you are telling us the truth?’

  ‘They did not want the King to know about them.’

  ‘Who, Joanna?’

  ‘The archers.’

  ‘The ones who sailed away?’

  ‘Not all of them left.’

  ‘Why did you leave Scarborough, Joanna?’

  Joanna clutched her medal and began to rock.

  ‘How did you get back to Beverley?’

  ‘Walked.’

  ‘That is a long way to walk, Joanna. Had you no horse? No escort?’

  Joanna said nothing, her eyes unfocused.

  Scarborough. Stefan finding Hugh. The relic sale being a myth. All subjects that made Dame Joanna clutch the medal, turn inward. Lucie sat up, pressed her fists into her lower back. She was exhausted. ‘Shall we stop for today, Joanna?’

  Joanna opened her eyes, let go of the medal. ‘God bless you, Mistress Wilton.’

  Lucie rose. ‘Send word when you wish to speak with me again.’ She left with so many questions crowding her mind she almost walked right into Dame Isobel.

  ‘Benedicte, Mistress Wilton,’ the prioress said. She was waiting right outside the room. ‘You have been with her a long time.’

  ‘Benedicte, Reverend Mother.’

  ‘Did she make any sense?’

  ‘I believe she did.’ Lucie rubbed her back. ‘I must think about it.’

  Dame Isobel nodded. ‘I shall be patient.’

  In the nave of the abbey church, Lucie knelt beside Sir Robert and prayed to the Virgin. She prayed that at the end of all this Joanna might discover a way to leave St Clement’s and find some happiness. If it was not too late. Lucie was less sure than she had been before this morning’s interview that Joanna was untouched by whatever had befallen her. The inconsistencies, the sudden changes in mood and subject, all suggested a woman under great strain. Because she hid something? Because she harboured guilt? She must die, she must be punished, she must not be healed. Guilt – that is what Lucie read in her. What had Dame Joanna done? As she walked back into the city with Sir Robert, Lucie told him about the manor outside Scarborough, with the soldiers and the foreigners. It seemed a safe topic that would interest him enough to keep him from fretting about her involvement. It did distract him and he left her in the shop and went out to work in the garden without further argument.

  But it brought its own problems. Lucie had just finished with her first customer and was settling down to record her interview with Dame Joanna when Sir Robert came into the shop, frowning.

  ‘What is it? You cannot find the right tools?’

  ‘The garden is fine. ’Tis the soldiers. Archers. Archers sailing away. You heard the chancellor. They are significant, Lucie. You must pursue that. You must learn where this manor is. And foreigners, she said.’

  ‘I intend to speak with her again, Sir Robert. I am well aware that there is much detail to fi
ll in. I did not wish to press her and make her uneasy.’

  ‘A gathering of archers and foreigners. This might be treason, daughter. Pursue it.’

  ‘The garden, Sir Robert.’

  He nodded and departed, still frowning.

  Lucie groaned. The shop bell jingled. It was mid-afternoon before she was able to return to her notes.

  As Lucie closed up the shop for the day, Bess Merchet poked her head inside to invite her over for a tankard of ale in the kitchen of her tavern round the corner. Lucie accepted with pleasure. She was not ready to face Sir Robert across the table, and she welcomed Bess’s opinion on the previous evening.

  As the good innkeeper she was, Bess knew all the news of York, including Lucie’s supper with the archbishop, and was eager for details. A good friend of seven years, she could be trusted not to divulge anything that Lucie asked her to keep to herself, so Lucie was free to talk.

  At the close of Lucie’s summary, Bess sat back in her chair and squinted at Lucie over the rim of her tankard. ‘A passing strange story, indeed. But Owen will not be pleased by your involvement.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He does not like his own work for the archbishop.’

  ‘You do not think I should do this for His Grace.’

  Bess shrugged. ‘I see no harm in it. Nay, I merely point out that you and Owen will be shouting at each other over this one.’

  Lucie stared down into her cup, imagining the argument, ‘I do not know how I would live if I avoided everything that might start an argument with Owen. He has a quick temper.’

  Bess chuckled. ‘And you do not?’

  Lucie shrugged.

