by Candace Robb
Lucie refilled the cup, gave it to Joanna, then walked slowly to the window in a daze of blood. She gulped air. Turning, not wishing to sit just yet, she asked, ‘Where did Stefan take you?’
Joanna looked oddly calm. ‘A cave. By the ocean.’ Her voice was steady. ‘He would not speak to me. Would not let me touch him.’
‘Why did you stay with him?’
Joanna frowned as if puzzled. ‘Why, to murder him.’ Her direct look, a challenge rather than an apology, chilled Lucie. ‘He had murdered my Hugh. He must die.’ A long, shuddering sigh. ‘I had much time to think. I remembered what Hugh had said, how they had meant to poison me. And I believed him. How could someone who had loved me do this to me? And I thought how Hugh had murdered Longford as Longford had meant to murder me. So I planned his poisoning.’
‘You poisoned Stefan?’
Joanna rubbed her eyes wearily. ‘I did not know how. Not with what little we had there.’
‘And yet you stayed.’
‘I –’ she shrugged. ‘I still wanted him.’
Lucie pressed her chilled fingertips to her eyelids.
‘One night, after much wine, Stefan stripped me and beat me – with the hilt of his sword, his hands, his boots – shouting all the while that I was unclean, I had made him unclean, I had made him a murderer. When I was bleeding and bruised and retching, he tied my hands to a post so I could not touch him, and he took me. So violently I thought he meant to kill me. And then he beat me again. And took me again. When he was finished, spent, he left me there, tied up, naked, unclean. I do not know for certain how long I lay there. I know it was days – I saw the light come and go. I lay there waiting to die. I prayed that death would not be slow in coming. I was so cold. Naked upon the stones. The sunshine I saw outside the cave could not reach me.’ She paused, crossed herself. ‘And then one night she came to me.’ Joanna’s voice changed, hushed.
‘Who?’
Joanna smiled. ‘Our Lady. She told me she would not let me die until I returned the vial of her milk that I had stolen from St Clement’s. I told her I could not move. She said I could work the cord on my hands loose enough to slide it up the post. So I obeyed her. She had come to show me the way to peace. It was midday by the time I worked my hands free. My first movements were so painful. It was late afternoon before I wrapped myself in her mantle, took my clothes, and went down to the water to wash.’ She bit her lip, dropped her eyes. ‘And there he was, lying on the rocks.’
‘Stefan?’
Joanna’s eyes focused on something Lucie could not see. ‘He must have slipped. The cliff was always wet with spray’
‘So you did not kill him?’
Joanna focused on Lucie. ‘But I did. If I had run away, he might not have fallen. He was so angry.’ She shook her head. ‘It should be clear to you. I am guilty.’
‘He was dead?’
‘I did not go too close. I washed myself and dressed. I had my mission for the Virgin. Then I could die in peace. That is all I wanted.’
Lucie found it difficult to believe that Joanna had not gone near enough to Stefan to see whether he breathed, whether someone might yet save him. ‘You walked away without knowing?’
Joanna nodded. ‘It was over.’
Who was crueller? Hugh or Joanna? ‘Did you go into Scarborough? Tell anyone?’
Joanna looked askance. ‘Tell whom? Edmund would have murdered me then and there. I could not allow that until I had found the vial and returned it.’
‘Can you be so unfeeling? Stefan might have been alive. Don’t you wonder if he lies there still?’
Joanna shrugged. ‘I suppose he does. Unless he slipped into the sea. I hope that happened. It is a kinder death.’
As she stared at the madwoman before her – for surely Joanna was mad – all Lucie wanted was the comfort of Owen’s arms. She shivered with cold on this warm July day.
When she left Joanna, Lucie was grateful that Daimon asked no questions, just accompanied her to the abbey church. She sank down in front of the statue of the Virgin, put her head in her hands, and wept. Maddy, Jaro, Colin, Longford, Hugh, Stefan, Jack – all dead; Joanna yearning for death. Even Mistress Calverley seemed to have willed her death to escape the tragic truth of her children. Not just their forbidden love but their cruel insistence on having their way, no matter whom it destroyed. For Lucie the overwhelming tragedy was that none of this could ever be put right. Even if Joanna and Hugh had managed to escape to France and live as a married couple, they would have earned their momentary happiness by three deaths, and they would have lived with that knowledge. A confessor might have shriven them of their mortal sins – all but one. And that sin, of brother and sister living as man and wife, would have damned them for all eternity. Unless they parted. And then all would have been for nought.
