by Candace Robb
Owen knelt to her, gently took her hands in his. She tried to turn away.
‘Why?’ he asked. ‘What had he done?’
‘Not him,’ she sobbed. ‘What I did.’ She shook her head and began to whisper the words of the Kyrie.
‘I pray you. Tell me what happened.’
‘I must make my confession. I will bare my soul to a priest, no other.’ She bowed her head and returned to the prayer of contrition.
‘Tell me at least this. Was there another man in the chapter house with you?’
‘I was not aware of another.’
‘Can you tell me anything else?’
Sandrine shook her head. ‘I want a priest.’
With a frustrated sigh Owen rose, drawing Lucie out the door. ‘If Jehannes hears her confession, I will still know nothing.’
‘We cannot deny her.’ She saw how he fought anger and pity.
He returned to the room. ‘Forgive me, but I must know. Had this anything to do with the murder of the vicar down below?’
Sandrine shook her head and lay down on the bed, turning her back to them.
‘I will send for a priest I trust, an archdeacon. Should you disturb the children tonight, we will move you to the kitchen. And tomorrow—’ He shrugged and strode out.
Lucie shut the door behind them. She prayed that gentle Jehannes would coax the woman to care for her body as well as her soul.
Once down the stairs, Owen drew Lucie over to the hearth. ‘Before I go to Jehannes, I must tell you what I’ve learned.’ At the corner of his good eye, he spied Magda slipping out the kitchen door. ‘Come. Sit with us. I have much to tell.’
Moving quietly, Magda chose a spot near the garden window, far from the heat of the fire. ‘Thy guest refuses to confide in thee?’
‘She admits to being the cause of the man’s fall. And claims it had nothing to do with Ronan’s murder. Nor was there a second man in the chapter house.’
‘That she was aware of,’ Lucie added.
Owen settled on a bench, stretching his feet to the fire. ‘I am uneasy about her being here. If a man had made such a confession I would take him to the castle until I knew whether he was dangerous.’
‘I trust you agree that the castle dungeons are no place for a woman,’ said Lucie. ‘You will find a safer arrangement. Unless you believe she is for hanging— But think, my love. She is a beautiful young woman, you cannot entrust her to the jailers. Or do you know of several strong, trustworthy women who might both guard and protect her?’
Lucie knew him so well. Of course he hoped for a safer solution. Some – perhaps most – of the guards were no better than they needed to be with criminals, and Sandrine might prove too tempting, damn them. The bailiffs would curse him for the extra men – or women – necessary to protect her at a time when the city was about to be filled with strangers for the enthronement.
‘Perhaps Jehannes will guide me,’ he said, then turned so that he could watch Magda’s reactions as well as Lucie’s as he recounted his interview with Tucker, much of what Magda had no doubt overheard, and Rose’s insight. Magda nodded. He asked what else she had noticed.
‘Judith distrusts what her husband is about. Mayhap Tucker took in his old friend only to profit from betraying him.’
‘Might he have gone to the minster last night?’
‘Magda will ask Judith.’
He continued with his encounter with Pit, which brought an impatient hiss from Lucie, a shrug from Magda. He mentioned Crispin Poole’s injury.
‘I expected he would have come to you when he was injured, Magda.’
‘He may not wish his new master to know he consults a healer who does not share his faith,’ she said. ‘Magda may see him at Dame Muriel’s.’
‘That is settled?’ Owen asked. ‘Alisoun is willing to stay?’
Lucie told him of her conversation with Alisoun in the garden. He was relieved she took it well.
Pit and his mate Gareth interested Lucie, who found it peculiar that he would be so forthcoming about being John Neville’s man.
‘He may welcome my interference as a way to delay reporting his failure to Sir John. His lord will turn his anger on me, let Pit quietly withdraw amongst his fellows. But from what I know of John Neville, Pit is doomed either way.’
‘You believe Pit recognized the other man?’ Lucie asked.
‘I do. Made him ill at ease. The bailiffs’ men are moving the bodies to the castle this evening, once the nightwatchmen are out on their rounds, extra eyes to notice anyone taking more than an idle interest.’ Owen nodded toward the steps and said, ‘Perhaps one of you might inform our guest of the additional deaths.’