  Bess laughed louder.

  Lucie could not help but smile. In truth, she had a temper at least as hot as Owen’s. She tapped tankards with Bess and downed the rest of her ale. ‘Now that you know the tale, you might listen for any gossip in the tavern that might pertain?’

  Bess nodded. ‘I shall do more than listen, I promise you.’

  Lucie hugged Bess. ‘You are a good friend.’

  ‘Come. I shall escort you out.’ Bess offered Lucie her muscular arm. Laughing, Lucie put her hand on it. They strolled out into the stable yard.

  Lucie sighed at the sight of her father’s horses. ‘’Tis good of you to stable Sir Robert’s horses.’

  Bess eyed her with interest. ‘Never call him “father”, do you?’

  Lucie shook her head.

  ‘He tries, you know. He’s an old man to make this journey and offer help.’

  ‘Yes, he’s an old man, and a soldier who knows nothing of the shop or gardening. What is he good for?’

  ‘Those are spiteful words, not thoughtful. They’re unworthy of you, Lucie. You’re a fool to shun an earnest worker.’

  Lucie did not like being called spiteful. ‘I have put him to simple tasks in the garden. But beyond that, what can he do, Bess? Tell me that.’

  Bess shrugged. ‘Try him till you find out, woman. For pity’s sake, when Nicholas first brought you to the shop, did he throw up his hands and say you could do naught to help?’

  ‘That was different, Bess. I was to live here. I was his wife.’

  Bess grinned. ‘Well, God help you if Sir Robert stays above a week, eh?’

  ‘He just might do that, Bess.’ Lucie told her of his offer of Corbett’s house.

  Bess rolled her eyes. ‘Well, that’s a sticky one. If he meant to buy it for you and stay away, I would call it most generous. But if he means to visit often –’ She shook her head. ‘Perhaps if you let him help you in these small ways – the garden, innocent things …’ She patted Lucie’s arm. ‘You must not waste your father’s good intentions. You must guide him to those favours you can accept.’

  Lucie found this conversation discomfiting. ‘Please, Bess. You know how busy I am. Busier now with the archbishop’s request. To put Sir Robert to work in the garden or the shop would require instruction. In the same time I could finish the chore.’

  Bess had retrieved her arm and stood, hands on hips, looking stern. ‘True, you must train him the first time. But the next time he would do it without instruction.’

  ‘I hate to think of his staying that long.’

  Bess shook her head slowly, as if not believing what she was hearing. ‘Are you not at all curious about him? Have you never wondered whether you have any of his traits? Besides his stubborn chin.’

  Lucie touched her chin. ‘Sir Robert’s chin?’

  ‘Aye. Must be the D’Arby chin. Your Aunt Phillippa has it. And a backbone to match. Your father’s family outlives its spouses, have you not noticed?’

  Lucie crossed herself. ‘Don’t say that, Bess. I do not want to outlive Owen.’

  Bess rolled her eyes. ‘That was not the point. Your father is not the frail old man you think him.’

  With a sigh, Lucie agreed. ‘I will put him to serious work in the garden on the morrow.’

  Bess pressed Lucie’s arm. ‘You will not be sorry. You will be the better for it.’

  Lucie did not think so, but she was tired of the argument. And perhaps a little curious. She rubbed her chin as she pushed open her garden gate.

  Eleven

  Calvary

  Owen was grateful when Nicholas de Louth grew quiet, winded from the long ride. And no wonder, with his flabby body and his ceaseless chatter, the man could not have a great store of breath. But for all his talk, he’d told Owen little of use. His men had found no witnesses to the attack on Alfred and Colin. One woman had noticed a group of men loitering on Skeldergate for several days. Only one had stood out in her mind, a fair-haired man with crooked teeth who shouted at the other men. But she had been at market when the attack occurred, and she had not seen the men since that day. An unhelpful harvest.

  It was a quiet, solemn party that rode into Leeds.

  The wool trade flourished in Leeds, as was apparent from the fine houses of prosperous merchants lining the north bank of the River Aire. The monks of Kirkstall Abbey to the northwest had begun the trade and the burghers had expanded it.

