by Candace Robb
‘Lead the way, Michaelo.’
Jehannes’s cook stood with hands on hips, shaking her head as Owen laid Beck down on the pallet the archdeacon’s clerk had dragged near the hearth.
‘What now? I thought we were safe in the shadow of the great minster. The folk have lost their way. They are wandering in the wilderness, led by the devil himself.’
‘Be so good as to set aside the sermon and bring the captain a basin of warm water and some cloths, goodwife,’ said Michaelo. He crouched down beside Owen. ‘What might I do to assist?’
‘I am trying to settle him on his stomach, with his head to one side so that he is not pressing on the injury. But our patient wishes to lie on his back.’ Beck wriggled about, clearly trying to flip himself.
‘Perhaps something warm on his back,’ said the cook, standing over them with a bowl of water. ‘If this is placed right, he will find it soothing to his back and lie still. My ma taught me the trick. My da would come in from a day of plowing swearing he’d broken his back.’
‘Preacher and nurse. You are a marvel, Goodwife Anna,’ Michaelo murmured as he moved away to allow her access.
Once the bowl was balanced Owen wet a cloth and began to clean the blood from the parts of Beck’s face and neck that he could see. As he worked he felt Beck relax beneath him. While holding the bowl so that Beck could turn his head to expose the other cheek Owen sensed Magda standing over him. He resettled the bowl and rose to allow her to take over.
‘Jehannes wishes to speak with thee, Bird-eye. Magda can manage from here.’
Quietly Owen told her how Beck had been found, and that what most frightened him was that he could not see.
‘Thou knowest the dread,’ she said. ‘Magda will do what she can. Now go. Put an end to these troubles so that Muriel Swann can birth her babe in peace.’
Out in the hall, Owen sat for a moment to speak with Jehannes.
‘My summoner advises you to talk to Franz of Antwerp, one of Ronan’s fellow vicars,’ said Jehannes. ‘According to Colin, though Master Adam will tell you that all in the liberty sought Ronan’s advice regarding the new archbishop, in truth few trusted the man. Franz was the one in whose company he saw him most often of late.’
Jehannes’s summoner, Colin, was a trustworthy man. ‘Were they friends?’
‘I’ve noticed Franz cowering from Ronan, but Colin says he did his bidding. It would be in Ronan’s character to threaten to bring him before the chapter to be chastised for living with the mother of his five children.’
‘Is that not your summoner’s duty?’
‘His duty is to obey my bidding. I prefer to make examples of those who take no responsibility for their weaknesses. The children and their mother depend on Franz’s income. And he is in all other ways a pious man who goes about his duties with nary a complaint.’
Time and again Jehannes restored Owen’s faith that there were amongst the clergy dedicated shepherds of men’s souls.
‘And what of Ronan’s relationship with the chancellor? What might connect them?’
‘Ah. Last evening’s meeting. The Nevilles, I should think. They might be generous benefactors for Thomas’s work for the minster. He is keen to raise sufficient funds to complete Thoresby’s lady chapel.’
‘Is he?’ That was news to Owen. ‘Did Ronan still have such influence with the new archbishop?’
‘That remained to be seen. It was said that Ronan had expected to become the archbishop’s confessor or personal secretary, his Brother Michaelo. He was said to have been angry about being passed over by two men who had never set foot in York Minster.’
So Ronan might have been the one hoping to gain by a friendship with members of the chapter. Owen tucked that away.
‘What of Beck, Ronan’s clerk?’
‘According to Colin, Beck admired Ronan for all the wrong reasons. He had heard whispers about Beck threatening to reveal secrets – limiting himself to servants, avoiding being squashed by one with some influence.’
‘I thought him a weasel.’
‘You are a good judge of men. But then you need to be in your work.’
‘Any others like him?’
‘He did say Ronan spent a curious amount of time on Stonegate. Offering his services as an intermediary between the archbishop and the merchants?’
‘Did you ever see Ronan with a psalter?’
