by Candace Robb
Magda frowned and scratched beneath her cap with a bony finger. ‘Did she finish the web in thy dream?’
Lucie shook her head.
Magda looked out at the river, thinking. ‘Was the web well-ordered?’
Lucie closed her eyes and tried to see the web again. ‘There were strands that broke the harmony, but much of the web was well-ordered.’
The Riverwoman nodded. ‘What dost thou think it means?’
Lucie groaned, exasperated. ‘I hoped that you would tell me!’
‘Surely thou hast a thought or two, Master Apothecary?’
Lucie admitted it. But she expected laughter. What did she know of dreams? ‘I guess that Joanna knows what she is saying, that she deliberately confuses me.’
Magda looked doubtful. ‘A spider does not set out to weave an imperfect web.’
‘So I am wrong?’
Magda leaned back against the house, looking up at the dragon’s head. ‘Is Joanna a spider or a woman?’ She shrugged. ‘’Tis the trouble with dreams. They seduce the dreamer with their seeming wisdom. Or is it trickery?’ She smiled.
Disappointed, Lucie rubbed her temples, looked up at the sun. ‘I must return to the abbey for Sir Robert.’
Magda squinted at Lucie and wagged a finger. ‘Be not petulant. Thou art not speaking plain. Thou didst not come to Magda to talk of dreams.’
‘No.’
‘What is so difficult about the woman?’
‘She speaks a mixture of reason and confusion. I am exhausted when I leave her.’
‘Dost thou think she is bedevilled?’
‘Perhaps.’ Lucie shrugged. ‘In truth, I do not know. She told Dame Isobel that the Devil had tempted her with dreams of her beloved.’
‘Why should such dreams be the work of the Devil?’
‘Because they proved false.’
‘Do you believe the Devil possesses her?’
Lucie shook her head. ‘I do not understand what she means by her dreams proving false, either.’
‘She was disappointed, perhaps.’
‘The beloved proved an ordinary man?’
Magda grinned. ‘Thou hast no such complaints.’
‘My problem is that my beloved is unhappy sitting still.’
‘Surely thou hast an idea what ails Joanna?’
‘Today she said Will Longford served her wine seasoned with something that made her sleep, then gave her something more potent for her false funeral. Could all this work as a poison, not killing her, but tearing at her memory and her reason?’
‘Was she well when she ran away?’
‘She had fasted often. Harsh fasts. Once she had starved herself to the point that her fingernails peeled away and her teeth were loose.’
‘Foolish child.’ Magda frowned, her many wrinkles deepening, her grizzled brows pressing in and down over her hawk nose. Wise and fierce she looked. Magda sighed, nodded. ‘Weakening her body, then piling poison on poison. Aye. Trust Apothecary Wilton to find such an explanation. Tidy. Reasonable.’ Magda patted Lucie’s arm.
Lucie was not certain whether Magda agreed. She felt a reluctance to ask. ‘If I am right, I thought it might help if we sweat her, bleed her, and purge her.’
Magda tapped her knee. ‘Unless like a slow-acting poison it has worked on her too long – then a purge could well hasten the end.’
Lucie had not considered that. ‘So I have not found a solution.’
‘Magda did not say that. Try it. But after thou hast cleansed her, she should have a long sleep. Magda will give thee mandrake wine for a long, healing sleep. After that, return to the herbs that calm her. Thou know’st the sort – catmint, bedstraw, and balms – nothing more. If that does not work, thou hast not found the proper solution.’
Lucie saw a flaw in the plan. ‘How long is a long sleep?’
‘Aye, thou art thinking ’twill be days without speaking with her. Nay. From sunset to sunset to sunrise – thou canst spare one day, eh?’ Magda patted Lucie’s hand. ‘Thou must not be overly hopeful. ’Tis but a theory. And though she may be calm and rested at the end of it, she may say little more than she has.’
Lucie forced herself to ask the question that plagued her. ‘What would you do with her?’
Magda grinned. ‘Thou art alert. Thou hearest Magda’s silences.’ She shook her head. ‘Thou wouldst not take Magda’s advice.’
‘Please, Magda, tell me.’