‘Where will the children sleep tonight?’ Lucie wondered aloud.
‘Just for tonight, we might let them enjoy sleeping in the kitchen, with Kate and Alisoun to fuss over them,’ he suggested. ‘A change from that room in which they spent a fortnight.’ He watched Lucie consider, saw her accept the idea. God be thanked. ‘I will not be long,’ he said.
Magda drew an arm round Lucie. ‘While Bird-eye fetches the crow, Magda will take thy guest a bowl of watery broth with a pinch of something to calm her. Once he departs, take her the jug of honey water Magda will prepare with a touch of sleep. If Gwen and Hugh fret about sleeping in the kitchen, thou canst assure them that the stranger sleeps.’
‘She will not drink either preparation.’
‘Dost thou doubt Magda?’
Though he was curious how this exchange would resolve, Owen considered his mission urgent. With a bow to the two healers, he withdrew.
In the kitchen Hugh and Gwen snuggled together as they listened to Alisoun rocking Emma to sleep with lullabies. Booted and cloaked, Owen plucked a lantern from a hook near the door, lit it, and departed, heading toward Stonegate.
Rising from prayers, Jehannes listened to Owen’s request with a deepening frown creasing his pleasant features. ‘Are you certain you wish me to do this, my friend? I have not the right to reveal what she tells me in confession. Will it be a wedge between us?’
Michaelo, garbed in his penitential robes, hovered in the background, clearly curious. Owen assured both of them he was well aware what this meant, yet he could think of no one else he would so trust.
‘I ask you to consider the forces that might bear down on you should someone discover that she confessed to you,’ said Owen. ‘Nevilles in particular, though so far they have not claimed the fallen man.’
Jehannes smiled. ‘I pride myself in my stubbornness. And who in your household would betray us?’
‘You might be seen arriving or departing my home.’
‘Then we must think of a clever explanation.’
Michaelo handed the archdeacon his cloak, followed him to the bench by the door to assist him with his boots. Jehannes waved him away.
‘I pray you are not hoping to accompany me to take notes,’ he teased.
‘A tempting thought,’ Michaelo said, ‘but I am better occupied assisting the poor in the minster yard. For my sins.’ With a bow, he departed.
‘The cutting Michaelo returns,’ Jehannes remarked when he stood, booted and cloaked. ‘He had come to me broken, humbled. I worried. But now … I am unsure whether or not to rejoice.’
Owen shared a companionable laugh with him as they walked out into a misty night.
‘By the way,’ said Jehannes, ‘Michaelo spoke with the clerk Edwin. He distrusted Ronan, preferred to work directly with Neville. Engaged as little as possible with Ronan when Neville was away. He mentioned Ronan being called Neville’s summoner, doubted Neville would overstep his position when a prebend.’
‘Loyal to Neville.’
‘A most careful man, I think. As to who might want him dead, he said most in the Bedern resented Ronan, but he knew of no one who would go to the extent of killing him.’
Disliked but not so much as to inspire violence. Always the safe answers.
Staring out of the garden windows into the swir
ling mist, Lucie imagined herself the pale, ethereal Sandrine, kneeling before Dom Jehannes and, at long last, making her confession. Imagining how it would feel to be assured this priest would keep her secrets, would not betray her sex, or her identity, would neither judge nor push away in horror. She could not think of a better confessor for a woman who had feared revealing anything about herself for so long. Tears stung her eyes, wet her cheeks.
Owen took her hand. ‘What is it?’
‘I am imagining her suffering. How much she has borne with no one in whom she might confide. You will not send her to the castle?’
‘No matter her crime, I would not subject her to that. I cannot know what a woman suffers regarding men. I will do as you and Magda advise.’
She kissed his hand.
He nodded toward the steps. ‘Jehannes.’
Wiping her eyes, Lucie watched Jehannes pause at the foot of the steps, cross himself, and set aside his prayer book before continuing toward them. She sensed Owen tense.
‘Your guest did not tell me who she is. But I advise you take her to St Clement’s. If you agree, I will accompany you and speak with the prioress.’