‘A psalter? No. But then, a vicar owning something of such value might raise eyebrows amongst his betters, and envy amongst his peers. Hence he might reserve such items for private prayer. How long will Beck be here?’ Before Owen could respond, Jehannes held up a hand. ‘As long as you judge him safest here, here he will stay. Now go, see Franz.’ He told Owen how to find the man.
Heading toward the Bedern, Owen moved against a tide of clerks hastening toward the minster. Sext, he thought, midday prayer. Franz might not be at his lodgings. But his mistress might afford Owen some insight into her sense of Ronan. He pushed along toward the address at the edge of the Bedern. The house as described was down an alleyway, narrower than most in this part of the city, not one of the lodgings refurbished for the vicars. Owen almost passed it in the shadow of the jutting stories. Before he could knock the door was opened from within by a man dressed to depart. He started at Owen’s presence, took a step backward. Franz, Owen guessed. How now to proceed? Their proposed conversation was one he did not care to conduct where others might hear. He needed to lure the man back inside.
How better than to trespass? Pushing his way into the room, Owen kept moving, his sight adjusting to the dimness as he reached a second, inner room. Deserted. No further door affording an escape out the back.
Franz had followed, now blocking the doorway to the outer room. ‘Who are you to force your way into my home? I am expected at midday prayers in the minster. State your business.’ The last word was little more than a squeak.
Owen felt a twinge of guilt. And also interest. The man’s speech had a hint of Flemish. So the Antwerp was not a legacy from parents, but based on his own origins.
‘I pray you, forgive me. I am Owen Archer, captain of the city. In my concern for your safety I overstepped.’
‘Concern for my safety?’ The man opened the shutter wider on the lantern near the door. He had thrown back one side of his short cloak to reveal that his right hand, childlike in its dimpled softness, rested on a small dagger.
‘I pray you, allow me to explain myself,’ said Owen. ‘I am searching for the murderer of the vicar Ronan. You were recommended to me as one of his closest friends. Until I understand someone’s motive for murdering him, I cannot be certain that his friends are safe. I did not know whether a vicar would think to protect himself. I see that I was wrong about you.’ He gestured toward the dagger.
‘You were ensuring that no one lurked in my house? That was your purpose in calling on me?’ Franz did not relax his hand.
‘There is more. I hoped you might be able to help me find the man who attacked Ronan. As his friend, you might know who might wish him harm.’
‘Who sent you here?’
‘Forgive me, but people are less willing to help me if I divulge names. I will share nothing of what you share with me. No one you name will hear of our meeting.’
As Owen spoke he caught whiffs of scents peculiar to a home with infants. Milky, soured by the baby’s excretions from mouth and nether regions. Stale now, not fresh. And all sign of such children had been cleared from the room. Indeed, except for a narrow pallet near the door and some men’s clothes hanging from hooks the room was empty. Blind in one eye, Owen was obvious when looking round a room. Noticing, Franz cast furtive glances round his lodgings as well.
‘Someone has led you astray, Captain Archer. I knew Ronan, worked for him on occasion. But a friend? No one who knew either of us would call us friends.’
‘You were seen with him of late. Frequently.’
‘That would be true. But we were not friends.’
‘He ab
used you?’
A step backward. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Cheated you. Took credit for your work. I pray you, I need to know who he was, why someone would cut him down.’
‘You will be hard pressed to find anyone in the Bedern who called him friend, I can tell you that.’
‘Why? What do they have against him?’
A slight shift of posture, less alert. ‘His behavior toward all of us. He was of the opinion that his university training set him above us, made him our superior. He pretended to do us favors by offering to pay us to do his work, but we received no credit and a pittance of his earnings, while he moved about the city selling himself to prospective patrons, free as a bird, wealthier by the day.’
As Owen had suspected, it was likely that not all the treasure Ronan hoarded was meant for Alexander Neville.
‘I understand these are reasons to shun him. But murder? Did he commit more serious, even less forgivable transgressions? I ask because – you must understand, the anger I sense in you as you speak would seem an inordinate response to what you describe, a greedy partner. Though I suppose with a family to feed …’
‘You know about my family?’