Now even Hugh was gone. And Stefan. Leaving Joanna alone with her memories. Memories that made death seem a kindness.
A long while passed as Lucie worked through the emotions that gripped her. The bells rang out for nones. In the choir, the monks chanted their office and departed. At some point in the afternoon, Daimon had brought Lucie a stool. Now she sat, leaning her tired back against a pillar, staring at Our Lady, uncertain how to pray for Joanna. As the bells rang for vespers, someone knelt beside Lucie, gathered her in strong arms.
‘Lucie, my love,’ Owen whispered, ‘it is over. Come. Let us go home.’
She wiped her eyes, looked up into Owen’s face, dark with worry. ‘Over? No. Not for Joanna. It will never be over for Joanna.’ Owen pressed her head to his chest, but Lucie had seen Edmund whisper something to Daimon, who gasped, then crossed himself. She pulled away from Owen. ‘What do you mean, “over”? What is over?’ That look in his eye.
Owen shook his head. ‘Not now. Come home.’
‘What has happened to Joanna?’
Owen tried to lift her.
Lucie fought him. ‘You said it, Owen. Now tell me.’
‘Joanna jumped from the window. Her neck was broken.’
Lucie’s stomach lurched. ‘But she did not confess the deepest sin, Owen. Not to a confessor. Only to me.’
Owen pulled her close, kissed her forehead. ‘Perhaps it was enough. We shall pray that it was.’
Jasper and his friends from the school sneaked round to the archbishop’s gaol to glimpse the men being led out in shackles.
‘What did they do?’ one of the boys asked.
‘Killed a nun,’ another replied. ‘Pushed her out of a window.’
Jasper shook his head. ‘No one pushed her. She jumped.’
They all turned to Jasper with wide eyes, remembering his authority.
‘Did Captain Archer see it?’
‘No.’
‘Did anyone see it?’
‘Dame Prudentia, the infirmaress,’ Jasper said. ‘She cried a lot and said it was her fault. But the captain told her that when people are determined to do such things, no one can stop them, just delay them.’ Jasper gazed round at the attentive faces lifted towards him. This was a benefit of being an apprentice in the Wilton apothecary that he had not foreseen. ‘Those men wear the livery of Captain Sebastian of Scarborough. He was a traitor, but now he fights for our King.’
‘How did that happen?’
‘Captain Archer went to Scarborough and convinced him to fight for Right.’
All heads turned to study the livery of the shackled men.
‘But look at the one coming out with Captain Archer. He’s wearing the livery, but he’s free.’
Jasper ducked back behind the corner of the building. Owen might not be pleased to see him there. ‘That’s Edmund of Whitby,’ Jasper told his friends. ‘He helped the captain a lot, so His Grace the Archbishop has pardoned him. But he must return to Scarborough and answer to the Percies. He’ll be under guard, but unshackled.’
His friends peered again round the corner to watch for any further action. They were disappointed there were to be no beheadings or hangings.
Twenty-four
Farewells
The men riding ahead of Edmund talked of how Fortune smiled on them, to be ordered down to the shore on such a warm day. They were glad to escape the stinking city. Edmund rode silently behind them, trying not to look at the blue sky. It reminded him of the cursed mantle he had given Joanna Calverley, the mantle he now carried. He had asked the Reverend Mother for this small thing, the mantle; perhaps it was somehow blessed and might speed Stefan on towards Heaven. Dame Isobel had gladly given him the mantle, pleased to be rid of it. ‘For it was you who gave it to poor Joanna. It should go back to you.’
Perhaps it had been blessed – it had carried Joanna, the cause of all this sorrow, to her own destruction. It remained a puzzle to Edmund why everyone had been so determined to keep Joanna alive. He had not flinched at the sight of Joanna’s blood, her bruised and swollen neck. She had wished for death. But he was grateful, in the end, that the sisters had frustrated Joanna’s attempts to starve herself. It was far more satisfying to him that she had died violently, with pain.
