by Candace Robb
‘The cold is unkind to aging bones, Captain.’ A stiff smile. ‘Shall we move inside?’
The precentor had been shifting from foot to foot and huddling deeper into his cloak. ‘Bless you, Thomas, it is cold out here.’
Little came of the talk in the chancellor’s hall, where they huddled round a brazier to warm themselves. The chancellor and the precentor seemed most keen to lay the trouble at each other’s feet. Thomas did not seem to connect the ‘Frenchman’ with anyone in particular, but Owen sensed the chancellor knew who might want Ronan dead.
Taking his leave of him for now, Owen reviewed with Michaelo all that he had noticed about the body so that the monk might record it when he returned to his lodgings. The stab wound, the injuries on the face suggesting a broken nose, the ice on the front of the hat. As if he had been pushed face down in the snow, then rolled over and stabbed. Whoever stabbed him knew how to do it, and where.
‘I cannot think of anyone in the minster liberty likely to be experienced with stabbing a man through the heart,’ said Michaelo. ‘Perhaps a guard?’
Owen approached the precentor, who was talking with Hempe. ‘Any former soldiers among the vicars? Or in service here in the liberty?’
‘One or two guards,’ said the precentor. ‘But I cannot think why any of them would attack Ronan.’
Master Adam led them to the deanery garden, where the other body had been laid out in a storage shed behind the kitchen. Looking at the damage to the head, Owen guessed the man’s neck had snapped on impact, killing him at once. A blessing of a sort. The man was short but muscular, younger than Owen, mid- to late twenties. His hands were calloused and scarred, his nails jagged, dirty. Yet he seemed a tidy man, his thatch of brown hair trimmed with care, face shaved, his clothing well made, a leather jerkin beneath a padded jacket and heavy wool cloak, good boots, with wear from chafing caused by riding. No marks of livery, but when Owen pulled up the shirt, the scars on the torso were those of a soldier or guard. This was no traveling merchant. All this he shared with Michaelo, Hempe leaning close to catch it.
‘I don’t like the look of him,’ said Hempe.
‘Nor I,’ said Owen. ‘He would have had the strength to be Ronan’s murderer. But the timing troubles me.’ He handled the man’s dagger, testing the balance, appreciating the quality. ‘Well crafted. He fell with his weapon sheathed. No time to draw it,’ he noted to Michaelo. It was not his dagger Michaelo had taken from the young woman. Glancing up at the precentor, who had been drawn aside by the servants guarding the body, ‘Now the blood’s washed off his face, do you know him?’
Adam sent his clerks off and returned his attention to Owen, his expression markedly less officious. ‘Know him? No, Captain. Nor can I guess what business he had in the chapter house. Or how he gained access.’
‘So the door would have been locked.’
‘The clerk assigned to the evening rounds yesterday says he found the door unlocked and rectified that. We have warned the masons time and again to ensure that they have locked the door behind them.’ The stonemasons at work on the lady chapel used some of the chambers above the chapter house to store tools and sketch plans.
‘When would the evening check occur? Shortly after the sun set?’ Which was about the time Michaelo recalled witnessing the exchange of cloaks.
‘An hour or two after that. Sunset is so very early in Advent.’
‘What about Theo? Had he locked the south door behind him when he came to investigate the singing?’
‘Forgive me. I did not think to ask. But I will.’
Thanking him, Owen turned to Hempe. ‘After I walk through their spaces up above, I would have some of them look to see if they find anything amiss. Care to join me?’
‘Of course.’
Turning back to the body, Owen opened the man’s mouth – gingerly, one side of the jaw crushed – and sniffed for any telltale scent of poison. Trouble breathing of a sudden, rushing up to the roof for air, becoming dizzy, falling … But he smelled nothing untoward.
‘Services have begun for the day,’ the precentor said at his back. ‘You will not disturb them?’
Owen turned. ‘You sent the lad to me, then went to the mayor to request my help. Have you changed your mind?’
With an apologetic shake of the head, Adam blessed them and asked God to guide them in their search.