‘So she is a nun?’ said Lucie.
Jehannes crossed himself, but would say no more.
‘Are the children safe with her in our home?’ Lucie asked.
‘I would say you need not fear her. But I do not know enough to say whether her presence will draw trouble your way. The fallen man was not alone in the city. You might encounter his companion. But I doubt she knows anything about Ronan’s death.’
Expressing his gratitude, Owen invited Jehannes to share some wine, but he declined.
‘Another time, my friends. May God watch over this house.’
Lucie walked him to the door. ‘Bless you for shriving her.’
‘Your home is just the shelter she needed to begin healing.’
‘But you believe she will be more at ease at St Clement’s?’
‘It is where she belongs.’
Hearing Jehannes take his leave out in the hall, Magda rose from her seat by the kitchen fire and collected the tray she had prepared, broth with herbs to heal voice and spirit as well as ensure a restful sleep, and warm, honeyed water. In addition, she carried a pouch containing willow, madder, mallow, chamomile, rosemary, sage, and a few other blood-strengthening roots and herbs to encourage her womb to renew itself. Ordeals such as Sandrine’s often choked the womb, preventing the monthly courses. Alisoun’s insight into the young woman’s strongest emotions, fear and a deep sorrow, suggested to both of them that this might be so, and that she feared she might be with child.
‘Will you come back to tell more stories?’ Hugh asked, tugging at Magda’s skirt as she passed, though his eyes were closing.
Bending to kiss his forehead, Magda whispered, ‘Beseech Alisoun to tell thee of the fox cub she nursed back to health.’
He did just that as Magda withdrew.
In the hall, she set aside the tray for a moment to hear the news. Most significant for her was that Sandrine was likely a nun. Helpful. Owen had more to tell, but Magda suggested they talk after she had seen to the young woman. Lucie offered to carry the tray, but Magda preferred that she led the way, opening the door.
Owen felt the need to explain why he did not offer. ‘I was harsh with her. She might not welcome my presence.’
‘No need to apologize for respecting her, Bird-eye.’
Up in Philippa’s chamber, the young woman knelt with her back to the door, fingering the broken paternoster beads. Her fingers fumbled with the next bead. Of more concern was how her slight body swayed as she knelt, an uneven movement Sandrine checked with every breath. Now and then, her head also nodded forward, as if her body yearned for rest.
‘How she fights to stay awake,’ whispered Lucie.
‘Tonight Magda will turn this child toward healing. On the morrow, she becomes thy work, and Alisoun’s. Magda must see to Muriel Swann.’
Stepping into the room, Magda nodded to Lucie to shut the door behind her. She busied herself placing the items on a squat table, then settled on a stool beneath the shuttered window to wait. ‘Pay Magda no heed until thou art finished with thy prayers,’ she said when Sandrine glanced up. She hoped it would not be too long, or both the broth and the water would grow cold, the ingredients settle. But healing could not be rushed.
Her head level with the kneeling woman, who remained bowed, Magda noticed her pallor, even to the long lashes resting on her cheeks. Lack of food and rest, perhaps. But she would be curious to see the woman’s eyes, whether they were pale. And weak.
She waited. In a short while, the woman raised her head. Pale eyes. She blinked, then focused on Magda with ease, saw her. Still, her lack of color was more than depletion.
‘You were with Dame Lucie and Captain Archer,’ said Sandrine, ‘but they did not say who you are.’ A resonant voice. Strong.
‘Magda Digby, midwife, healer, friend to Ambrose, thy minstrel companion. He asked me to watch over thee, see that thou art in good hands.’
‘You are the one they call the Riverwoman?’
‘He told you of Magda?’
‘I heard him asking about you, whether you still lived on your island in the river. He asked you to watch over me?’
‘He did.’
Magda lifted the jug. ‘Warm water with just enough honey to ease thy voice.’
‘I am fasting.’
‘Thou hast been entrusted by thy god with this body, yet thou hast tested it almost beyond repair.’
‘Penance,’ Sandrine whispered.
Magda sensed her wavering. ‘A harsh penance. Dost thou take it upon thyself to make amends for others’ sins against thee?’