Now Edmund wound his way down a bluff on the North Sea to identify a body that had been washed up on the beach below. If it was Stefan, Edmund would wrap him in the frayed blue mantle and carry him back to Scarborough. Before departing to join King Edward, Captain Sebastian had arranged for a search party and, if Stefan’s body were found, it was to be buried under the aisle in the manor chapel. It was characteristic of the captain, this courtesy. It was this made his men so loyal. He had learned it from du Guesclin.
Ever since the word had come, Edmund had prayed it was not Stefan. As long as his friend’s body was not found, there was hope. Edmund could imagine Stefan alive and thriving, perhaps fighting with the Free Companies on the continent.
Edmund’s companions reined in their horses. ‘There,’ one shouted above the surf and wind, ‘down in that cave.’
Edmund took the lantern from his saddle, draped the mantle round his neck, and walked across the sand to the cave. His companions followed, but waited outside.
Stepping inside, Edmund stood a moment, blinded after the sun-drenched beach. He took a deep breath, smelled high tides and another odour – man’s mortality. He opened a shutter on the lantern, held the mantle up to his mouth and nose, and moved towards a makeshift grave of rocks crowned with driftwood, just cover enough to keep out scavengers. The stench grew stronger, overpowering the scent of the sea water in the tidal pools. Edmund set the lantern on a stone and shoved aside the driftwood cover, still holding the mantle to his face. Then he lifted the lantern over the bloated, half-eaten body. There was so little left untouched, but the hair was blond, the height and build Stefan’s, and the broken front tooth unmistakable. One hand clutched a leather purse attached to a thong at Stefan’s waist. Edmund set the lantern down and worked the purse loose, his hands shaking with emotion.
‘You were a good friend, Stefan, and I mean to be one in return. I take ship in a few days for your homeland. All your earthly belongings will be delivered up to your wife, and I shall tell her what a fine man you were. Rest in peace, my friend. Your family shall not want.’
Edmund called to the men waiting outside.
When Stefan’s body was wrapped in the mantle and slung across the extra horse, Edmund looked in the leather purse. There, sadly intact, was the seal of Captain Sebastian. The seal that would have provided Joanna and Hugh safe passage to France and a cursed marriage. Edmund wished with all his heart that Stefan had been too late to discover Joanna with Hugh, had been left, heartbroken, but alive, wondering why she had deserted him. He must now find a way to describe this tragedy to Stefan’s wife as an honourable death.
Owen, Ned, and Thoresby rode out of York on a sunny August day, headed for Pontefract. Ned and Thoresby would continue with the Duke’s retinue to Windsor; Owen would return in a few days. Lancaster had invited him to a high mass blessing the new captains and their Castilian adventure, with an accompanying feast at which Owen would be a guest of honour.
He had thought to refuse. He wanted no more of travelling, no more of Thoresby. But Lucie had insisted, supported by Bess and Magda; Lucie argued that Owen should see his friends once more before they all embarked on their new endeavours, for who knew when they might all meet again in this life.
Lucie had, it seemed, been doing quite a lot of thinking since Joanna Calverley’s death. ‘Life is short and precious, and happiness even more so. I think we should swallow our pride and accept Sir Robert’s gift of Corbett’s house.’
Owen found this new mood strange. ‘This new philosophy has convinced you to accept him as your father?’
Lucie had looked uncomfortable. ‘He is an old man. I fear I might regret it if I continue to reject him.’
‘And I, too, must swallow my pride?’
‘He means no insult, Owen. He says you are a good husband to me, and he is proud of you.’
‘Because of Thoresby.’
She shrugged.
‘And my time as captain of archers for the old Duke.’
‘Faith, what is the harm in that? Sir Robert was a soldier – like you when I first met you – it is the life he knew best.’
‘Will you call him “father” when you accept?’
‘I shall try to.’
With such a concession on Lucie’s part, what could Owen say? ‘Perhaps with a larger house we shall find opportunities for quiet moments together.’