‘Remember the list of those who worked with Ronan,’ said Owen. ‘And whether Theo locked the door behind him.’
‘Of course.’
As they left the dean’s garden, Owen asked Michaelo for his impression of Master Adam.
‘Risen above his capabilities, and therefore unbending in the rules as he understands them. Desperate for your help yet fearful lest you wrest control of his charges. He will do what he can, but with much complaint.’
Hempe chuckled.
‘And the chancellor?’ Owen asked.
‘He fears what you will learn about him in regard to Ronan. I hesitate to say this—’
‘I want to hear all that came to mind, Michaelo.’
‘I sensed no surprise about Ronan meeting a violent death.’
‘Do you think he might provide names?’
‘I believe he knows far more than he is willing to share.’
Hempe grunted. ‘Shall I collect him?’
‘On what grounds?’ asked Owen. ‘That we sense there is much he is not telling us?’
Brother Michaelo bowed. ‘I will deliver my report this evening, Captain.’
‘Tomorrow. You need sleep.’
The monk bowed again and took his leave.
Watching him gliding away through the melting snow, Hempe said, ‘I would never have believed you would accept his opinion on anything.’
‘Nor would I.’
‘So what changed your mind?’
‘Realizing that what I took as Thoresby’s insight benefited from his secretary’s keen observation. Better to have it working for me.’
‘Do you like him?’
‘Does it matter?’
A chuckle. ‘Not as long as he stays away from the York Tavern.’
‘Agreed.’ In truth, Owen could not imagine Michaelo having any interest in frequenting a common tavern.
They approached the masons’ lodge, where Hempe had stationed a man to talk to the stoneworkers as they arrived for the day’s work in the minster yard. At this time of year only the most skilled were retained, with a few apprentices to fetch and carry.
‘Have any noticed strangers lurking about the past few days?’ Hempe asked his man.
Blowing his hands, as if to remind his boss that he had been out in the cold all morning, the man shook his head. ‘Most say they pay no heed to folk coming and going as long as they keep clear of the work in the lady chapel and stay out of the lodge. No one’s bothered them of late.’
‘Most say. Someone said otherwise?’ Owen asked.
‘Young one there says he felt someone watching him yesterday and early this morning when he came in.’
Owen walked over to the youth in the dusty hat who had been watching them.
‘Hire me. I would be more help than that cotton-eared cur.’
‘Where was the watcher?’ Owen asked as Hempe joined them.
‘More than one.’ The lad pointed to a part of the minster roof, and on the ground behind the lady chapel.
‘They were there this morning?’ Hempe asked.
‘Only one. On the ground.’
‘You are happy here in the stoneyard?’
A sigh. ‘I want to carve faces. But it takes years.’
Owen grinned. ‘You sound like my son when he became apprentice to my wife. But his duties have quickly become far more to his liking.’
‘If you decide that chasing down those who break the peace sounds better than helping to build this great minster, come and find me,’ said Hempe. ‘You have been helpful.’
The lad beamed as they headed toward the lady chapel. Beneath the overhang
they found that the melting snow coming off the roof in icy chunks obliterated any sign of watchers.
Owen continued on round the corner and through the door. The activities of the day had begun in earnest within, the chapter at prayer in the choir, canon lawyers and their clerks at work in the transept, priests saying masses in the nave chantry chapels. Another one of Hempe’s men guarded the door to the chapter house.
‘Any activity?’ Hempe asked.
‘Clerks curious to hear more about the deaths, a mason wanting access to his tools, accused us of keeping them from their work. I told him to see you, Captain.’
‘He had no key?’
‘We were told not to let anyone past until you said so.’
‘Welcome news,’ said Hempe.
‘Good man,’ said Owen. ‘Now if you will open the door.’
‘No need, Captain.’ He stepped aside. ‘It’s not locked while a guard is present.’
‘I trust you will ensure that it is not left unattended, not even for the moment it might take to step outside and relieve yourself?’
A blush. God help them. ‘Yes, Captain.’