The old woman scratched her chin, frowned fiercely down at the sun-dappled river. After a long silence, she said, ‘Magda would leave the child in peace.’
Lucie was certain she must have misunderstood. ‘Ask her nothing?’
Magda nodded. ‘And tell her nothing.’
It was not like Magda to suggest inaction. ‘Why?’
Magda held out her wrinkled, sun-browned hands. ‘When storms blow down the Dales to Magda’s house, these old hands ache as a warning that the river shall soon rise.’
Lucie frowned, then realised what Magda meant. ‘You have a feeling it would be best not to know what happened to her.’
Magda stared at something beyond Lucie, a vision of trouble. ‘Aye. Keep thy distance, Magda would advise thee. But thou wouldst not abide by Magda’s feeling. Nor shouldst thou. Thy task is to learn her secret. The Churchmen insist.’ Magda nodded towards the door. ‘Thou must retrieve the boy and make haste to St Mary’s.’
Lucie looked up at the sun. ‘Sweet Heaven!’ She stood up so abruptly she felt dizzy.
Magda jumped to her feet and held Lucie steady. ‘Stay. Magda will fetch Daimon.’
*
Sir Robert met Lucie and Daimon at St Mary’s gate, sputtering with indignation that Lucie had sneaked away and taken Daimon with her.
‘Would you rather I had gone alone?’ she asked.
‘Of course not. You need protection outside the city.’
‘Then it was clever of me to take Daimon?’
‘You should have told me that both of you were leaving. Where did you go?’
‘You are only angry because you feel you have been fooled.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘To seek advice about Dame Joanna. Now I must speak with Brother Wulfstan. I would like you to go back to the shop and tell Tildy I will be there soon. Any customers can wait.’
Sir Robert ordered Daimon to wait for Lucie and to escort her home.
Brother Wulfstan frowned more and more as he listened to Lucie’s prescription. ‘Bleeding, yes. Purging, perhaps. But this long sleep. Mandragora wine.’ He shook his head. ‘The Riverwoman is not a Christian. How can you trust her as you do?’
‘Magda is a good woman, Brother Wulfstan.’
‘But she does not pray over her physicks.’
‘Then we shall pray over them. Please. I would like to try this. If it does not work, I promise to defer to you. Anything that you wish.’
Wulfstan took Lucie’s hands, looked into her eyes. ‘I think you have fulfilled your duty with Joanna. You have proven that she does not wish to be understood. What more do you hope to learn from her? What is it you seek?’
Lucie looked into Wulfstan’s age-clouded eyes. He relied more and more on Brother Henry’s assistance. His round face was wrinkled, his voice crackled. She did not like to distress him. But she must. ‘I think something terrible happened in Scarborough.’ She did not like the sorrow she had brought to the cloudy eyes. ‘Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps Joanna merely fell ill. If that is so, if we can bring her back to her senses, she might simply tell us that. Then we will know to leave her in peace to do penance at St Clement’s.’
Wulfstan shook his head, his kindly face sad. ‘I do not think she merely fell ill, Lucie, and neither do you. But whether it benefits anyone to know what happened –’ he shrugged. ‘Still, Jaro and Maddy were murdered. It is best to make known the murderer.’ Wulfstan let go her hands. ‘I will do as you wish.’
‘You are a good friend. I am sorry I burden you with this.’
‘Fri
ends are blessed burdens.’
Lucie hugged him. ‘I must get to the shop. I will return tomorrow morning.’
Wulfstan put his hands gently on Lucie’s shoulders and frowned sternly. ‘You are doing too much, Lucie. The infirmaress from St Clement’s – Prudentia, a promising name – she can help me bleed Joanna, and surely she can purge her. Leave the mandragora wine with me.’ Wulfstan smiled at her uncertain look. ‘I promise to administer it, Lucie. No matter what I think of Magda Digby, I have agreed to try your idea.’
Lucie was exhausted by the time she opened the shop. A stranger had delivered a letter from Owen. From time to time, Lucie stole glimpses at it, learning gradually the odd story of Matthew Calverley and his missing wife.