Owen took a gamble. ‘Your mistress is known to my wife, the apothecary.’
‘Ah. I should realize that all the women of the city will be aware of my circumstance. But I am not the only one.’
‘I am well aware of that. I am curious, though.’ Owen gestured round the room. ‘I see no sign of your family. Have you sent them away?’
‘I have. The new archbishop – I fear him. Archbishop Thoresby could be harsh, but I knew him to be fair. As is Archdeacon Jehannes. But Alexander Neville – I fear what he would do to my family were he to learn of it. Ronan was his source of gossip about his fellow vicars.’
‘I see. So Ronan was a threat to you.’
‘If you are asking whether I would murder him to silence him, no. I have no such courage. I have thought of leaving, but how would I support my family?’
‘I understand.’
‘I realize it might be too late. Ronan might have already reported me to His Grace. If that is so, I will join my family. Until then, I support them by fulfilling my duties in the chapter. Which I must be about …’
Owen bowed to Franz. ‘I will not keep you. Forgive my intrusion.’
Franz stepped aside to let Owen pass, then followed with the lantern. The outer room had a small table, a few benches, and hooks on the wall by the door, empty at present. One of the benches had a solid base, as if used for storage. Owen resisted opening it.
Turning just as he was stepping out, he said, ‘I could not help but notice that your speech carries a memory of Flanders.’ The lantern light wavered. ‘Have you by any chance noticed a fellow Fleming in the city, one who might be mistaken for me – at a distance, though I have both hands, and wear this patch?’
Franz peered more closely at Owen, shook his head. ‘I have seen no such man, Captain.’
‘You are certain?’
‘I have no reason to lie about it. I thank you for your concern. Good day to you.’
Owen believed him. Hempe was right, he risked being blinded by his unproven theory that Martin Wirthir was Ambrose’s protector. But then who was the Frenchman?
Owen followed Franz at a discreet distance until he was confident the man was heading straight to the minster. Along the way Stephen joined Owen, who set him the task of arranging a watch on Franz’s house.
‘He might be our murderer?’
‘No. But add Franz to someone’s circuit.’
‘I will arrange it.’
‘And my home, the shop.’
‘Jasper told me about the watchers and visitors. I went straight to the bailiff. He’s sent someone for the day. Ned.’
Trustworthy. ‘I can’t thank you enough.’
‘No need, Captain.’ Stephen turned and headed back toward the castle.
As Owen turned toward Jehannes’s, he glimpsed two figures making haste from the chancellor’s door, slipping round the side of the house, one of them glancing back as if checking that no one followed. A hood kept his face in shadow, but Owen thought he glimpsed the twisted grin of Crispin’s man. He gave chase, but by the time he reached the back garden the men were gone. Already he doubted his impression of the man’s face. Yet at the moment the impression had been strong.
A servant leaned against the kitchen doorway, spitting blood on a mound of melting snow and cradling one arm.
Owen identified himself as he approached. ‘What happened? You look badly injured.’
‘They shoved me aside so hard I fell on my shoulder. God’s blood, I think it is broken.’
Owen guessed it was pulled out of joint. He knew the pain of that. The blood came from a split lip. ‘Who were they?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘Come into the house. I will look at the arm while you tell me what happened.’
As Owen felt round the shoulder the man told him how he’d returned from market to discover two men searching the hall, turning things over, looking behind hangings.
‘You came through the front door?’
‘No, round to the kitchen with the baskets.’
‘Was that still locked?’
‘In the minster yard we don’t lock doors unless going away for a long while. We’ve never had trouble.’
Until Ronan was murdered just outside the gate. ‘How did you discover them?’
‘I was unpacking when I heard what sounded like someone shoving the furnishings about. The chancellor is a quiet man, as are his clerks. All wrong, and none of us feeling at ease since the vicar was murdered right outside the gate.’ He crossed himself with his good hand. ‘From the doorway I saw two men doing just that, moving things about, heavy items even, peering under and round and behind. I thought to run to the archdeacon’s house. I looked again to make certain I did not recognize them. I’d seen only their backs. Waited until I saw their faces – but they covered them with cloths from nose to chin. One of them picked up something from a stack of books and document rolls. Not large, stuffed it in a pack. It was then he saw me. Came rushing at me, dragged me in there, shoved me down hard and held me there with his foot on my back. No killing, the other said. Made his voice gruff, like he did not want me to know it. And they ran out.’ He crossed himself again.