Within, morning light flooded the circular room, though it was as cold as the rest of the vast interior of York Minster. Access to the upper reaches was by a small door to the left inside the main entrance, the stone steps narrow, unlit. ‘We need your man’s lantern.’
Hempe fetched the light. ‘What are we looking for?’
‘Other than a small chunk of wood out of the handle of a dagger, anything that might suggest a struggle, someone lurking a long while – candle wax, fresh piss.’
‘Stonemasons piss elsewhere?’
‘I said fresh.’
‘Right. Whose dagger? The fallen man’s had no chip.’
Owen told him of the dagger Michaelo had taken from their guest, moving off before he could ask more questions.
The steps opened onto a large area surrounding heavy wooden beams supporting the ceiling below. Colder here, his breath now smoking. Owen threw an end of his cloak over his shoulder and crouched to light the floor. Recently swept, and done well. Lighting a corner he saw that the sweeper had reached there. He doubted that last night’s intruder would be so thorough. ‘The masons are a tidy lot.’
‘So whatever we find, it likely belongs to the lad or the man who fell.’
Owen said nothing as he moved farther and crouched again. He repeated that all the way to where the ladder led up to the roof. Almost at the bottom of the ladder, he found the piece of wood near the archway. Standing up, he searched the stone of the arch, and found a fresh scar – with a dark smudge that might be blood, at about the height he expected. The hand that drew the knife had been grabbed and slammed into the stone to release it. Owen recalled Lucie’s description of the woman’s right hand. So she had tried to defend herself?
‘Found something?’ Hempe asked. ‘Connecting the lad to what happened up here?’
‘About the lad,’ said Owen. ‘This is to be shared only with those who must know in order to assist in our search for the truth.’
Hempe stepped close, studying Owen’s face in the lantern light. ‘What is it?’
‘A young woman, not a lad.’
A tired chuckle. ‘They might pretend not to lie with women, but churchmen are not so innocent as to make such a mistake.’
‘They are when the woman does all she can to appear a man.’
Hempe grunted. ‘Such an effort speaks of trouble left behind.’
‘It does.’ Holding the lantern high over the ladder, Owen said, ‘Ready for the cold?’
‘I am already frozen, so it matters not a whit.’
As they began to climb, Hempe said, ‘I did not want to say in front of Master Adam, but Ronan was called Neville’s summoner. Some wondered whether he would still play that role now.’
‘Sniffing out sin? But that was never Neville’s duty, was it?’
‘Which is why I find it of interest. Murder of an informer – not surprising.’
Having reached the top, Owen searched for something on which to hang the lantern, found it, then called down, ‘Opening the hatch.’
Hempe looked away. Owen pushed with his left hand, turning his blind side to the rush of accumulated snow. There would have been far more last night. He hoisted himself up onto the walkway, staying in a crouch as he moved far enough for Hempe to join him. He was not at ease on precipitous ledges since losing half of his sight.
‘Bloody—’ Hempe caught his breath as he rose to full height. ‘It would not take much to topple over.’
‘No.’
‘Even worse at night.’
‘Can you see where Ronan lay from here?’ Owen asked.
Hempe shielded his eyes from the pale sunlight and looked round, shook his head. ‘Not from here. Maybe farther over.’ He turned right, walking as if it were nothing to balance on the slippery edge of oblivion.
Owen cursed his own cowardice.
‘No. Trees in the way.’ Hempe turned back. ‘You thought someone might have been watching, witnessed the attack?’
‘It was a thought.’
‘And just fell?’
‘Or someone took care of the witness.’
‘The woman?’
A possibility. But the woman’s condition suggested she might simply have taken the opportunity to save herself from her attacker. ‘Theo frightened someone out of the chapter house. Two men? Too early to say.’
‘I will circle round,’ said Hempe, moving on.
More snow, then melt. There was little he could tell from prints, but Owen crept over to the place where he guessed the body would have gone down and examined the stones for anything other than snow and ice. Blood would have been helpful. But he found nothing.
‘Snow, slush, nothing else up here,’ Hempe declared behind him.
Owen agreed, grateful to clamber down the ladder.