Thirteen
An Archer, a Poet, a Prince
Owen had not slept well. What bothered him was Matthew Calverley’s claim that he did not want to know what had happened to his wife. Such uncertainty about Lucie would drive Owen mad. He would be obsessed with finding her, either alive or dead. If dead, he would be devastated, but he would know, he would understand, he would provide for a grave nearby, where he could visit her every day. And if alive – well, he would not like to learn that she was happier without him. But he would know.
Matthew Calverley did not know. Did not wish to know.
But what of the rest of the family?
Indeed. What of the eldest son?
When Louth woke, Owen informed him that he was going back to Leeds to speak with Frank Calverley.
‘Why, for pity’s sake? We have spoken with the head of the family.’
‘I must ask him why no one searched for the truth about his mother’s disappearance.’
Louth, blinking himself awake, shaded his eyes from the dawn light and frowned at Owen. ‘Why? That is not your concern.’
Owen paced, eager to be off. ‘I cannot explain, but I think it might be important.’
Louth sighed. ‘So we spend another day in Leeds.’
‘Not “we”. You go on with the men. Tell me your route. I shall ride hard to catch up with you.’
‘I should accompany you.’
Owen noticed an edge in Louth’s voice. ‘Why? You do not agree that this is anything to be concerned about.’
Louth struggled to sit up. He had slept hard on his left side and his face carried the impression of the wrinkled bedclothes. He yawned. ‘That is not the point.’
‘I shall not tarry.’
Louth looked upset. ‘What if you are delayed?’
‘Then you arrive at Pontefract before I do.’ Owen suddenly guessed Louth’s concern. ‘You think I have no intention of arriving in Pontefract, that I mean to return to York.’
Louth looked surprised, then smiled apologetically. ‘It had occurred to me.’ He swung his pale legs off the side of the bed, called for his squire.
Owen wished to be alone with his thoughts. Louth tended to chatter. ‘I will catch up with you on the road. I swear.’
The servant brought in two tankards of ale for Louth and Owen to wash the night out of their mouths. Then he helped his master dress.
‘For my soul’s sake, I cannot let you go alone,’ Louth said as he tugged and pulled at his houppelande to make it hang just right. ‘Go along now,’ he said to the servant, watching him leave, checking outside the door that he was truly gone.
Owen found Louth’s behaviour more than a little puzzling. He acted as if he were about to divulge some terrible secret. But they had not been speaking of secrets.
Louth stood, hands behind his back, head bowed slightly so that his extra chin pressed forward, looking up through his thick brows. ‘Forgive me for pretending that I do not trust you. That is not the truth. It is in no way the truth.’ He took a deep breath, brought his head up straight and looked Owen in the eye. ‘Maddy – the serving girl who was murdered – would be alive if I had been worthy of my Prince’s trust. But I am not. I have made a mess of this Longford business from the beginning. And now a young woman is dead because of it. I mean to find her murderer.’
Owen was torn between amusement at the thought of the softly rounded, pampered canon facing the murderer, and sympathy with the man’s need to atone for his sin of omission. He chose to play with Louth. ‘I do not think Frank Calverley is your man.’
Louth frowned in puzzlement. ‘I should not think so either.’
‘Neither does Mistress Calverley’s disappearance have anything to do with the girl’s death, I suspect.’
Louth bristled. ‘Are you purposefully misunderstanding me?’
Owen bowed his head slightly. ‘Not at all, Sir Nicholas. I am trying to see what your confession has to do with my going back into Leeds alone to speak with Frank Calverley.’
‘It was not a confession.’
Owen shrugged. ‘Call it what you wish. I appreciate your fine feelings about Longford’s maid. But keeping Lancaster content is the issue as far as I am concerned, and I would appreciate your making it to Pontefract on schedule. If – and it is only an if – I do not arrive on time, you can assure him that I shall be there soon.’
Louth closed his eyes. ‘I wish to observe your methods. That is why I wish to accompany you.’
Owen did not try to hide his surprise. ‘What do you mean, methods?’
‘How you question people.’
‘What do you think I am, an interrogator?’
It was Louth’s turn to look surprised. ‘Is that not what you are?’
‘God’s blood, I am an apothecary’s apprentice!’