Now he rode between Ned and Thoresby, contemplating another unexpected offer. Just a few moments ago, while they had paused at an inn, Thoresby had proposed that he be godfather to the child on the way.
Ned had blinked at the archbishop in disbelief.
Owen had tried to be courteous, but he was at once suspicious. What did Thoresby want in return? ‘I am most honoured, Your Grace. But such a responsibility. Particularly if our first child is a son.’
The archbishop had nodded. ‘And if it is a daughter, I propose to act as godfather to her and to your first son.’
‘Your Grace,’ Owen had to ask, ‘to what do my wife and I owe this honour?’
Ned had kicked him under the table, his large brown eyes wide with shock at his friend’s bluntness to so great a man.
But Thoresby threw back his head and laughed. ‘What do I want from you, that is the question I see in your eye. I predicted this response when I discussed the matter with Sir Robert and Jehannes.’
‘You … Sir Robert said nothing to me.’
‘Because I asked him to keep his counsel. And Jehannes. You might find reassurance in their delight in the proposal.’
Now that he knew his honesty would not be taken amiss, Owen drank down his ale and sat forward, elbows on the table. ‘You still have not explained …’
‘I am an old man, Archer, full of aches and pains and failing parts that remind me constantly of my mortality. The thought of playing some part in a new life – why, it is quite a cheerful thing to contemplate.’ He had told Owen to think about it, to discuss it with Lucie.
Owen had much to consider as they rode towards Pontefract.
Wobbly with brandywine, Owen sank down on the stone shelf in a sentry post. It was a warm August night, and he, Lief, Gaspare, and Ned had come up onto the walls of Pontefract to get some air after hours of attacking tables groaning with food and drink.
‘What am I celebrating, I wonder?’ Owen muttered.
‘A successful investigation,’ Ned said with a slap on the back that almost knocked Owen over. ‘You managed to please three, maybe four lords with it – Lancaster, Thoresby, the King, and for all we know, the Lord God Himself. Can you imagine – a lusty, incestuous bride of Christ! It might be blasphemous to even speak of it!’
‘You’re drunk, Ned.’
‘So are you, Owen. But thank the Lord I’m a cheerful drunk. You just brood more than ever.’
Lief and Gaspare joined them.
‘What’s our friend brooding about now?’ Lief asked.
‘He
has nothing to celebrate,’ Ned crowed. ‘He has forgotten the honour offered by John Thoresby – the Archbishop of York and Lord Chancellor of England has offered to be godfather to Owen and Lucie’s first child, and to their first son as well if a daughter comes first.’
‘Sweet Mary and all the saints,’ Lief muttered. ‘A child with such a godparent shall surely prosper.’
Owen belched.
Gaspare slapped him on the back. ‘So what’s the gloom?’
How quickly they forgot Joanna Calverley. Owen looked up at his friends’ shadowy faces, then beyond to the stars. ‘She might have been up there. She might have died in grace. But suicides are the folk we know for certain burn in Hell for all eternity. Their very deaths are terrible sins.’
Lief sat down with a grunt. ‘Ah. ’Tis the nun who haunts you. How do you know that she did not regret her act and pray for forgiveness as she fell? How do you know that?’
Owen frowned, too drunk to come up with an answer. It was possible … ‘I should like to think that.’
‘What I want to know is whether you and Lucie have come to your senses and accepted Sir Robert’s generous gift,’ Lief said. ‘Alice and I would ne’er say nay to such a house.’
Owen shrugged. ‘Sir Robert bought the house, and he says it will sit there empty until we come round, for he’s had enough of the city for a long time to come. He looks forward to my return, when he can go back to Freythorpe Hadden and walk his fields. He says he cannot breathe enough air in the city.’
Gaspare grabbed the brandywine and took a long drink, then handed it to Owen. ‘Drink to your new home, Owen.’
‘And to your child’s fortune in such a godfather,’ Lief said.
Owen dropped his head. ‘I have had enough.’
Gaspare and Ned both snorted. ‘Is it possible to have enough brandywine?’ Ned asked.
‘To live a long life,’ Lief paused to belch – ‘a man must know his limits.’
Gaspare and Ned exchanged grins.
‘Wives and children,’ Gaspare said. ‘How they tame a man.’