Back in the large space they explored the chambers opening off it. Mason’s tools, several lanterns and oil lamps, pieces of candles, rope, neatly coiled – Owen noticed nothing helpful until a small room near the doorway to the steps to the ground revealed a pool of spilt lamp oil.
‘Someone might have hidden here,’ said Owen. Or was this where she had been placed while bound? And then what? Who had cut her bonds? Why? Was it to force her to scale the ladder on her own? The fallen man looked strong, but the woman was tall, and had she struggled … Indeed, if her captor had any sense he would not have attempted carrying her up the ladder. Two men? He stopped himself. How easily he made up a tale, with little proof.
‘What is this?’ Hempe dropped to his haunches and took out his dagger to poke at something where one of the wooden beams met the floor. Owen lowered the lantern.
‘Beads.’ Hempe dragged out a short strand. ‘Bracelet?’ He handed it to Owen.
Coral. A fine strand, the knots torn at the ends. The circle it formed seemed small for an adult wrist, the coral too fine for a child’s. ‘Or a piece of a paternoster,’ said Owen. ‘A woman’s, I would think.’
‘Our woman’s? Or lost here long ago. Not a bad place to bring a mistress. If one had a key.’
As he dropped the beads into his scrip, Owen asked Hempe to arrange for one of his men to await the arrivals of the masons at their lodge in the minster yard. ‘Have him take them through these spaces, find out whether they notice anything amiss.’
‘I will do it. While you’re in the Bedern? No need for both of us to go.’
‘Right. Check the city gates for last night and this morning as well. Find out what you can about strangers moving through, in or out. Meet me at the York midday.’
‘You are after something in particular?’
Nothing so clear. Vague feelings.
‘After the bailiff’s men have taken the masons through, keep the chapter house locked and guarded,’ said Owen.
‘The masons will complain.’
‘Let them. Pray God we will not need to guard it long. I will
have one of the precentor’s men show me Ronan’s lodgings now.’
Taking his leave of Hempe, Owen moved back out into the steadily warming morning. Thinking Brother Michaelo might be of use in examining the vicar’s rooms, he stopped at the archdeacon’s.
FIVE
The Riddle of the Cloak
By now the Bedern was awake, the vicars choral and the canons already at morning prayer in the minster, lay folk moving about their chores, gossiping of the bodies in the minster yard. A tidy walkway had already been cleared throughout the area, allowing Owen, Michaelo, and the clerk leading the way to move quickly through the curious crowd to Ronan’s lodgings near the center, close to the cloister and refectory. The clerk left them to a fellow clerk guarding the lodgings – Beck, who took offence at being introduced as Ronan’s manservant.
‘His clerk,’ he corrected his fellow, who shrugged and departed.
With some reluctance, Beck stepped aside to allow Owen and Michaelo to enter, then followed them in.
‘Spacious,’ said Michaelo as he shone his lantern into the room.
‘Master Ronan was held in high regard,’ said Beck, setting his own lantern on a bench near the window to open the shutters. Facing north, they let in little light on a winter dawn. But the placement of his lantern revealed wet footprints on the floorboards. Snowy boots, Owen thought.
‘I believe this is the cloak he had been wearing in the nave.’ Michaelo held up a garment that had been draped on a stool beyond the bed. ‘But how did it come to be here?’ A chest stood open, clothes shoved to one side. ‘Someone was in a hurry.’
‘Not Ronan,’ Owen noted. ‘Those marks are recent.’ He looked at Beck. ‘Perhaps yours? Were you in here before we came?’
The clerk squirmed, shook his head.
‘Do you know whether the tide has come in?’ Owen asked.
‘It has,’ said Beck. ‘I heard the bells on the river.’ They were set to be jostled by the rising tide, ringing out a warning.
‘Is that relevant?’ Michaelo asked.
Owen did not care to answer in the clerk’s presence. ‘We have seen enough here. Bring the cloak.’ As he strode out he heard Michaelo advising Beck to watch the room.
‘But I have others to serve,’ the man whined.