Louth’s red face turned redder, his breath expelled in a loud guffaw. But seeing the fury on Owen’s face, he quickly grew serious. ‘Please forgive me, but you must indeed think me an ass if you expect me to believe that. What in Heaven’s name are you doing here if you are an apothecary’s apprentice?’
‘I occasionally work for Thoresby.’ Owen was glowering and he hated himself for it. He should laugh and shrug it off. Of course he was a spy, and a damned good one, truth be told. Why was he always denying it? He forced a grin. Shrugged. ‘A spy never admits his calling.’
Louth laughed. ‘Already you teach me. See how I need to observe you?’
Owen sighed. ‘Leave your men at the gates of the city, if you will. We do not want to call attention to ourselves.’
As Owen and Louth rode along the River Aire to Leeds, sunshine warmed the river meadows and glinted off the water. Owen imagined Matthew Calverley bending over his garden, hoeing away the weeds, obliterating memories. He had noted certain silences yesterday. Some occurred around the issue of Mistress Anne Calverley turning against Hugh and Joanna. She seemed an unnatural mother to turn against the children who favoured her. Was it because they favoured her? Was there something about herself she did not like seeing again in her children? Something accursed in her? But would she not try to help them, teach them how to fight it?
It turned Owen’s thoughts to his impending fatherhood. If he detected his child going astray, would he know what to do? Lucie would, most like. It seemed the sort of thing women knew about.
Was the problem in the Calverley family that Anne Calverley did not know what to do?
Trot had given them directions to Frank’s house in case Matthew Calverley had not been about the previous day. They found it easily, a substantial stone house near the wharves. A logical location for a young merchant. Owen and Louth rode up just as the master of the house was striding out to begin his day.
‘Captain Archer, representing His Grace, the Archbishop of York.’ Owen said, dismounting near the plump, brightly dressed young man. ‘And Sir Nicholas de Louth, Canon of Beverley.’ Owen gestured back to his companion, who was slow in dismounting. ‘Am I so fortunate as to find Master Frank Calverley with such ease?’
‘You are indeed, Captain Archer. And doubly fortunate, for my father told me of your visit and I regretted not meeting you. I am glad to have news of my sister, good or ill.’
‘I wonder if you could spare us a few words b
efore you begin your day.’
Frank Calverley nodded. He was very much his father’s son: the round, blunt features, the merry eyes. ‘Accompany me down to the wharves, if you will.’
The street was shadowed by overhanging upper floors. With Owen’s one good eye he had to watch his footing to avoid night waste and keep a tight hold on his horse. He accompanied Frank in silence until they reached the wharf. Louth followed at the rear, forced into silence by his distance from Frank Calverley. The river breeze smelled fresh after the city street. Owen and Louth tethered their horses to a small tree outside Frank’s warehouse door.
Frank turned to Owen. ‘So. You would know more about my sister Joanna?’
‘It is another matter. I know it will sound as if I forget myself and grow too familiar with your family, but I am intrigued by your mother’s disappearance.’
Frank took off his felt hat and scratched his head, heaved a big sigh, the merry eyes growing sad. ‘Aye. ’Tis passing strange that a woman who lived so many years at the river’s edge would fall in. But the bank was slippery and she was not strong. She had been unwell for a long while. I think it was the farthest she had walked since early spring.’
‘Your mother drowned, then?’
Frank frowned, tucking his chin in so that his jowls spread, ageing him. ‘My father said otherwise?’
‘He said that he did not know whether she drowned or ran away. He did not wish to know.’
Frank put a meaty hand up to his face, covering his eyes for a moment, then, looking round, sat down heavily on a bale of wool. ‘Such a contrary way to mourn her. Edith and I have worked hard to convince our acquaintances that our father says such things that he may dream of seeing her again. Why he would want folk to think she had a lover … It is difficult for the family. I trust you thought it passing strange we would not have tried harder to find her.’ Frank kneaded his thick thighs with his fists. ‘It is simple to explain, impossible to cure. My father loved her so. He could not believe that she could be taken from him so suddenly after he had prayed so hard and sat with her so long in her illness. God had answered our prayers and spared her through the spring and summer, then took her in such a …’ Frank held his hands out, palms up, and looked up at the sky for the words ‘… capricious manner.’