‘You sound like Dom Jehannes. He said I have been sinned against, and that is no sin.’
‘A wise man. It is not for thee to decide whether or not to end thy life.’
‘That was not my intention.’
‘Intention is the key, but all acts are best undertaken with compassion and a willingness to accept help. Magda understands thou hast dedicated thy voice to prayers to thy god. Is that so?’
‘You speak as if you are not a Christian.’
‘Magda honors all creation, and lives to serve. Such a voice as Ambrose describes is not to be neglected. Thou must care for such a gift.’
The pale eyes lowered. Good teeth bit back the full lower lip. The woman would quickly regain her health if she wished it. But her spirit was caught in confusion and weighted by a darksome fear that the confession had failed to calm. Magda stirred the honey water and poured a little into the bowl, held it out.
‘Wilt thou drink?’
Sandrine took the offering, tasted, then drank deep, emptying the bowl, handing it back with thanks.
Magda bowed to the young woman. Setting aside the bowl she took Sandrine’s hand, holding it for a moment while looking into her eyes. Yearning, sorrow, fear. Yet also strength. Remarkable strength from which arose a deep, simmering anger. After a time Magda released the hand, her gaze. She sat in silence, eyes closed, until the young woman chose to speak.
‘I lived to serve as well. I meant to dedicate my voice to God.’
‘Heal and return to thy work.’
‘I do not think I can.’
Magda waited.
‘I have not bled for a long while. Since I was—’ Once again Sandrine bowed her head.
Here was the source of her fear. ‘Might Magda touch thy stomach?’
‘No spells!’
‘Magda wishes to examine thee, no more.’
A nod.
Kneeling to the woman, Magda placed her hands on her stomach, closed her eyes. Tightness, anger, fear, sorrow, but no extra heartbeat, no sign of life. Opening her eyes she touched Sandrine’s cheek.
‘No child swims in thy womb. Thou hast suffered much, but not that.’
A gasp that became a sob.
Rising to sit beside the troubled young woman, Magda pu
t a warming arm round her, took her hand. ‘Have men forced themselves on thee?’
‘The first one never touched me. Others have tried. I fought them off, always I thought in time. But when I did not bleed … I feared that in my ignorance I had not been quick enough.’
She pressed Magda’s hand, the heat of her anger flushing both of them.
‘Canst thou feel thy strength?’ Magda smiled.
‘You have given me hope. If I could prove to the sisters I am chaste, perhaps I might do as Dom Jehannes advised, seek sanctuary at the priory, with the sisters.’
‘Dost thou desire that?’
‘More than anything.’
‘Thy voice will delight them. But to prove to the sisters thou art untouched – what dost thou seek for this?’
‘To bleed. And the witness of someone whose word they would accept. Dame Lucie?’
Out of the bag hanging from her girdle Magda pulled the pouch of blood-strengthening roots and herbs she had prepared.
‘If Magda adds herbs to thy honeyed water to encourage thy womb to renew, to flush out the old blood, wilt thou drink?’
‘It will not sicken me? You swear there is no child? You are not killing it?’
‘Magda spoke truth about there being no child. Her purpose is to heal, only to heal.’
Sandrine looked into Magda’s eyes. ‘I will drink.’
Magda invited the young woman to watch as she mixed a few pinches of the powder with the water in the jug. ‘Thrice daily, until thy womb responds.’ She poured the fresh mixture into the bowl.
Sandrine took it with thanks, sniffed, sipped, drank it down. ‘Bless you. It slips down my throat with ease.’
‘More?’
A nod.
When she set the bowl aside, Sandrine blinked. ‘My eyelids feel heavy. You swore no spells.’
‘Magda uses the earth’s bounty to heal. No more, no less. We are of earth.’
‘Our bodies, yes. But not our souls. They are of God.’ A frown.
This touched her fear. Magda did not argue. ‘A bit of broth now? To nourish thy body.’ She held out the bowl.
Sandrine sipped it.
‘Sandrine is not thy given name, is it?’
A searching look. ‘How—?’
‘Magda listens, as do all in this house caring for thee.’