  Owen and Louth stopped at an inn near the market square. As the innkeeper filled their tankards, they asked him to point them towards Matthew Calverley’s house.

  ‘Edge of the city … gardens and parkland surrounding it – for Mistress Calverley, who was highborn.’

  Owen caught the word ‘was’. ‘Mistress Calverley is dead?’

  The innkeeper nodded. ‘Aye. Drowned, she did.’ He tilted his head and squinted at Owen. ‘Queer your not knowing the story when you’ve business with the family. Are you gaming with me?’

  ‘We are not acquaintances,’ Owen explained, ‘just messengers from the Lord Chancellor.’

  The innkeeper’s eyes widened. ‘You’re King’s men, are you? Well, well, well. So Matthew’s got business with the King?’

  ‘His chancellor.’

  The innkeeper rubbed his ear, then snapped his fingers at them. ‘Law troubles, eh? Well, can’t say as I’m surprised.’

  ‘You might sit with us and tell us Mistress Calverley’s sad tale.’ Owen pushed his tankard towards the innkeeper. ‘Fill one for yourself.’

  The innkeeper poured, sat down. ‘Trot’s the name. Trot the Taverner, my good gentlemen.’ He took a long drink, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and shook his head. ‘Poor Matthew. Thought he’d get noble blood in his line and wound up with a family ill fit for the world.’

  ‘Truly?’

  ‘Aye. Mistress Anne Calverley was a comely lady, fiery hair and fiery temper. Once Matthew had set his eyes on her, there could be no other woman for him. She was the third daughter, so her family did not mind her marrying money instead of blood – Matthew had already made his fortune, though there were those who wondered how, with the King restricting the wool shipments across the Channel.’ Trot shrugged. ‘And quickly came two sons and three daughters.’

  Owen said a silent prayer of thanks for a talkative innkeeper. ‘Is Calverley’s eldest son a merchant?�
�

  ‘Oh, aye, young Frank. Plump and prosperous like his father. T’other son – Hugh – was a bad lot. Built like a warhorse. Fought like a wild dog. Went off to seek his fortune.’ Trot nodded. ‘Eldest daughter – Edith – cherry-cheeked and docile, married another merchant in this fair city, Harrison. Middle daughter – Joanna – was to marry a merchant from Hull, but she fled to the convent. Pity. Took after her mother – ruled by her temper, but a feast for the eyes. Her brother Hugh was her champion. Youngest daughter … Sarasina. Funny name. Mistress Calverley was already acting queer, you see.’

  ‘How long ago did the mistress drown?’ Owen asked.

  Trot screwed up his face, thinking. ‘Before Christmas.’ He sighed. ‘Pity. Even after birthing eight children, five yet living, Mistress Calverley was still a beauty.’

  ‘Was her drowning an accident?’

  Trot drained his tankard. ‘I’ll repeat nothing I don’t know as truth. All I know is she drowned in the river. How it happened, that I could not be saying.’

  An impressive house: an old hall with a new wing of stone, glazed windows. It stood in a meadow that rolled down to a line of trees through which the River Aire glinted. The day had warmed and the sun was strong. A burly man in a wide-brimmed hat put down his hoe and came from the kitchen garden to greet them. He wore a simple chemise, slit front and back, with the tails tucked up in his belt for easy movement in his work. His garments were earth-stained.

  Owen let Louth step forward, a more presentable stranger with his unlined face and guileless smile. ‘God speed. I am Nicholas de Louth, a canon of Beverley. Would your master be at home?’

  The gardener’s little pig eyes swept past Louth in his finery and narrowed at the sight of Owen, whose patch always made folks uneasy. ‘What’s a canon of Beverley want with Master Calverley?’

  ‘It would be best to keep it between us and Master Calverley,’ Owen said.

  ‘ “Us”, eh? And who are you?’

  Impudent gardener. But Owen needed his good opinion. ‘I am Owen Archer, former Captain of Archers for the Duke of Lancaster, now a representative of John Thoresby, Lord Chancellor and Archbishop of York.’

  The pig eyes lit up. ‘Two Church men?’

  Owen winced at that. ‘I am not a Church man.’