‘You have been fortunate. Now I need you to sit up and look away.’
‘Look away?’ The man straightened and glanced away just as Owen pressed the shoulder with one hand and yanked the arm with the other.
The servant screamed.
‘It will begin to feel much better in a while,’ said Owen. ‘I am going to bind it close to you and send someone from my wife’s apothecary with a salve you need to put on it twice a day while it aches. Do you understand? Is there someone who can help you?’
‘Cook should be back soon.’
‘Good.’ Owen examined the man’s lip. ‘I’ll send something for that as well. For now, this will stop the bleeding.’ He plucked a cloth from a shelf and filled it with snow outside the door. ‘What do you drink to ease pain?’
The man glanced toward a small barrel on a shelf as he began to rise. Owen patted his arm, then found a cup and poured some wine.
‘Bless you, Captain.’ The wounded man took a long drink. ‘They are not the first strangers I have seen about since the vicar was murdered, but the first who came in. There are rumors that the dead man handed something over to Master Thomas before he was killed. But we would have known if he had come back that morning. We would have known.’
‘And he did not?’
‘No. I tend the fires early. By the time I heard the shouts I had stoked them and fetched wood for the hall.’
On departing, Owen passed a man he presumed was the cook rounding the corner of the house. A lad followed him, stumbling beneath the weight of a fat goose.
The chancellor expected guests.
Of course, the cit
y would soon be filled with potential patrons for the minster. And Owen much feared that this morning’s rash of intruders meant that whoever was behind Ronan’s murder was becoming desperate. Crispin? Was it him? Or was he hoping to restore calm and order before the archbishop and his family arrived? Owen stopped outside the chancellor’s gate, considering where they might try next. His home? He trusted Ned, but he would check there on his way to the castle to talk to Pit.
ELEVEN
A Maid’s Tale
On Davygate a cluster of neighbors argued with Bess Merchet, who stood so that she blocked their view into Owen’s garden. Over the din of their fuss he heard the twins shouting something about a man unable to breathe with his face in the mud. Owen pushed his way through the crowd mouthing apologies.
Bess opened the gate and motioned him into the yard. ‘Heaven protect us from the fair Alisoun’s suitors,’ she muttered behind him.
Fair Alisoun? She stood toward the rear wall of the garden training an arrow on Ned where he sat astride a man lying face forward in the slush, head twisted to one side. It was the fallen man who gasped for air. He did not look like either of Crispin’s men. A relief. But Ned’s behavior sounded an alarm. He was not one to panic.
‘Let him stand, Ned, or you won’t sit for a long while,’ said Alisoun with a menacing calm.
Rose and Rob looked on in horror.
‘He attacked a man in the king’s service,’ said Ned in a cold, equally menacing voice.
‘Who is on the ground?’ Owen asked Bess.
‘A trespasser. From what I’ve heard he shut Ned in the garden shed and took over his watch on the house. I leave you to deal with them while I drag a pallet near the kitchen fire so the victim might lie down while you tend his wound. I would not be so kind to him, but you are a household of healers. Though I must say, at present Mistress Alisoun seems more a warrior.’
Owen called to Rose and Rob to watch the gates, and headed toward the drama. If it was true Ned had been humbled in front of Alisoun, he understood the temptation to lash out, but past experience would have suggested the young man would hold his discipline, remember his responsibilities. Grasping a handful of Ned’s clothing, Owen yanked him up and tossed him aside. The man lying in the mud made choking sounds as he attempted to prop himself up to breathe, his effort stymied by an arrow in his right arm just above the elbow. Owen grasped him around the chest and lifted him high enough that he could use his legs to turn and sit while he gulped air.